Fair enough

So the fair is behind us now and it did not disappoint! 

Well, actually, this booth disappointed:


Before you look at the picture below, get a visual of what you think a “spa of the future” would look like.


I don’t know…I guess I was expecting something more metallic?  Something that hovered?  But alas, the spas of the future are strikingly similar to the spas of the past.  I guess that explains the use of quotation marks on their sign.

Now here’s a booth did NOT disappoint!



Below is a picture of Vincenzo’s favorite ride—the rocket ship movie thing.  Kevin described it this way: “They put a bunch of kids in a dark room with a carny  for ten minutes and no adults are allowed in.  What could possibly go wrong?”


I told him to stop calling them carny’s; they’re people with feelings, just like us.  Then we came across this particular one with who had “F*** THE WORLD” shaved into his hair.  I started calling them carnys at that point, too.


There were people there wearing their children’s Tinkerbell backpacks.


And also there was this guy wearing an adult-sized Cars backpack.  Seriously.


And unfortunately, that’s all I got.  I didn’t realize how little picture taking you can do when you have a baby strapped to your chest, the stroller handle in your right hand, a bag of kettle korn you’re not letting go of in your left, and THIS bearing down on you at a remarkable pace:


Goodbye, sweet world.  Goodbye.


Happy weekending!

QUICKIE: A lady, pointing out the sights of the beach to her grandson: “There are the ducks…and there’s a boat…and there’s some seaweed…and oh look!  There’s a tired new mom!”
I just wanted to apologize for not reading other people’s blogs since the new baby has come.  Also on my list of things I have not done are cook, clean house, garden, showered regularly, and slept more than 3 hours at a time.  If I have read your blog, know that one or more of these things is also true: 1) At least one of my children went hungry for the half hour it took me to get caught up; 2) It took me three days to read a single post of yours and comment on it; or 3) You are Renee of mommyblogyay.  (The best thing about Renee’s blog is that the “yay” is silent.  Hope I didn’t just ruin the ending for you!)

Anyway, have a fab weekend everyone.  I’m absolutely GIDDY because the state fair is in town!!!!!  It’s like the Christmas of summer, only if you could put Christmas on a stick and deep fry it, which we would all totally do if they sold Christmas sized deep fryers.  But they don’t.

All by myself

Vincenzo went to Chicago with Kevin for the weekend, leaving me at home to do whatever I wanted with just the baby.  Needless to say, there was an excess of this:


The best things about my weekend “alone” were eating and sleeping.  I feel like I should add “pooping” to the mix because it seems to go, but anyone who’s had a baby knows that pooping during that first post partum month is kind of like going to a movie theater and not knowing if the movie ticket you just bought is for an easy rom-com or a grisly horror flick.

Eating sans toddler: No more of this fruit-at-every-meal thing; none of that mmm-I-love-broccoli-so-much-don’t-you thing.  Nope; I ate the way I assume Renee Zellweger and everyone else without kids eats: chocolate chip pancakes all day, every day.  Except sometimes when I ate fudgecicles.  And lots and lots of McDonalds (I had four years of driving by them without so much as slowing down to make up for!)

Upon Vincenzo’s return I was bummed out to give up my natural eating habits for healthier ones…until I was making Vincenzo a blueberry pancake and noticed something.  Maybe you’ve noticed it before too?  How much a blueberry, when placed in the right environment, and at an early enough hour in the morning, bears a slight resemblance to a chocolate chip in the same environment at the same early hour?  “Good morning, Vincenzo!  Blueberry pancakes for breakfast…again!” 

I’ve also learned to eat fudgecicles right in front of Vincenzo by carefully angling my body and strategically opening cupboards or bending down behind the counter to “pick something up.”  I’m kind of the David Copperfield of fudgecicles now.

Sleeping sans toddler: Kevin and I both got way more sleep than we have all month—he because he was with a child who sleeps through the night and me because I was with the child who might not sleep at night but still sleeps 20 out of 24 hours every day.  It was better than both Kevin and I sleeping sporadically throughout the night, waking up for frantic binky searches and trying to remember whose turn it is to nurse the baby, then fantasizing about naps all the next day.  Because while I’ve discovered how to eat a fudgecicle right in front of Vincenzo’s eyes, it’s much harder to fake being awake in the middle of a nap.  I’m still working on sneaking a nap in behind an open cupboard.

