Category Archives: Baby

Give a Boy a Registry Gun…

We wanted Colt to feel invested in the process of preparing for our new baby, so we brought him with us to register for a few necessary items.

We didn’t expect him to hijack the scanner for the entirety of the process, but I should have guessed.

A “gun” that shoots a “laser beam?”

And anything you scan magically arrives at your house via UPS, and you don’t have to pay for it?

Yes, please.

We gave in and let him scan whatever he wanted.

Todd and I didn’t realize the next hour would be the most heartwarming 60 minutes of our parental lives to date.

Scanner in hand, Colt skipped from aisle to aisle.

He explained why baby Libby needed a pair of [hideous] cat leggings to keep her legs warm, and five pair of baby UGGs for her little feet [um, we live in Florida].

“Mommy, Libby needs these sparkly shoes, too. Girls LOVE sparkly shoes!”

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These shoes were worth the reach.

He picked out jammies and socks and hair bows, and a fur vest?

And diapers and bottles and sippy cups and pacifiers and….Legos and Avengers and Teenage Mutant Ninja….

Wait a minute.

We corralled him back to the baby section and convinced him to help us select a rocker.

He tried each one, judging the level of softness as compared to his blanky.

He eventually settled into a grey velour-ish glider, most closely resembling a J-Lo jumpsuit, deeming it the softest one of all.

His eyes glazed over – he would spend the night there if we let him.

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Somebody bring him a Shirley Temple on the rocks!

So we scooped him up and disarmed him. He’d done enough shooting for one night.

I’ll have to delete 90 percent of what he chose, but who cares.

It was worth it to see the delight in his eyes.

The love in his heart for a sister who isn’t here yet.

I hope when she’s crying, and pooping, and eating his Legos, he remembers how much he wanted her legs to be warm and her feet to be sparkly. 

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When Life Gives You Lemons

Pregnancy makes you want some weird sh$t real bad.

It started with lemonade.

But that was just a gateway craving.

Then I experimented for a while with straight lemon extract. (There’s an extensive collection of empty plastic fruit under my kitchen sink.)

Now I’m eating WHOLE lemons – everything but the peel. Sometimes more than one a day.

I’ve tried to keep my addiction a secret, but the other day Todd walked in on me methodically slicing my snack.

Hovering over one of Colt’s plastic plates,  mouth watering with anticipation.

Soon I’ll have mouth sores and acidic teeth, but I sure won’t have scurvy!

Instead of judging me, Todd has been my biggest enabler. Er, supporter.

Tonight, he bought me a BAG of lemons.

Sweet Jesus. I’ve never been so excited to see tropical fruit in my life.

Forget flowers. THIS is true love.

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For Christmas, a Wee Wee for Mommy.

Colt is fascinated by the fact that I don’t stand up to pee.

Those of you who don’t have kids are probably thinking, “EW. Why are you letting your son watch you go to the bathroom?”

First of all, to potty train your child, you have to SHOW him how to do it, so there’s that…

But even when the training is over, I can’t just lock myself in the bathroom and let my kid run free?!!!!

Do you know how long it would take him to burn down the house?

Like 3.5 seconds.

So I have to leave the door open, prying my head around the corner to watch him WHILE trying to keep my pee in the pot. It’s practically an olympic sport.

When Todd is home, sometimes I lock myself in the bathroom –  for 5 minutes of peace.

But 10…9…8…BANG BANG BANG!!!! “Mommmmmmmmmmmmmy!!!!!”

Wait for it….

A tiny little hand curls up underneath the door. Like the paw of a kitten reaching, clawing, scratching…

“Alright already!!!!!” I say. Opening the door with one hand, pulling up my pants with the other.

Colt has asked me on numerous occasions, “Mommy, why don’t you stand up to go pee pee, like me?”

“Because I don’t have a wee wee, Colt. So I have to sit down.”

“Well, how do you go pee pee, if you don’t have a wee wee?”

My go-to answer is usually “I just do.”  And then I tell him how special he is because HE HAS a wee wee. (Because I just don’t want to get into the whole anatomy thing, ya know? I cringe with the pediatrician says “penis” in front of me for God’s sake.)

I prefer something more G-rated like “wee wee” or “pee pee” or “Henry.”

Todd’s NaNa calls it “Werny.” Which I also kind of like.

One day Colt announced that he’d figured out how I do it.

“With your booty, Mom. You go pee pee with your booty.”

He’d figured out The Great Mystery.

I could see that he was pleased with himself, but he was still bothered…

The next day my dad came over to watch Colt.

“Pop,” Colt said. “Did you know that Mommy goes pee pee with her booty?”

