wild*life

Every morning, when it’s still dark outside, Jakey and Mommy read “books” in bed.  These books are technically store catalogs, and a brochure James got from some lady construction company that has a picture of a “tee-tat” (kitty cat).  We can’t recycle this full color brochure because Jakey loves to look at Juan the Tee-Tat.

When we’re reading these books, particularly the Crate & Barrel Land of Nod kids’ catalog, Jake likes to pinch the pictures with his little crab claw and say “open, open.”  Apparently this means he wants to touch the “fire enen” (fire engine) or drive the toy car or play with the art supplies.  Yesterday we were listening to Christmas carols on the TV and it showed a picture of icing covered tree cookies.  The little pincher came out, “open, open!”  The concept of dimensions is not yet a limiting factor in Jacob’s life.

This topic of dimensions reminds me of a conversation I recently had with one of my pregnant girlfriends.  She kept telling me how her doctor does 4D ultrasounds.  I was a bit skeptical… isn’t the fourth dimension the space-time continuum or something?  What does it show you… your 3D baby, in the future?  Talking back to you as a teenager, from the womb?  I found this conversation terribly amusing.  My friend… not so much.  (According to the internet, 4D ultrasounds show 3D babies with real-time movements representing the fourth dimension.  I’m not a scientist… but this seems to be using quite of bit of artistic license when it comes to physics…)

Today Jacob called his grandma on the phone for a “chat.”  He held the phone up to his ducky book, “Ducky!” as well as the Christmas tree, so she could see them.

Maybe Jakey has discovered this elusive fourth dimension?

About three weeks ago I was at the mall.  I did a double-take when a lady passed me with a full-size stroller, pushing her dog.  Dog strollers?!  When I say it, it sounds vaguely familiar… yet no less disturbing.

I’ve had approximately eight doggies over the course of my life, both big outdoor hounds and little indoor fuzzballs.  I find it really funny when people tell me they’re getting a dog to “practice”… for kids.

I totally understand why people have pets and consider them their children.  My favorite quote from the book Eat, Pray, Love: “Having a baby is like getting a tattoo on your face.”  And giving up frequent movies, fancy gourmet restaurants, trips abroad and carefree weekend getaways… at least for a few years.

But I just can’t get behind this idea of practicing for kids by getting a dog.  Or as Jake now says, “goggie.”  He used to say “doggie.”  A few thoughts for consideration:

* There comes a point when it becomes socially unacceptable to keep your child off the furniture.  I remember a sticky, drooley Jakey starting to climb-up on my camel-colored couch.  I had to resist the urge to sweep him back onto the floor like a poodle.
* It’s OK to put your puppy in a warm garage.  Especially when it is yipping and whining all night long.
* You can leave your dog at home all day.  Alone.
* So far I’ve never met a dog that has “bath time” every night.
* Most dogs eat the same thing… three times a day.  Usually it requires pouring dry food into a bowl.
* The majority of puppies don’t change clothes multiple times a day… creating mountains of laundry.
* Dogs can’t reliably open cupboards, drawers, and closets to access pills, poisons, knives and noose-like objects.

Don’t get me wrong.  If you want a goggie you should definitely get one and enjoy it!  Just don’t be surprised when, if you decide to have a baby, it’s nothing like having a dog.

Tonight we played Christmas carols and decorated the house.  James got out the infamous Christmas Story leg lamp for our front window.  The piece de resistance of our holiday decor.

He got it all set-up and “switch, switch”… first the bulb glowed and then the fishnet-stockinged, stiletto-sporting leg flickered and blazed.

“Whoaaa!” Jakey exclaimed.

Today is the last day of our 27th week… cauliflower week.  And tomorrow starts the highly anticipated… or dreaded, third trimester.  Cillo and I are starting to get a bit tired.

I’ve written before about Jakey calling me “Daddy” since he changed schools in June.  At least 4 months, maybe 6?  That was when James established a clear lead in the favorite parent department.  My son knew my name was Mama, and would always answer correctly when quizzed, but just preferred to call me Dadd-eee.

