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You Know, People, You’re Right. He’s Not Mine. He’s From the Stork That Made Off With Your Brain Cells (Week 9)

You Know, People, You're Right. He's Not Mine. He's From the Stork That Made Off With Your Brain Cells (Week 9)


Little Guy, I’ve heard it again.

No, I’m not talking about the Is something rotting in here? and the implied Or is it just you? though I do hear that more than I’d like to admit.

I’m hearing, at the rate of that one little pipsqueak Usher wannabe and his nasally lyrics on the radio the question, ”Are you sure he’s yours?”


I’ve heard it at least ten times in the last, oh, ten days.


The dudes at the little hippie grocery store I frequent (read: live at) said they didn’t even know I was preggo, which is either a testament to (1) their lack of eyesight, (2) my raggedy sweatshirts, or (3) my overall normal physique perhaps resembling that of a impregnated person’s more than I’d realized.

But there’s also the fact, while parents supposedly pool their genetic traits together to make a little product of the two of them, that you look Nothing. Like. Mommy.

Zeke and I had this plan to pop out same-sexed babies that look just like us thataway they’d–you’d–look like twins. Then we’d be all, Hey, ya’ll, these twins had twins! and it wouldn’t make any sense at all if you think about it.

Judging by the technology that observes babies through mommies’ bodies, which is no bit freaky Matrix at all if you think about that one, Zeke’s little dude looks just like–wait for it! . . . . . . . . . . not Zeke. Fortunately for her hubs, the little dude looks like him, not some other guy, though.

And oh, 11 times I’ve heard this now:

parenting is awesome

Your ears flange out a bit, same as mine do, Little Man. They do they do THEY DO!

baby sleeps through night

my ears.

teaching my child

yup, Mommy’s ears . . .

swaddle baby

I’m just going to get me some ice cream and stare at you, Little Mini Version of Daddy.


Milestones from month two:

  • You poo, you goo, you coo. Mommy makes shrills that call all critters within a five-mile radius to the house, and you reply with delicate, smiling BAAH-GOO! perfection, Mommy shrills/awws, you yank her hair/scratch her eye/pee on her and BAAAAAH-GOOOO! (Seriously, there’s merit in having conversations with babies and learning to decode baby language. This article also reaffirms my scuttling out of Hobby Lobby so that I could, attachment-parenting style, answer your cry and therefore promote the notion that it’s a trusting world, with a boob. Boobs solve all. Trust that. Until you’re about two, then don’t trust it.)

From iVilliage, “Baby talk: 8 easy and fun ways to improve your baby’s language skills”:

converse with baby

  • You LIKE your changing pad–for some reason it’s got a positive association tied to it, like maybe you relish watching your so-believed educated parents deal in poop? It’s like this: So I see you donning a tie every morning, Daddy, and I see you adjusting your glasses and looking all smug while reading big books, Mommy, and it’s for reasons such as these that I love seeing you grimace a little each time you get my crap on you fingers, arms, neck, face.
  • Hobby Lobby lost to Little Man. Once. Twice. Three times. I am raising a winner.
  • Baby outgrew three-month-sized onesies! Woah-woah, lil’ Hulk!
  • Little Man has better eye contact than Mommy does! Although, so does a grasshopper.
  • Mommy watched Prison Break without dancing to every intro and rap song.
  • Okay, she not only danced, she walked around the house for hours with swag, you, raised eyebrow, perched against her shoulder, quite enjoying the sway and wondering at the hand gestures.
  • Mommy is very glad there is no hidden camera recording her all day.
  • Mommy’s mineral makeup business has kept her busy busy busy filling mica-free mineral makeup orders. Once Daddy gets home, it’s hand-Little-Man-off-so-he-can-spit up-on-Daddy’s-Jos. A. Bank, and Mommy fills orders. Two months later, she’s feeling in the groove, motivated with the self-motivation thing again.
  • I’ve never been peed on so much in my life.

sweet baby


baby pees on mom

baby carrier



Sunday. The smell of eggs frying, coffee brewing. The sound of lawn mowers, families returning from church, and babies farting. It’s a great day to be alive. I’ve re-written the lyrics to that country song, in fact. A bit of lyrical genius for you ensues.

 mom parenting


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