I can only imagine the look on my father’s face. An award-winning plant breeder. A leader in higher education. A Professor Emeritus of genetics.

Confronted with the Birds and the Bees on a most primitive level, by a 3-year-old.

“And I’ve been thinking,” Colt continued with great certainty.

“That we should really get Mommy a wee wee for Christmas.”

The adorable thing about this story is that he was, and still is, so deeply concerned that I am MISSING this important part.

How have I lived ALL THESE YEARS without this magnificant thing?

And to be honest, sometimes I do wish I had a werny.

I’d certainly get paid a little more. I’d probably still have abs. No man would ask me to refill his sweet tea…

And so maybe I’ll issue a Christmas prayer on behalf of the both of us…

Dear God/Santa (when you get right down to it, aren’t they really the same guy?),

Grant me the serenity to accept my body as it is. Be it without a werny.

And help my precious little tyke accept me as I am too, Lord. And distract him from these impure thoughts with a cartoon or superhero (just please not with the mutant turtles, Lord, as we are really sick of them…)

And should my son bring forth his penile request during chapel time at preschool this week, Lord, please help me find the words to say to Miss Sharon when she calls me for a parent/teacher conference.

Help me not to laugh at her, Lord.

Amen.

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I Want My Son to Talk to Strangers

My husband Todd is a stay-at-home dad for the next five weeks until school starts again for him in the fall.

In his time off, he’s been coaching Colt.

Fine tuning important life skills like fist-pounding, vacuum-wand-sword fighting and nose-picking “cheese boogies.”

Every night, I come home from work to de-program Colt from everything he’s learned that day.

But a few nights ago, when I was tucking Colt into bed, he whispered to me in his drunken-state-of-sleepiness…”Mommy, we don’t talk to strangers.”

Hmmmmm. Someone’s been talking to him about strangers.

Admittedly, I was relieved to know that daddy was taking charge of this subject.

I had been avoiding it.

I know there are cruel people in this world.

People that prey on sweet smiles and good natures and tiny limbs.

But most of the time I choose to live in denial.

If I accepted what I know to be true – that one out of five of us would murder our neighbor if we knew we’d never get caught (I really read this somewhere!!!) – than I would never get out of bed in the morning.

I also haven’t had the “we don’t talk to strangers” talk with Colt, because I want him to talk to strangers.

No one wants to have the kid who stares blankly in the face of the nice lady who asks, “and what’s YOUR name pumpkin?”

Blink. Blink.

Ugh.

I prefer to have the child who smiles and says, “My name is Colt Kellman Bedford. I have a hammer. Would you like to see my monkey wrench?”

I know I should be more cautious, but I also don’t want to instill a sense of fear in him – that every time an old man smiles at him, he should go running.

I have LOST SLEEP over this damn subject.

How do you teach your child to talk to some strangers but not others. To feel comfortable getting in the van with your girl friend when she’s on carpool duty, but not in the Monte Carlo with the lady with the meth-teeth?

And then, at Ikea last weekend I realized something amazing…

We were standing in line for the $0.99 breakfast (amaze-balls) and without warning, a woman snuck up behind us and poked Colt.

She vas Svedish.

(Side note: What are Swedish people doing hanging out at Ikea? Don’t you want to eat something OTHER than meatballs and lingonberries when you’re on vaca? Go get a grouper sandwich for God’s sake!!!!!)

By the smell of her breath, this woman had a few too many Svedish Mules the night before. She swayed over us. Oogling over Colt.

Before I could fully assess the situation at hand, Colt was hiding under my skirt, clinging to my thigh.

He took one look at that looney lady and knew.

Some kind of warning signal had gone off in his 2-year-old mind like… HOLY SHIT. THIS LADY IS CRAZY. MOMMY SAVE ME NOW.

And so I smiled politely at the lady, scooped him up in my arms and moved our trays toward the french toast sticks. With haste.

I was so proud of him.

I’m not saying it’s not important to teach your kids the whole “DON’T TALK TO STRANGERS” thing, but I take comfort in knowing that Colt can decipher sane from crazy at such a young age.

Now… had the lady offered him a new wrench and a sugar cookie? I don’t know what would have happened.

I’ll let daddy handle that one.Image

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The Most Impractical Baby Shower Gift

Isn't she the cutest!

Isn’t she the cutest!

If you’ve had a baby, you know that baby shoes are totally impractical.

Shoes can change your life.

Shoes can change your life.

Babies kick them off, fuss when you try to wrestle them back on and outgrow them too quickly.

They are a total pain in the ass.

But they are soooooooooo cute.

