Christmas elf

The Christmas elf visited us at my dad's house tonight as we waited for Santa to come. We celebrated the birth of Christ and the birth of my dad, since it was Papa's birthday, too. Enzo enjoyed all the crinkled wrapping paper and opening his very first presents.

Parents gone wild

When Enzo was about four months old, I celebrated my 10 year college reunion with a night out. I was panicked about pumping breastmilk and calling in to check on Enzo constantly. So, it wasn't exactly the night out I had planned. Now that I'm a pro at parenting (read, "now that I sort of know what I'm doing as a new parent and that not pumping for 6 hours will not dry me up forever - I mean, I haven't had a few glasses of wine in a year and a half!"), Jeff and I hit Newport Beach Christmas Boat Parade with our good friends. Parents gone wild.

It started off with a parking garage standoff with a real housewife of the OC, in her convertible VW and a toddler in the backseat. She totally creeped in front of us, as we waited for the valet. If it hadn't been for her illegally talking on her cellphone, her knowingly cutting us off and pretending not to see us, and the fact that our boat was scheduled to leave in exactly 5 minutes, the notion of "the first shall be last and the last shall be first" would have probably won out. Not this time. After several nonverbals about us being in front of her, waiting there for at least 10 minutes before she even rolled up, I asked her to roll down her window. I calmly say, "you are being a terrible example of waiting your turn to your child in the backseat." She poutedly gruffs, "fine! go ahead!! geeez!" Awesome.

We ran to the boat, only to find about half of our friends there. The others rolled up about 30 minutes later. We should have known. Anyway, we really didn't care because we immediately started the party there on the docked boat. Gourmet cheese, chocolate, nuts and wine. I partook. Jeff and I both did. It has been a while. A long while.

Screaming at passing boats, waving to Santa, scoring the decorated homes on the shore, and boogying down to some hip hop tunes (not Yo Gabba Gabba or Baby Einstein) was more fun that we could have hoped for. We topped it off with a nice meal at an Italian restaurant (it was nice before the owner bought us a round of shots.)

And there were cops involved at Parents' Night Out. On the way home, we had to stop at the gas station for a pitstop, so Jeff rolls up into the handicapped spot and I run out to make a deposit. A cop at the gas station yells at me to stop. Oh my gosh. I felt like I was doing something terribly wrong. I am allowed to have a few drinks as a parent, right? "Do you have a handicapped placard?," he says. And I gesture to the red placard juditiously hung in the window by Jeff. Thank God for my two previous broken ankles and my awesome orthopedic surgeon's nurse, who is quite generous with the handicrapper placards.

So, it was a fantastic night. I got home, pumped and dumped. Enzo is too young for merlot.

Enzo's Christmas Photo Shoot

It's probably been 25 years since I've been inside the magical wonderland that is the mall's get-an-overpriced-photo-with-Santa's Workshop. I planned the entire morning around timing Enzo's feeding with an anticipated hour standing in line, waiting to sit on Santa's lap. So, we head to the Brea Mall (all spiffed up in his cool-guy acid wash cargo jeans and his Ralph Lauren dress shirt), trying desperately not to have him spew on his clothes. We get to the designated area and walk into the area marked "Santa's Wonderland". We walked around a corner, not being able to see what awaited us. There we found a red velvet rope with a sign that said "no personal photography." A stoner-looking kid/elf half-heartedly pulled back the rope and there he was. In the flesh. SANTA. Sitting all alone with not a kid in sight. We were his only visitors.

I barely had enough space for my staging area. I was so nervous!! Pulling Enzo out of his stroller, making sure his hair wasn't jacked, pulling off his anti-spew bib, pulling on his "It's my first Christmas" socks that he had pulled off on the way there. After introductory niceties, I carefully set Enzo on Santa's lap, praying we could get a good shot. I started making all kinds of googly faces and noises and, of course, Enzo grins. Snap. Are you serious? My child didn't scream on Santa's lap??

Santa asked what he wanted for Christmas and asked me if he had been a good boy. I told Santa that I'm sure he already knows what a good boy he has been - because Santa knows everything - and that he's already gotten everything he could want. I told Santa that the main thing Enzo was looking forward to about Christmas was the wrapping paper. Eating it and hearing it crinkle.

Enzo looked up at Santa with a look of amazement and wonder with his enormous brown eyes as he petted his REAL beard. I desperately look over to the stoner kid/elf begging for him to take a freaking picture, but he was popping a zit instead. Dammit. The moment passed. Never to be experienced again. I'll have to burn it into my memory. Then Enzo takes hold of Santa's beard and p u l l s. "Ouch" says Santa. I told Santa not to take it personally; Enzo does that to me, too. My head, not my beard.

