I have a problem with the communal bathroom key.
Think about it.
Firstly, you’re assuming the Bathroom User ahead Of You (henceforth referred to as BUOY) washes his or her hands before returning the keys.
Secondly, you’re assuming the BUOY places the key in a relatively sanitary area of the bathroom.
And lastly, you are of course assuming that BUOY is not holding the key while doing the business.
Hell no.
Now that Ruby’s all of nine 10 weeks old, I face a conundrum when I take her to the doctor’s.
You see, there’s a discreet corner of the waiting room that is reserved for “well newborns,” ostensibly so bigger sick kids don’t pass germs on.
She’s well, but is she a newborn?
Up till a week ago, I merrily pushed the pram into the section. But now that Rube the Cube is growing and looking all of her 12 pounds, AND getting on in age, I wonder if she still qualifies as a newborn.
I didn’t want her to be the awkward Giant Kid surrounded by Two-Day-Olds, so I did the next best thing by hanging just outside the “newborn” zone, all the while furtively looking around and hoping we didn’t get beat up by the 10-year-old terrors in the “real” waiting room.
And since we’re considering size, I’d like to know when Ruby in her carseat qualifies for the HOV lanes on the highways.
Or should I invest in a blow-up doll for now?
Recently, Ruby has developed a  How shall I put it?  severe aversion to something. We’re not sure what. We’re guessing it’s gas/constipation/invisible gnomes punching her in the face.
It goes something like this.
I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine. Gurgle, gurgle, smile, gurgle. I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.
WAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
Not fine.
Nothing will appease the Crying Munchkin. No diaper change, no breast, no amount of jiggling will make the crying stop. Just make it stop, for the love of God!
Once, and just once, we heard a loud ass BURP, then the crying stopped.
Oh. I. See.
These days, when she winds up for the Cry That Launched A Thousand Blood Pressures, I throw her over my shoulder and start whacking the burp outta her.
I hate to admit it, but the gnomes are winning.
“Do you want a bite of my lemon sorbet?”
“Dot, that’s like me driving a Ferrari and you asking me to drive a Hyundai.”
I took that as a “No.”
Dear Salesgirl at the Mall,
I am writing to you in response to your interest in my baby.
Thank you for asking, “Is there a baby in there?” as if I roll around a pram because I have nothing better to do on a Friday morning than pretend I have an imaginary infant.
Thank you for sticking your nose INTO the gap which I had carefully closed so Ruby could sleep peacefully and exclaiming, “She’s soooo cute! How old is she?”
(By the way, I knew you were waiting for me to pull back the cover so you could see Ruby better, but sorry, you were spitting as you talked loudly, and I really didn’t appreciate you being so close to my newborn.)
And after you found out she was two months old, thank you for saying that I lost weight quickly, but adding, “You know my mom never lost the weight after her third kid, so maybe you don’t want to have so many.”
Thank YOU.
And oh, you know you woke her up, right?
(1) Why is the abbreviation for pounds “lbs” and not “pds” since ounces is “oz”?
(2) Why is the baby’s head measured in centimeters but the height in inches?
(3) Just what is the difference between one ounce and one fluid ounce?
(4) Why is it 12 inches to a foot and 16 ounces to a pound, but 100 centimeters to a meter? (Or metre to the purists?)
(5) Exactly how long is a yard and who the hell uses it anymore?
As a born and raised Metric Systemer, I am confused. Can I just measure everything in a Ruby?
I realize that we all look at babies as Little Big People, but seriously, what are they supposed to do with pockets?
I show you here Ruby’s two front pockets on her pants. Don’t ask me why they are in the front, and not the back, where you’d expect them (Not that you’d expect any to begin with. But I’m making this too meta.)
I put the pants on this way because the tag was on the other side of her pants, plus the drawstring was facing this way.
Here she is in the context of the whole pants.
On the one hand, I assume the pockets make the miniaturization of her clothing more acceptable, since they are modeled after our clothing. On the other, I assume she needs to carry the keys to her carseat and those sunglasses to get away from paparazzo Mom.
OMG.
There is only one way to describe what happens when you take a two-month-old to the doctor’s for her first immunizations: You die a little inside.
The needles (Three, count ‘em, THREE!) were longer than Ruby’s pinkie and her wails were longer than I could bear.
If you’ve never seen a tiny human face turn incredibly red, accompanied by tiny tears and big cries…Well, I never hope you have to. It’s brutal, people.
Here is Ruby after half an hour of crying at the doctor’s office. We’re waiting at the lift lobby to go to the car. Have you ever seen such forlorn eyes?
For her troubles, Ruby received three starry Band-Aids to cover the three spots where the nurse jabbed her in the thighs.
It hurt only slightly less peeling them off.
The upside  if you can call it that  is that Lil’ Rubes was all cried out by the time she came home that she slept the afternoon away.
I think it’s kinda creepy how happy her farm friends are in the face of such pain.
Here are the top stories in today’s news.
In Jay news, he turned 32. Here he is at Ruby’s age, before he knew what 32 was.
In Dot news, she sold her Beetle. SHE SOLD HER BEETLE! Sob. You can now officially call me MOM. My new ride is a VW Passat Wagon  the Mom Mobile  and I guess I can stop breaking my back putting Ruby in the backseat of the bug.
And since I was so busy taking pictures with my Beetle and saying goodbye (I practically yelled at the salesman to let me know who the next owner would be) that I totally forgot to shoot the other car. You’ll just have to imagine it. It’s er, red, and big.
In Ruby news, she expelled the biggest load I ever saw in her 61 days of life.
Okay okay, I know you folks are now thoroughly upset with the above photo, so why don’t we all group hug and end with a much nicer memory of Darling Ruby?
You know, I often wonder how something so angelic could produce something so…poopy.
On Wednesday night, Ruby slept for five hours in a row. (Ergo, so did Dot.)
On Thursday night, Ruby slept for six hours in a row. (Ergo, so did Dot!)
On Friday night, Ruby slept for seven hours in a row. (Ergo, so didn’t Dot! She woke up confused at six hours and started pumping  I’ll spare all non-parents the details.)
That’s all I’m going to say about the matter, because if I say anymore, I’m going to jinx something and end up with an hour of sleep tonight.
So help me.
Recent Comments