So when I found a plaque that read: “Cinderella is proof that shoes can change your life.”

Ugh, I died.

I couldn’t resist buying my friend Anni a basket full of adorable (albeit useless) baby shoes!

I love shrink-wrap!

I love shrink-wrap!

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Middle of the Night Madness

It’s 2-o-clock in the morning.

I “went to bed” at 10:30, but I’ve already gotten up twice to pee. And once to check that the oven is off. And once to make sure the front door is locked.

I’ve jussssssst started really sleeping…like rapid eye movement sleeping…like dreaming about Channing Tatum’s nether-regions sleeping…

When I hear it.

The blood-curdling scream of my toddler from the other room.

I cling to Channing’s biceps…but the screaming gets louder…

Reality Hits.

I fly out of bed and head toward Colt’s room.

In the 2 seconds it takes for me to run across the house, my brain spins through the rolodex of worst-case-scenarios.

Barf on the ceiling? Poop on the wall? A spider in the bed?

In the real world, a person would wear a HAZMAT suit, but I forge ahead in my panties and paper-thin nighty.

Like a boss.

I find Colt standing up in his bed, crying. His precious little arms outstretched.

“I want Daddy to sweep with me!” he wails. “I’m scared. I want Daddy to sweep with me!!!”

(I want Daddy to sweep with me too. And vacuum with me. And scrub the toilets with me….)

Between sobs, I make out something about The Hungry Caterpillar eating Princess Sofia’s magical amulet.

Thanks a lot Eric Carle.

I scoop him up, wipe his tears and carry him into our bed.

I don’t know why, after almost three years, I haven’t learned….

The fantasy of snuggling with my baby – is just that.

And so begins the cacophony of heavy breathing and karate kicks.

Between Colt and Todd, it’s a Drumline battle royale – a showdown of Timpani and “Snore.”

And I’m still awake.

No longer hanging on to Channing’s bicep, rather on to the small corner of the mattress that is left for me.

A wee piece of sheet covering one butt cheek.

I’m frustrated and freezing, but strangely…I wouldn’t give up any of this.

Sure, I miss good-night-sleeps, and bladder control, and not being PSYCHO about ovens and locks… but I love my chaotic little family more than I miss those things.

So I’ll just enjoy the 120 minutes I have left before my alarm goes off.

If the hungry caterpillar doesn’t wake me up first…

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Poopy Pants in the Bouncy House

When I had Colt, my nose evolved into a super pooper sniffer.

A finely tuned machine capable of distinguishing between BMs of all kinds. Healthy. Solid. Runny. Viral.

Like a German Shepard to a bag of coke.

My mom has the same skill, as did her mother before her, and her mother before her.

We come from a long line of Poop Snoops.

Today we took Colt to JumpZone – Bounce House Emporium.

Let’s talk about the GENIUS who thought of this place.

It’s literally a warehouse in the back of an office park. Chock full of inflatables…and lawn chairs for the parents.

Todd and I were considering booking Colt’s birthday party there, but I wanted to check it out in-person to make sure it wasn’t run by pedophiles.

To my relief, we were greeted by a bunch of college-aged girls in camp shirts and khaki shorts (a little eye candy for the daddys.)

Climbing up for the 10,000th time!

Climbing up for the 10,000th time!

Colt’s eyes widened, and he was off and running!

Climbing, sliding, bouncing….expending more kilojoules of energy than Gene Simmons at a KISS Concert.

There was a nap in our future, guaranteed.

As I was daydreaming about all the things I would do in those three hours…

I smelled it.

I tried to slough it off, but the odor got stronger. Todd walked over and twisted his nose up at me.

Even he agreed. Somebody had pooped his pants.

But who?

We scanned the room…

Somewhere a little train was chugging into funky town, and I was going to spot it.

The other parents sat in their lawn chairs, unaware.

I could literally taste it in the air. HOW DID NO ONE ELSE SMELL THIS?

Maybe these were the same parents at Maggiano’s who apparently couldn’t hear their children screaming bloody murder right next to them.

And down for the 10,000th time!

And down for the 10,000th time!

Maybe their senses had shut down altogether?

Then I saw him.

His barely-mobile-little-butt waddled around in an odiferous fog.

Cute little booger.

Oblivious to his affliction, he looked up at me and giggled. Where were his parents?

Maybe his mother dropped him off to go get a facial.

We shuffled Colt to the other side of the Zone for some fresh air.

A few minutes later I saw Poopy’s mom come out of one of the birthday party rooms and scoop him up.

Oh good, surely she’ll notice….

But she didn’t notice. SHE. DIDN’T. NOTICE.

