Too tired to think of a title

Not much time to blog; spending too much time envisioning various contraptions that would hold a binky in a baby’s mouth because trying to sleep with my body in my bed and my arm stretched into the bassinet trying to hold a binky in Rocco’s mouth while simultaneously sleeping myself is getting to be A LITTLE TOO MUCH.

Coincidentally, my shopping list now looks like this:

Duct Tape
Industrial strength rubber bands
Gorilla Glue
Barbed wire
Staple gun

My sister sent me this article about how kids with large imaginations (think flying ninja turtles), could have the potential for geniusness.  Not being a genius myself (proof: geniusness is not even a word), I skimmed the article briefly but spent most of my time hanging out in the comments section with all the other cool kids. The comments ranged from, “My imaginary friend has been telling me this for years!”  to “your voices like my voices?”

Do you think that having an immature sense of humor could also be a sign of geniusness?  Because if so…

Who needs diamonds?

QUICKIE: Me: “Vincenzo, what’s the biggest number you know?”  Vincenzo: “TWENTEEN!”
I cut Kevin’s hair this weekend, and midway through had to go check on los ninos.  When I came back, Kevin had made something for me as a symbol of our undying love.


I’m not sure, but I think he is also counting this as my push present.  I knew he’d come through!

And is it just me, or does our newest kid look just a little bit like Captain Kirk?


If you’re not seeing it, perhaps this will help?


Still not my usual stuff—but at least I’m trying!

QUICKIE: Me: “Vincenzo, what’s the biggest number you know?”  Vincenzo: “TWENTEEN!”
I can’t get back into blogging just yet.  I can’t think outside the nest!  It’s not just you that’s suffering for it.  See these magazines?


All of them, unopened.  See?  I hurt, too.

There are many things I’m enjoying about not being pregnant anymore.  Like:

1. Drinking water without having convulsions
2. Standing
3. Smelling things and being okay with it
4. Being able to see my bikini line when I shave instead of using the guess-and-check method (not recommended)
5. Worrying about normal things, like planes crashing onto my house, instead of baby-dying things

My emotions have mostly stabilized themselves thanks at least in part to my husband, who has done everything short of lactating to keep the house running  while I lay on the couch with a swaddled baby on my chest.  When I worry about how hard it must be for him to be “on” all the time, he says, “You worked hard for nine months; now go take a nap.”  He started the bathroom remodel, ordered wood chips for the play set, and contacted someone about installing a new deck.  When I come back to bed after the midnight nursings, he gives me back rubs.  He does all of this and still finds time for his cheesy one-liners, like telling me he likes Rocco when I notice, “Rocco sucks more than Vincenzo did.”

Ain’t life swell?


A baby by any other name…

QUICKIE: I was wondering if Vincenzo knew why we gave him his middle name of Steven, so I asked, “Who else do you know named Steven?”  Without hesitation, he answered, “Abby!”
Rocco had his 10-day appointment at the doctor’s this week and when we showed up the receptionist said, “This is the second Rocco we have in this office!”  I sulked.  While I did know that the name has been rising in popularity, now I’m worried that I’ll open a Pottery Barn Kids magazine and see “Rocco” embroidered on all the baby towels and I’ll have to introduce myself as “MrsMouthy the Yuppie” for the rest of my life.  Sulk sulk sulk.  Oh great.  Now I’ve sulked all over my Espresso Bedford Rectangular Desk Set and Montego Rush Seat Chair.

Anyway, my mom wrote me this e-mail a few months ago when we broke the news to the family that the baby wasn’t really going to be named Mbungo:

Ok, so I must admit I’m having a tad bit of problem with the name “Rocco.”  Any chance of going with Mbungo?  I decided to do a little research on the internet to see how many “Roccos” there are in the world.  Unhappily, the very first one on the list is:  “Rocco Siffredi (born 4 May 1964) is the stage name of an Italian pornographic actor, director and producer of pornographic movies. As of 2005, he has starred in more than 1,300 pornographic films.  Siffredi’s screen name was reportedly inspired by a character from the movie Borsalino(1970), "Roch Siffredi", played by Alain Delon. He is also known as the "Italian Stallion", a reference to his penis size.” I suppose to some this might be a GOOD namesake to have.

