Something's Gotta Give

This morning I took Mr. Monk for a blood test to celebrate his impending first birthday. We moms know how to party! Apparently, the doctor needs some stats so along came the needle. I was expecting some serious drama based on the little's recent theatrics (he's gone shrieking!) but, to my complete surprise, he did not make a peep! He stared at the nurse as she withdrew the blood with utter fascination. That boy filled up three vials and never even blinked. I'm thinking he's definitely going to be a doctor. Or a vampire.

As for his recent discovery that he can shatter glass with his voice, well, that's causing all sorts of reactions. We've tried the ignore it and pretend it's not happening response. That led to the "you're hurting our ears so please stop screaming" pleading. Then we went the screaming back route. Kidding. Sort of. This lovely phase started a few days ago. We're expecting it to pass in a few years.

At least when he's not screaming, he's doing lots of this:

That's How I Roll

She stole my workout outfit

You know how people always say that the best thing to do when you're tired is to exercise? Well, I never believed them either. Why would I want to go and make myself more exhausted by working out? But, then I had a baby and was more tired than I ever knew I could be. So tired that I regularly went into the shower with my glasses on. So tired that I had the vocabulary of a 12 year old. So tired that I once fell asleep while pumping. Once. But, after I got the OK from my doctor, I dragged my tired (and fat) ass to the gym. Not just any gym, a mom-friendly gym with day care. Nothing motivates you to work harder like hearing your baby screaming in the back room and knowing you don't have to go and get him. I went with some of the other moms from my amazing playgroup (still going strong 10 months later!) and we encouraged each other. The other ladies in the class were so impressed that we could tell our little ones apart based on their cries. I still can hear that wail when I close my eyes, even though Mr. Monk hasn't cried like that in months.

I became obsessed with spin class. I loved the sense of camaraderie in the class--we were all going over that hill together. I also really appreciated the constant support and compliments the teachers gave us--I was doing a good job, wasn't I? At least I knew how to ride a bike! During those first few months of motherhood, I was so happy to not have to think at all for 45 minutes. No mouth to feed, no diaper to change and no gigantic laundry pile to stare at me expectantly. I just needed to push and pull my legs through the cycle, one after the other. The repetition was addictive. Plus, some of the teachers played some kick-ass music that got us all feeling like we were dancing on our bikes. I've never loved Rihanna or Michael Jackson more. It was my time.

I stopped going over the summer after we went away one month and then again the next. My husband decided that I had to do the insanity workout program with him because he knew he'd never do it by himself. While we didn't totally finish it, we gave it a good run. Between four weddings and lots o' travel, it was impossible to keep up with a 6 day a week workout. Too much life to live. I still do the insanity workouts every few days, but my desire to exercise has all but evaporated. Until today.

I went back to spin and it was like a homecoming. All those endorphins. All that pop music. I realized that there is something to working out around others and not just staring at a man screaming at you through your laptop. It somehow just feels more effective when others can see you sweat. And? Not even remotely tired now at 11 pm. Not sure that's such a good thing.

Gimme!

I think Mr. Monk and I need to have a little discussion about needs versus wants. I am of the opinion that fondling/tasting any manner of the following falls under the latter category while, judging by the intensity of his grunting and pointing, he clearly believes they fall within the former:

iphones
telephones
computers
remote controls (and not the fake Elmo one. C'mon now.)
toilet paper
glass jars
forks
power cords
tissues
car tires
Tony's tongue, paws, teeth, tail
platters
spiders
nail clippers
wallets
cash
coins
dust piles
dog food
dirty diapers
brand-new silk shirts
PENS!

He runs this town.

Slip, slide, swoop

Some nights I look over at my husband (legitimately) working away on his laptop for hours and then down at my own mac-filled lap and can't help but laugh. When did this happen? I suppose when you don't work in an office staring at a computer for 8 hours a day you still crave all the information that is out there, just a few clickety clacks away. Lately, I find myself opening my computer as soon as Mr. Monk falls asleep and only closing it a few minutes before I do. I wish I had a porch swing. If I did maybe my computer and the internets would hold less appeal. Or maybe that would mean that I'd be baking more and listening to crickets. I do love to bake. And, I'm getting better at it. Here are three recent desserts I made. They tasted pretty tasty.

It's all about the browned butter!

Not vegan by my choice though definitely not bad

This is actually not the recipe I used, but apparently her mom and my mother-in-law are the same person

This whole baby turning toddler thing is throwing me. He can understand things, people. The cursing? It has got to stop. Damn, there goes my definite potty mouth. While it's cute the first time a kid says "shit," it probably veers on the trashy by the thirtieth. Man, I'm going to miss living in our adults-only conversations. But I do look forward to hearing some of the ridiculous things that are going on in his little towhead. Something tells me there will be lots of laughing in our future.

Lo, the time has come for a photography class. We have this fancypants camera that we just pretend is a point and shoot. What's the point of all those options if you're never going to use them? Of course, neither Mr. Schneed nor I know what any of the symbols mean, let alone how to employ them properly. The greatest thing about discovering the blog world is seeing all these amazing photographers. I bet they know how to change the aperture settings. That's my new goal. That and more yoga. Or, even some yoga.

Food fights

Lately I feel like I am fighting three battles a day. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. It's as though Mr. Monk has a short window in which he'll deign to open his mouth and I need to shovel as much food in as possible before the time is up. My heart starts racing and I stress over each bite knowing it could be his last. No matter what he's eating, or how much he seems to like it, he knows when he is done and he is D.O.N.E. Lately, he's learned to take off his bib when he's finished, shake his head and say "noooooooo." While all of this is helpful and seriously cute, it's a little painful when it comes two bites into a meal.