If Kevin and I ever do this whole baby thing again we’ll just plan on splitting up for six months afterwards.  Who needs romance when you could have sleep?!

Something has to be done!

Okay, I need to stress about Rocco’s name again even though I’ve said it all before and none of it really matters anyway.  Chalk it up to my OCD.  (After this I’ll go wash my hands a few times, too).

When we told people Vincenzo’s name, our biggest reaction was: “Vin-sen-zio?  Am I saying that right?”  We’d explain that no, they weren’t, and they probably never would be able to because they just didn’t have the mental capacity to do so.  His name itself is a sort of preliminary IQ screening test for any potential friends or neighbors.

But when I tell people Rocco’s name, I get a different reaction: “Oh…I know someone who just named their boy ‘Rocco,’ too!”  I hate that.  It’s not that we named him Rocco solely to be unique…it’s Kevin’s middle name, and he was named very significantly after someone dear to his father’s heart named Rocky (you know…the one from the movies?). 

(His sister was named after Wendy from Peter Pan.) 

(His Dad really, really likes TV.) 

But uniqueness was definitely a factor in deciding our second son’s name.  I mean, you can’t exactly introduce your sons “Vincenzo” and “Joe” and still feel good about yourself.  Anyway, I’m worried that by the time Rocco gets to kindergarten he’ll have to be called “Rocco B.” or worse still, “Rocco T.B.,” which makes it sound like he’s the Rocco with “an often deadly infectious disease caused by mycobacteria.”

So let’s review what I know:

1.  Madonna’s son is named Rocco (this I already knew; I’m just hoping it goes unnoticed in the shadow of Lourdes’ name)
2.  There is another baby named Rocco at Rocco’s own pediatrician’s office (Kevin keeps trying to convince me the “other baby” is actually our own Rocco)
3.  Just yesterday I found out that the son of the cousin of the lady in the Starbucks’ parking lot was also recently named Rocco

See?  EVERYONE is naming their sons Rocco!  People, I need your help.  If you know of anyone considering naming their child or their dog after my son,  I beg you  TALK THEM OUT OF IT.  Tell them of Rocco the Porn Star, but not Rocco the saint, for example.  Tell them their son will spend his whole life being rhymed with “taco.”   Tell them it’s spelled with a silent G at the beginning.  Just do something!

And for heaven’s sake, delete this blog post after reading it.  I’ve said too much already .

Shooting the breeze

QUICKIE: V: “Mom, we should go to Chuck E. Cheese!”  Me: “Well, I was thinking we should go for a bike ride.  What do you think of that?” V: “I think my ideas are better than yours.”
Let’s all put our hands together for the guy formerly known as my husband’s sister’s boyfriend, who waited eleven years to find the exact, perfect moment to propose to my SIL.  Wendy is getting MARRIED!!  I love that when my future BIL asked my FIL for my SIL’s hand in marriage, my FIL said, “Yes, yes!  Take both hands!”  (Sorry if that story lost anything in all the acronyms; it just takes sooooooooooooo long to type out brother-in-law and father-in-law and sister-in-law, and the hyphen is such a tricky key to hit correctly and oh dear me, now I’ve gone and typed them anyway.)

I also wanted you to know that if you see a lady walking along with a baby strapped to her chest and an overgrown child in a stroller, and that child seems to be pointing at your car and saying something, then that lady is me and that child just annihilated your car with his finger gun.  During last Friday’s walk, we hit a dry spell where no cars came along for awhile, and I noticed one of Vincenzo’s hands casually finger walk across the stroller tray, when WHAMO!  His finger snuck up from nowhere and shot it dead cold, too.  RIP, Righty.

And because I’m typing one-handed and because that’s hard, I’ll just shove a bunch of pictures at you.





I’m doingfine! Why do you aks?

Other signs I’m not doing nearly as well as I think I am:

1. I showed up at the right doctor’s office, at the right time, with the right kid, but on the wrong day.

2. I realized I wore my breast pad backwards all day—the absorbant side facing out

3. I put on a pair of underwear after going to the bathroom and realized significantly later that the “feminine hygiene product” was on the OUTSIDE of them.  (??)

I swear I’m one step away from nursing the cat* and wiping my husband’s bottom.

*Matlick, Andrea.  “Whew!”  Personal e-mail.  August 16, 2009.