Digital camera: $160.
Watching this video over and over again: Priceless.
Monthly Archive for August, 2008
I have 10 email accounts. At least that’s what I think I have, last time I checked.
(Please note I am NOT counting the ones I created for Ruby.)
Between changing passwords — “Oh yes Dot, of course you will remember all the different super complicated strong passwords for every email account!” — and remembering what email I used to sign up for each website, you can imagine my personal email hell every morning when I wake up.
Here’s a peek into my identities.
xxx@dorothyho.com
xxx@gmail.com
xxx@yahoo.com
xxx@yahoo.com
xxx@hotmail.com
xxx@hotmail.com
xxx@mail.com
xxx@go.com
Plus two work emails!
xxx@XXX.com
xxx@XXX.com
And this is not counting the Facebook, Flickr, Youtube mailboxes et al.
Is this normal? How many email accounts do YOU have?
I feel contactable, but also not.
I guess what I’m trying to say is, “It’s not you, it’s me.”
Ruby has a brand spanking new cousin.
Everyone, meet Thaddeus.
Thaddeus, meet the World Wide Web.
I don’t know when she does it.
I turn away for two seconds and it’s “Hello, Trapped Foot!”
I don’t know how she does it.
Sheer brute force? Balletic gracefulness?
I don’t know why she does it.
So mom will go to bed wondering if she should have done something about it?
But I do know this.
You don’t touch a sleeping baby.
If you want to sleep.
This is the reason I am hesitant to borrow baby books from the library.
I imagine the number of babies who have come and drooled before Ruby, divide it by the number of times she will read the book, multiply that by the odds of her chewing on said book, subtract my ability to ignore the statistical chance of cross contamination, and the result is “Get me Lysol, pronto!”
Ruby turns six months and it’s time for her shots. If you think she looks worried at the start of our trip to the doctor’s, you should have seen my face.
In the waiting room, she doesn’t buy my smiley face. I think I oversold it.
Her suspicion rises when I take her clothes off and we wait for the nurse.
But mom, where is the bathtub?
To keep her occupied, we check out the SHOT LIST.
Ruby cannot read. Ignorance is a good thing.
I often say I cannot take a bad picture of Miss Ruby, except maybe on August 20, topless in an awkward pose in the doctor’s room, with her eyes half closed and her mouth in mid-coo.
You’re beautiful, Rubes!
I lose my under-16 pound bet to Jay. Ruby weighs in at 16 pounds 13 ounces. I suck as a human Detecto.
The doctor looks at the nurse’s measurement of Ruby’s head and goes, “That can’t be right.” She takes the tape and re-measures Ruby. Three times. Once, she gets me to take a look as well.
It’s official. Ruby has a big head. That’s an actual medical diagnosis.
“Does your husband have a big head?”
“Er, I never thought of that before.”
“Go home and ask him. I need you to come back in a month to check on her head.”
“WTF?” I say silently in my small head.
I hope this means we have a genius on our hands.
After the head talk, it’s on to her immunizations. First up, some oral vaccine.
Ruby gives me the same face when I feed her baby food. So vaccines taste like mashed green peas now?
Then it’s time to inject Very Sharp Objects into her thigh. A petrified mom holds on to a very calm Ruby.
Aye caramba!
Can you hold an infant and take a photo at the same time? Why, yes, yes you can.
Five seconds later and all is honky dory in Ruby-Land — a vast difference from the last time someone had shots. It’s as if the shots didn’t happen!
I dare not celebrate in fear of jinxing the moment.
Injections, Schminjections.
Ruby the Six-Month-Old is an old pro at this.
Get back to us at nine months.
I need an intervention for my Nutella addiction.
If you are a friend, you know what to do.
Intervene! Now! Throw yourself in front of an incoming scoop of Nutella! Tackle me on the way to the kitchen! Do something! Anything!
Remember when I said I was going to stop eating that stuff for breakfast?
I lied.
I haven’t progressed to eating straight from the jar yet, but I usually take way too much for the piece of toast so that I am forced, FORCED I tell ya, to lick the rest off the knife. Life is hard.
So it was with some panic that I realized I was running out of Nutella. I rectified the situation by buying a new jar that same day.
Jay says to slow it down.
“Don’t overdo it or you’ll get sick of it,” he warns.
“I won’t…”
Hey, hey, wait a minute. THAT’S an idea!
Who goes camping in the middle of the Olympic Peninsula for a Bachelor’s Party?
As my friend Anna says, “The stripper will be very cold.”
Altogether now, “Awwwww!”
Just in case you thought I made up the previous post — Why is there only Ruby in the photos, Dot? — here is Ruby with her friends.
And they are not imaginary.
Yet.
Remember when I said I would never ordinarily buy full retail price baby clothes, and I did?
Well, Ruby finally broke out the Zara Baby pink dress (bought at full retail price) for a photo shoot this Sunday with the other babies in her PEPS group.
I give you: Rubylicious in Pink.
Of course, Ruby proceeded to christen her dress by sucking on it.
What the dress lacked in flavor, Ruby compensated with her tasty fingers.
That must have been very satisfying for her, because she moved on to THIS POSE.
I can only assume that somewhere in the world, someone just scored a GOAL!
When it came time to shoot, the set-up was simple enough.
Six babies. One couch. Two seconds before the crying snowballed.
And then there was one.
As the babies were picked up one by one, Ruby looked perturbed — what else is new? — as her friends left.
She took the opportunity of an empty couch to catch up on her Must-Have-Object-In-Mouth-At-All-Times obsession.
That’s classy, Ruby.
I swoop in for the obligatory Mom and Me photo.
May I point out that that is Ruby’s foot between our faces?
But that’s okay, Ruby. I’ll let it slide this time.
Next time, remember that ladies sit with their legs crossed.
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