Granted, I know he's likely eating enough between the continuous consumption of milk (still coming from my boobies for only the next 8 days. Eek!) and cheddar bunnies (holy hell, we just discovered these--not sure who eats more, him or me). I still want to him to develop healthy eating habits and also maybe not think that he'll always get five different options for every meal. Since keeping him happy and alive is my primary job these days, I've become quite the accommodating chef/waitress: You don't like these peas, babe? How about some mac & cheese? No, ok, well what about some yogurt? Ok, no on the yogurt, but perhaps you'd like some chicken and rice? I've eaten more leftover applesauce in the past few months than in my whole life combined.

The only thing I know for sure that he wants is whatever I'm eating. Even if it's basically the same meal he's having, somehow he just knows it tastes better from my dish and my spoon. And, he loves to serve himself, which really means serving my legs, the floor and our getting-fatter-by-the-day dog heaping spoonfuls. To my horror, I find myself eating the half-chewed pieces of cracker, bagel, whatevs that he puts in my hand at random points during the day. I remember seeing moms do this before and being completely grossed out. But, on some level it seems less disgusting to just eat it than to carry it around. How did this happen?

I'm almost ashamed to admit that I ate this abc pear when he was done with it:





As the wee one gets less and less wee, he's less and less interested in baby food. We have a few items just toiling away in our cabinets and I'm thinking someone else might be able to make better use of them than our compost bin.

If you're in the Bay Area and have any extra food items, consider donating them:

St. Anthony's Foundation

Family House, Inc.

Increase The Odds

Yesterday, after getting my massage, my husband met me and we snuck off to a movie. In the middle of the day! Can you imagine anything more decadent?

A few weeks ago I was at a dinner party with a bunch of mommy friends and one about-to-be-a-mommy friend. The preggo lady asked if any of us had any advice for her in her last few weeks with an inside baby. We all replied in unison, "Movies! Go see movies!" I used to love going to the movies and it seems to be the one thing that I can't make time for anymore. It doesn't quite seem special enough an outing to warrant a babysitter or playing my mental health time card with the husband. Anyhoo, yesterday we managed to pull off a matinee showing of 50/50 and I was 100% thrilled. Until the movie started, that is.

While it was thoroughly engaging and often funny (Anna Kendrick's comedic timing amazes), it was also a raw, sad film. Watching a young man deal with a potentially terminal cancer diagnosis was painful, especially when a family friend is currently in the very same position. My father died a viscous death from liver cancer nine years ago and I suddenly felt a fresh wave of grief. Knowing how the movie ends (spoiler alert: it's a true story based on the screenwriter's life) certainly kept me from losing it completely. I feel like I've been getting far too many life is precious reminders lately. Must make time for things I enjoy, like going to movies. Even the sad ones.

Fuck cancer. Here are three of the easiest ways I can think of to do just that:

Click It: http://www.thebreastcancersite.com

Donate It: https://www.mdanderson.org/gifts/

Prevent It: http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/cancer-prevention/CA00024

Frankie Says Relax

After spending the better part of an hour this morning mopping my floor three separate times (spilled oatmeal, spilled applesauce and spilled milk), I decided it was high time I used the spa gift certificate I got for mother's day. Calgon, take me away. I believe in the power of a stranger's hands on my back to make the world a better place. Angela, masseuse lady, you were pure magic today. Thank you for giving my brain an hour off this afternoon and for ignoring the fact that I may or may not have farted in my sleep.

I used to think that a massage was like pizza, even when it's bad, it's good. Then I learned that when you're naked and lying on a table, things could definitely get a little weird. Here are my top 5 massage mishaps:

1. In the middle of my last massage a few months ago, I started to feel a serious shaking. About 15 seconds in, I just knew we were in the middle of an earthquake (this is northern California...). I oh-so-casually asked the masseuse if she noticed the ground moving. She laughed and told me that it was just the laundry next door. Apparently, I had the best room in the house-if you like random vibrations in the middle of your massage.

2. While getting a massage once up in Tahoe, the masseuse told me that "regular massage can really help with the scoliosis." Say what? This woman gave me a wicked case of hypochondria until my next doctor's visit confirmed I did not, in fact, have scoliosis.

3. At a nail salon in NYC, this tiny Asian manicurist was no match for my rock hard shoulders. After about a minute of attempting to massage me, she had to sub out. Another woman took over for her, but not before she told me that I was the most tense person she had ever touched. I win!

4. This one masseur at a nice spa in NYC repeatedly massaged down my chest, dangerously close to my lady humps. I was so stunned by it that I didn't say anything. In retrospect, I wish I had complained so that he would know it was creepy if he wasn't doing it on purpose to be creepy. And, if he was being skeezy, I wish I gotten his ass fired.

5. Last October, the week of my due date, I used a gift certificate to a prenatal massage trying to coax the baby out (fat chance). The masseuse was super chatty and started telling me about her love life. I heard all the deets, including how she and her new man haven't been as careful as they should be and why she would definitely need to get an abortion if she ends up pregnant. Mind you, I'm lying there on my side like a beached whale wondering why the eff this woman was getting waaaaaay too up close and personal. Again, I probably should have said something when I checked out but I needed to get my bloated, oiled self home or to a hospital.