And then Mama started her comeback.

It started in October during my birthday weekend in DC.  Jakey and Mama spent lots of time bonding and Mama started to finally reestablish her previous dominance.  Flash forward to week 27:

4:48am

“Mama!  Mama!  Are you?  Are you? (Where are you?)”  Mama and Cillo roll over and pretend we don’t hear anything.

“Mama.  Get up.  Get up!”  I’m pretty sure Cillo groaned at this point.  When did Jake learn these new phrases?

It was so much easier not to feel guilty when the little voice from the other room was yelling “Dadd-eee!”  Obviously he wants you.

As they always say, be careful what you wish for.

We spent Thanksgiving weekend in Los Osos with the Fucillos and the Tasseys this year.  We had beautiful weather, except for one day of rain… so many things to be thankful for.

On Friday morning we went down to Morro Bay as Papa Vinnie was feeling like crab for his Turkey Day.  I was sitting on a bench looking out at the harbor, enjoying the sunshine.  Baby Cillo started kicking very forcefully so I had James put his hand on my stomach.

“Jakey!  Come feel the baby kicking Mama.”

Jake comes stumbling over, he’s kind of a stumbler, and starts dutifully kicking me in the shins.

What is happening?!  Then it dawns on us…

I may have mentioned that Jake has been in a phase of repeating the end of every sentence he hears, non-stop.  It’s crazy, but he can say almost anything.  He’s quite the little parrot.  Some of his more recent utterances:

James: “Can you scrape out the pumpkin guts?”
Jake: “Punkin guts.”

James (on using a fork to eat): “Stab it, stab it!”
Jake: “Stab it.”

James: “Would you like some more gnocchi?”
Jake: “Gnocchi.”  (I swear, we can’t even say gnocchi.  It was the most Italian sounding “gnocchi” I’ve ever heard.  A bit like his “crouton” which is “crew-Toh” with a nasally little French accent, I kid you not.)

The same night as gnocchi…

James: “Bellisima!”
Jake: “Bellisima!”

James: “Che Italiano!”
Jake: “Che Italiano!”

This could go on for hours…

Little Cillo is already almost 2 lbs. and as big as, quote: “an English hothouse cucumber.”  The weird baby dreams have also started.

I remember when I was pregnant with Jakey and I had all sorts of weird dreams.  Dreams he was as big as a GI Joe.  Dreams where he was born as a full-grown toddler.  Dreams where it was a boy.  Then a girl.  And dreams where I could see the whole baby through my stomach like a horrible alien movie.  My very last dream it was a regular-sized, normal looking baby.  They held it up and I said, “Who is it?  Is it Jacob?”  And so it was.  Like a dream premonition.

The little English hothouse cucumber has kicked into gear… leading to my baby insomnia and my first creepy baby dream.  I could feel a whole leg through my tummy… it sounds gross and I hate to say it… kind of like a cucumber?!  And then it was alien baby.  Sweet dreams.

I am drowning in toy catalogs.  Someone, somewhere in the universe has used sophisticated software to determine my age.  They’ve connected this information up with my name and address.  And now they’ve chosen the drop-down choice, undoubtedly labeled: kid.  I highly suspect Pottery Barn as the evil creator and commercial beneficiary of selling my hard earned demographic data. 

The only thing their little databases haven’t yet discovered is the gender of my child.  I know this because we’ve received countless catalogs filled with an unbelievable variety of light pink, dark pink, hot pink, fuschia, and purple clad baby dolls.  For the record, I’m currently in the market for a baby doll for one soon-to-be big brother, but shhhhh, they don’t know that… yet. 

On Tuesday morning, Jakey and I had the most amazing breakfast while perusing the American Girl catalog–Follow Your Inner Star.  It’s filled with all sorts of great vocabulary and to my astonishment, it is the epitome of little girl heaven.  Yes, that’s probably where their tagline comes from: Follow Your Inner Star, Straight to Little Girl Heaven (and Parental Dollbaby Purchasing Bankruptcy).  Honestly, you have got to get your hands on this catalog.  And I most certainly have to get rid of mine.