So, for $26.95 I splurged on the CD of a picture on Santa's lap (instead of spending $24.95 for 8 wallets). Now, I get to make my own copies of however many I want.

Merry Christmas!!

Hurray I am 7 months old

Can you believe it..... I am 7 months old. I celebrate by sitting up without falling over.

Enzo hits his first partay

Enzo made an appearance at his first birthday partay, for his girlfriend (friend who's a girl, not a girl-friend like that!), Brigid, who turned one. Why is he bigger than her, and he's not even 7 months old? Must be because she's a petite little princess, I guess.

He went in for a closer look.

Then, he split when she gave him a little attention! Look at that devious look in his eye. Happy birthday, Brigid!

My first "activity center"

Someone at Church insisted we take this gently used Fisher Price activity center for Enzo. After a thorough cleaning and online check for any safety recalls (aka good parent due diligence), we plopped Enzo in the seat and let him have at it. I know he was thinking something like, "what am I doing not laying or sitting?" or "are my feet really supposed to be flat so I can't curl my toes anymore?"


After about 2 1/2 minutes of uncertainty, he found every single toy and noise maker on the activity center and was loving it! Stomping and kinda running in place. Seriously.

As it turns out (after a 3 hour circuitry overhaul on the electric control panel of the unit carried out by his father), we learned that the electric brain of the activity center is shot. So, the foot "piano" pedals don't make any music, nor do the lights. So much for a step and play piano that neither plays nor is a piano. I guess we got what we paid for. Nothing.

Except for several ear to ear grins. Ahhh....

I need a new dry cleaner

So, this morning I was able to grab a yogurt for breakfast while Enzo was entertained for four minutes by his Pooh Bear Spinning Top. Then I hung about 50' of lighted, pine-coney garland on our banisters while he napped for 30 minutes. I was able to read and reply to about 15 work emails and four personal emails and play catch up with my Facebook profile and friend requests just moments before he woke up. After feeding him (while I worked on my FY09 work budget) and burped him and kept him upright for 20 minutes to reduce his acid reflux, I stole an express shower (no time for conditioner) before practicing his sitting up. The hair went into a pony, I managed to smear moisturizer on my face and brush my teeth, and threw on my elastic wastebanded yoga pants (I mean, it was like a chilly 60 degrees) before I realized that I had exactly 15 minutes to hit the post office, bank, and dry cleaners before Enzo would deliver the dreaded-in-public wail, demanding a feeding.

So, I schlep him into the post office to buy one measly stamp, to find out the stupid stamp machine was broken which forced me into the long line. He starts screaming and Mr. Post Office greeter guy runs to the back and returns with a USPS squeezie soccer ball for Enzo. Sweet. Then, to the bank where the "automatic check reader" won't read the freaking check I have to deposit and I'll be sent over the edge if I have to park the car, put him in the stroller, and wait in another line. It's only a $10 reimbursement check from gratuities on my last business trip. I stuff it in my purse.

I decide to make my last stop at the dry cleaner. The ladies in the shop go crazy for Enzo, poking him and talking Korean baby talk. The woman counting my pieces says "how many you have?"

"Five," I say.
She seems surprised, so I clarify that I have five pieces, not kids.

"He is my first," I then declare.

"Oh, really?" She looks me up and down (as I try to hold Enzo, not drop Jeff's suit on the floor, and fill out the order slip). "You marry very late, huh?"

Shut up, lady, alright? I was only 29 when I got married, and I'm only 32 with my first baby, okay? Geez, and I would have brushed and blow dried my hair and put on a face of make-up if I was going anywhere important -- oh, and had an extra 40 minutes to invest in ME!! And no, I haven't lost my baby weight, or the 50 extra pounds I started the pregnancy out with.

That evil lady probably had her five kids by the time she was 32. And she probably has the time to exercise, wash all the dishes, and daily dust and vacuum her house.

I need a new dry cleaner.

Weebles wobble but they don't fall down

On Enzo's first solo sit-up, he proves the theory wrong.

No, that's no a yettie. Just Jeff's leg.

Whoah...

Sticks the landing. And holds for like 3 minutes, I swear!

He gets distracted. And excited. And lurches back.

I guess Weebles DO fall down. And ESPN Sports Center catches his eye while he's down there.