A boy and his dog

Long time no blog. Sorry, folks. As if anyone actually reads this. Ha.

It's been a crazy week being maxed-out and all. Work plus home renovations plus three freelance assignments plus H plus a nasty stomach bug that attacked me yesterday. Not only do I feel short on time, but on energy, patience, and electrolytes.

Poor H had to deal with me yesterday after school, and thank goodness he's getting old enough to entertain himself for a few moments. While I laid on the ground next to him randomly interjecting things like "Good job, buddy" and "Whoo hoo," H chewed on his Sophie, banged around some blocks, and attempted to take apart a few board books. When those lost their appeal, in stepped babysitter to the stars, F. Yes, the 13-pound doxie.

H + F = Hilarity. H thinks that the dog is the best toy EVER. The dog can do no wrong. She is heaven on four stubby legs.

F thinks that the baby is a very odd disturbance. Some days she's all into licking him to death, others she could not be bothered to look his direction. Many times, both moods end up with her trying to shove herself between me and the baby in a bid for ultimate cuteness supremacy.

They really are good buds, though. H always wants to touch the pup, and she's calm and good enough to take it. Because H hasn't exactly mastered petting yet. It's more like a slap across the face. And a pull on the ears. And a pinch on the side. And God bless her, the dog takes it.

Last night, thankfully, they were in good form. F was content to play by herself in the form of pouncing on her pink elephant and making it squeak. And H was content to watch this mini circus. And then W came home and saved me from my pukey self.

Now to catch up on everything I didn't do yesterday while willing my Canada Dry to stay down....

Who needs TRU?

When I was a kid, my little brothers and I were spoiled. Sure, at the time we were ignorant of our bliss, but I can now look back and see just how lucky we were. The eldest of the grandchildren on both sides, we were doted on constantly. To this end, we also received tons of gifts ... everything from Big Wheels to the must-have of 1984, the Cabbage Patch doll that my fabulous aunt waited hours in line and apparently tripped another woman for.

With all these glittering toys at our disposal, it only makes sense that our favorite play thing would be an empty cardboard box.

Image courtesy P&G

Remember that? The old-school Pampers boxes were massive, and had a preforated front to access the diapers within. Once empty, this hole was the perfect size for the butt of a four-year-old and the box could be instantly transformed into the coolest race car in the Northeast.

The brother and I would hold living room Indy 500s reguarly, my father providing the engine as he pushed us in our boxes across the carpeted floor. As in NASCAR, collisions were the best part.

It should be no surprise to me, then, that H's favorite playthings aren't really toys at all. Sure, he adores his Sophie and will play for, well, minutes with his Sassy rings. But H's most cherished objects are tissues.

If we walk by a box, H instantly becomes a gymnist, arching his back and twisting his arms so he can pull a puffy white square from the top before I notice. He waves it in the air like a victory flag, throws it up and watches with glee as it slowly flutters to the ground. Then he scoops it back up, hugs it (yes, he seriously holds it to his heart), then quickly shoves it into his mouth.

This is when the biggest grins begin. My guess is he digs the way the thin fibers stick to his tongue, but he'll just sit there, waving his arms up in down doing the happy dance, as the tissue hangs from his mouth. Eventually, he'll begin shredding the poor thing, which is when Mean Mommy steps in and declares play time over.

No worries, though. With six boxes placed about the house, H knows his next adventure is only a short time away.

Dear crib manufacturers,

Hi there. Maxed-Out Mommy, aka Mel, here. What's up?

So, I know you are a part of the oh-so-special baby-gear industry, which automatically gives you the right to create recall-laden products with over-the-top pricetags. Congrats. Hope it's been treating you well.

I discovered this weekend that apparently this also allows you to produce totally inane instruction manuals and items that require the dexterity of a neurosurgen. Which is great because, you know, us moms have the time and energy for that.

See, it was determined by W and I this weekend that it was time to lower H's crib. He's a strong sitter and puller-upper (is that a real term?) now, and while he can't get from laying to standing yet, I assume the fateful day is near. And I'd prefer that when it does occur, it not be met with my son tumbling head-first onto the hardwoods. And so, the decision to adjust the mattress.

Here's where you guys come in. See, my hubs and I had some silly thought that this could be done in a five minute span by one person. Oh, not so. After tearing the crib apart and littering the nursery floor with sheets, blankets, crib skirt, and mattress, and then staring at the frame for an embarassing amount of time trying to figure out WTF I was supposed to do, I swallowed my pride and went on a hunt for the instructions. Which were of absolutely no help at all. You guys are worse than the mute Ikea monster.

Eventually, I came up with a plan of attack. But I was not strong enough to loosen the necessary wing nuts (or so that's what I'm told they are called). Neither was W (heheh). It took three different trips to the toolbox and a team effort to get those suckers lose. And then a trip to the medicine cabinet for some extra strenth Excedrin to move the diddly-bobs to the new hole-thingers.

Thankfully, H just sat on the floor watching us like the clowns we were, intermitently throwing the crib skirt on his head to hide his shame.

In the end, we achieved our goal. The mattress is lower. A whole 2 inches lower. How this is supposed to make a difference, I ain't got a clue.

So thank you for your bare-bones attempt at customer service and client retention. Way to be.

Hugs & Kisses,