You can get a headgear for your doll.  A headgear.  They have little pets for your dolly like a kitty cat in a carrier with a mini fold-up travel bowl.  Teeny tiny soccer cleats, shinguards and matching hair ties (swoon).  Crutches.  Crutches!

But what sent me into pure dollbaby envy?  “Julie’s Fondue Set, $68.”  An actual fondue set that looks like it came from Williams-Sonoma with mini skewered fruit.

This catalog makes my Cabbage Patch Kid look like something I made out of cornhusks and rubberbands. 

I’m wondering what a rutabaga even looks like?  I recently had to Google “quince” as I also didn’t have a clear mental image of this mysterious fruit.  Frankly I think lemon-pear might be a better name, not unlike my favorite salad fruit, the pear-apple.  Now that I’ve Googled rutabaga, my life could be in significant danger if forced to identify the differences between a rutabaga and a turnip, at gunpoint.

So, what’s new with Cillo this week?  He/she is getting busier.  Lots of what I would describe as thumping, always on the right side.

Jake has also noticed the rutabaga in my tummy.  He has an irresistable urge to lift up my shirt and make loud, obnoxious noises by blowing on my stomach.  The wetter, the funnier… at least in his book.  He then takes his little hand, puts it behind his dad’s neck, and pushes his dad’s face into my stomach as a sign of zerbert encouragement.  The rutabaga and I are virtually defenseless.

Yesterday was November 14th… exactly two weeks since Operation: Bye Bye Nigh-Nigh began, as well as Jake’s 20th birthday.  The deadline.  D-Day.  Who can believe I’m old enough to have a child who’s 20?!  I know, I know… how do I look so young?

Under most circumstances, secret missions such as this are generally classified.  But, I think it’s time for me to come out of hiding.  To blow my cover if you will.  To date, this was my most difficult and dangerous mission, and now I’m thinking of retiring from this double life.  And so I reveal a glimpse into the classified details of this story of greed, passion and power…

Days 1-2: I snipped a little hole in the end of the nigh-nigh (pacifier).  It made a louder sucking sound, but pretty much went completely unnoticed.

Days 3-5: I made the hole bigger.  He didn’t bat an eyelash.  His dad decided we might as well also begin “Operation: No Getting Up Till 6.”  We all have a cold and the clocks are changing due to Daylight Saving Time.  Oh yeah, and Jake is probably getting his last set of molars as he’s leaking drool like a sieve.  Let’s do it all!  He’s got a tough love kind of style.

Jakey would wake-up, get very mad, cry and throw his nigh-nigh out of his crib in a fit of anger.  Then we’d listen to “nigh-nigh, NIGH NIGH” for up to an hour.  Sometimes he’d pull out all the stops and forlornly call “Mama, Mama.”  It was pitiful.  Especially since he still calls me Daddy most of the time.  James made me wear earplugs.

Days 6-7: I cut more off.  Jake started sticking his little digit in the hole and saying “feen-gr, feen-gr” (finger) and showing it to us.  He asked for his nigh-nigh every night and every morning.  It had to stay in his crib.

Days 8-11: Jake’s nigh-nigh didn’t seem to taste that good anymore.  It’s hard to keep a good hold on such a small piece of rubber.  I went out of town to Laguna Beach for two nights.  His dad reported excellent behavior and sleeping-in until 6 or 7.

Days 12-14: I can report 3 nights in a row when Jake went to sleep without his nigh-nigh.  Only 30-60 seconds of crying and then he’s zonked out.  He’s still asking for it, but I pretend I don’t understand what he’s saying.  Huh?  What?  Bedtime!  Plus he’s slept-in till at least 6 for the last 3 days.  Even if he fusses at 5, he goes back to sleep for an hour.

Mission Accomplished.