Where did I put that bubble?

You know when you're in a restaurant and you see a mom come in and immediately move all the silverware and dishes away from a child's go go gadget arms? Well, we've reached that stage. In fact, we've probably been there for a while but I wasn't paying attention until recently. In the past week, I haven't been quick enough with my preemptive measures and Mr. Monk has knocked over three glasses of water and just this morning, a cup of coffee. At least I know for sure he's my son. Good times!

Maybe it's time to think about baby proofing after all. I've been waiting until the babe was actually crawling, though I'm now realizing that it might be best to have protections in place before he can get himself over to the top of the stairs. Somehow I just know that will be the first place he goes to explore. My mother now starts every conversation with "did you get the gates?" I win at procrastination.

A few months ago my mother-in-law gave me an article from the NYT about how dangerous coffee tables are. The article profiled numerous children who had been hurt by the evil piece and recommended that any home with children should be a home without a coffee table. I do admit the thought of Mr. Monk bumping his head on ours scares me, but not as much as not having anywhere to put our magazines, computers, phones, drinks, food, feet.

I decided to go with a friend's recommendation and have a consultant come to our house to tell us what a death trap it really is. I have a feeling this guy will be horrified at our steep stairs, open floor-level shelves containing every shape of glass known to man, bar stools serving as Mr. Monk's favorite thing to use for standing support, the aforementioned coffee table, exposed wiring and so forth. It might be easier to just move.

Too Much

I just woke up from a nap. A 9-11 nap. PM, mind you. On my couch. Saturday night. Could I be any more lame? In my defense, I did host a cocktail party this afternoon (and I only mentioned baby poop once-success!). But, I didn't even drink--talk about a lightweight. I think passing out immediately after dinner was my body's way of telling my mind to STFU already. It's been a busy week, with a number of outings big and small. I tend to overcommit and then feel incredibly guilty when, inevitably, I can't follow through on a plan. It likely stems from wanting to prove that I'm still cool and fun even though I have a baby. Clearly I'm not. Time to drop the charade--no one wants to hang out with someone who would rather be sleeping.

Also, I've been breaking things lately. At first it was a glass here, a blender there, but now I've moved on to seemingly unbreakable things like a stainless steel water bottle (it's just dented enough on the bottom to render it a disaster waiting to happen) and a bra in the Bloomingdale's dressing room (shhhh). The kicker was when I dropped a full bottle of breast milk and watched it dribble over my kitchen floor. Whoever came up with the expression "don't cry over spilled milk" was probably not talking to the baby. I'm fairly certain my sobs were louder than his. Again, I think this might be a sign that I'm more than a little tired or that I should just stop touching things altogether.

Luckily, the baby daddy and I are headed for a little vacay this week. With Mr. Monk, of course. What's a vacation without a teething, constipated, constantly-moving baby boy? I wouldn't know anymore. Perhaps I'll get to find out one of these years. We're excited to take Mr. Monk back to the ocean-hopefully, he'll be more interactive this time. When he was two months old we put his feet in the Caribbean Sea, though he likely was asleep at the time. He napped a lot back then. Oh, those were the days. A week of sunshine, shave ice and turn down service should restore my feeble mind and butter fingers back to their natural teetering state.

Here's hoping the house sitter doesn't realize why the kitchen floor is still so sticky...

The Art of Doing Nothing (And Everything)

Another day, another ridiculous Whole Foods experience. This one involved lentil soup and, once again, my poor driving skills. I was wheeling my giant stroller and didn’t see the flaw in using the side cupholder for my soup until I leaned in to get a closer look at the organic bananas (sidenote: why are they always bright green?). There went the spinach lentil all over the bananas. Pretty soon I’m going to see my picture up in the window with a big warning: DO NOT LET THIS WOMAN INTO THE STORE.

WF inanities aside, I’m beginning to feel settled in my stay-at-home-mommying. We’ve got playgroup, music class, gym dates and lunches set up throughout the week. I could have plans multiple times per day if I wanted. Yet I am still bored. I’m not sure what it is I am looking for, as I have recently realized that going back to work wouldn’t be nearly as romantic as I imagine it to be. A quick visit to my office and a scan of nanny/daycare costs confirmed that. So, if I don’t go back to work right now, what else is there? After college, law school and seven years working as an attorney, it’s bizarre to imagine that I am no longer part of the workforce. Am I still an attorney if I don’t practice? Who am I if I don’t have that work self to turn on and off? As much as I love my baby and watching him grow, I know that I can’t spend every minute with him. It will be best for both of us if I have some hobbies, tasks, chores to occupy my mind. Trying to find that balance begins in earnest now.