Well,  I’m feeling a little better to see that the next Rocco listed is: Rocco Baldelli, a Major League Baseball player for the Tampa Bay Rays;

But aha! At last!  I found that there is a Saint Roch, also known as Rocco:

“From the Germanic personal name Rocco, which was borne by a 14th-century saint from Montpellier remembered for his miraculous healings during an outbreak of the plague in northern Italy. The etymology of the name is uncertain (see Roch).”  There’s even a St. Rocco School in Rhode Island!  

Love you,


…and my response to her:

You found us out.  To choose names, we simply googled, "boy names + large penis + pornography" and Rocco was the obvious choice.  That our son is going to be a saint to boot is just icing on the cake.

Large Penis Productions, Inc.

Reality Check

QUICKIE: Vincenzo, pressing a button on a toy while watching Rocco’s sporadic newborn breathing, exclaimed, “Look, Mommy!  When I play music Rocco’s tummy dances!”
I keep thinking I’ve really got this two-kid thing under control, and then I look down and realize I’m wiping spit-up from Rocco’s mouth with a pair of Vincenzo’s dirty underwear that was lying on the couch.  Or I go to pump milk and realize I’ve set the bottle up like this:


Speaking of milk, I’ve been pumping once or twice a day and we give Rocco a bottle during his night feedings.  We’re hoping this will keep him on good terms with bottle feeding, and I can sleep through the night if I so desire.  (I’m still in the phase where I love waking up at any hour to hold my baby.)  I keep a couple bags of milk in the fridge, which has become a literal milk bank.  The bags in the fridge are my checking account and the ones in the freezer are my savings account.  The problem is that I’m a saver while Kevin is a spender.  In fact, he spends as freely as someone who doesn’t have to hook himself up to a milking machine twice a day.  I’m one pump away from setting up an appointment with Edward Jones so we can make more informed decisions about our milk spending/saving.

Kevin is staying home for one more week and he’s started remodeling the bathroom, giving me some alone time with the kids and a frightening glimpse of how miserable the Turtle can make life for me when he feels like it.  I have cried more than once.  Today, for example, Rocco needed some momma love (wah wah)  and Vincenzo needed absolutely EVERYTHING.  Noodles.  (wah wah)  No; gnocchi.  (wah wah)  No; noodles.  (wah wah)  No; gnocchi.  (wah wah)  And MILK.  Right NOW.  And he asked for gnocchi; where is the gnocchi?  (wah wah)  Didn’t I hear him ask for it? 

After making him repeat it about 50 times until he came a fraction closer to using nice words and a nice tone of voice, I *lovingly* set a warm milk and gnocchi in front of him. 

“I WON’T eat gnocchi.  I WANT NOODLES!” 

(wah wah) 

Sob sob sob sob.

Oh…you shouldn’t have!

QUICKIE: Quote from me: “Anyone who has both read Harry Potter and given birth knows exactly what it feels like to die from the Cruciatus curse.”
Until Rocco is considerably less cute, my blogging is going to be pretty sporadic.  I spend my days staring at the baby, holding the baby, nursing the baby, and looking at pictures of the baby.  I’m also buried in new baby paperwork—finishing up my pregnancy journal; updating the baby book; assembling announcements; writing thank-you’s.  They’re right; babies are lots of work!

On Friday McStreamy and Mr. McStreamy stopped by bearing gifts, and it looks like I need to change the ending of my labor story after all:


Here an excerpt from my thank-you card to them.

Thank you for the classy, black-and-white scribble motif Louis Vuitton knock-off bag.  You have shown me that dreams really do come true.  Thank you also for the “mmm…boobies” onesie.  It’s so much classier than the “mmm…titties” onesie that all the other babies are wearing these days.  And we can only hope that Rocco’s new hairy-chested UglyDoll is a good omen of things to come.  He is one-eighth Italian, after all.

Suntan Target picture