I was actually going to suggest to Todd that we become franchise owners.

At $9 a head, this cash cow is making somebody a lot of moo-la.

But I spend enough of my personal life dealing with poop. I don’t want to have to worry about it at work too.

So I guess JumpZone is out of the question for us.

But we may still have Colt’s birthday party there in a couple of months.

If you get an invite, please bring extra diapers. Poop snoop will be in the house.

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Little Pool House of Horrors

Why is it that I always have to pee more often when I’m wearing a one-piece bathing suit?

Probably because it’s sucking in my fat so forcefully that my bladder cannot store even one 12 oz. poolside beverage for any length of time.

I know everyone else is just peeing in the water.

That dad in the Deep End, with the red solo cup, has been sitting in his inner tube for 3 hours.

I don’t know whether it’s moral opposition – or the fact that I still believe there’s purple pee-dye in the pool, but I just can’t do it.

So I waddle into the restroom like a wet Beluga – trying not to think about the grey mystery slop on the floor.

I writhe my body out of it’s sausage casing and sit down on the toilet completely naked – freezing.

Praying the snot-nosed boys outside don’t figure out the door code and walk in on me.

Wouldn’t want to traumatize the children.

Like the time I accidentally saw my grandmother naked at the beach.

Holy shit.

In my 8-year-old mind, her breasts were enormous…and flat…and long. Like two deflated whoopy cushions smashed against her body. She must have been 100 years old…

She was probably 57 with a great body.

After my 5 minutes of peace, I stand up and….

Oh God.

I can’t get my bathing suit back on. I mean…I REALLY cannot get this bitch back on my body.

Meanwhile the kids outside are tugging on the door handle. Giggling.

I pull. And pull. And nothing. I cannot even get it over my ass cheeks.

Panic sets in.

I have no cell phone. No way to call the outside world for help. Who would I even call?

My husband is the only one with the kindness AND the physical aptitude to handle the job.

I’ve seen him fit a large pizza box in an already-full ForceFlex Trash Bag.

Hmm…how long will it take before he comes to rescue me on his own?

Probably hours.

He’s most likely thrilled to have 10 nag-free-minutes without me.

I could be in here for days.

I decide to calm down and move slowly.

Centimeter by centimeter, I inch the suit up over my body. Over the butt… Now over the belly… I shove my boobs inside and…

The lights go out.

Oh my God. I must’ve been in here so long the timer went off.

I flail my arms around to set off the sensor, but I’m disoriented.

I feel for the wall. I would take off my sunglasses, but they’re prescription, and I’m legally blind, so that could only make matters worse.

What seems like hours later… I find the door handle.

Freedom.

I shield my eyes from the sun.

I’ve just escaped The Hole, and no one on the outside seems to care.

I think to myself…the next time I have to use the restroom (which will be in like 15 minutes) I am DEFINITELY going to bring Colt’s flashlight and his toy pliers…

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For Ships and Giggles

Colt has this adorable little friend, Landon, and today was his 4th birthday party.

The party was pirate-themed, so I expected the usual plastic flags, metallic beads, head scarfs.

And sure, there was all that…

Oh, and A LIFE-SIZE-WOODEN-CUSTOM-MADE-PIRATE SHIP [insert choir of angels].

It's like Noah's Ark

It’s like Noah’s Ark

Um.

Do you know what we had at Colt’s pirate birthday party?

Eye patches.

I’ll admit it. I was jealous.

Landon’s daddy, mommy and father-in-law built this in just a few weeks.

Yep, they just WHIPPED out a pirate ship.

Oh, and let me also mention that adorable Landon’s mommy (who is equally as adorable) is eight. months. pregnant.

What was I doing at 8 months pregnant?

Oh, sitting on my ass, that’s right.

I’ve decided that I am lame. And that I really need to dig deep for Colt’s next party.

Like, I just need to pull up my princess panties and build…The Magic Kingdom!

I’m not sure exactly where I’ll build it – since we live in an apartment?

On second thought, maybe we’ll just rent out Landon’s pirate ship, and call it a day.

Thanks Anni, James and Landon for inviting us to your awesome pirate party!!

This ship has more square-footage than my living room

This ship has more square-footage than my living room

Entrance of the vessel

Entrance of the vessel

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How to Spice Up Your Marriage While Watching TV With Your Kids

If you have kids at home, you likely spend a good portion of your day watching TV.

And thus likely spend a good portion of your day feeling like you live in an insane asylum.

The high-pitched voices.

The squeals of laughter. The over-exaggerated disappointment.

“Oh noooo, Alpha-Pig is toooo scared to go down the slide. What arrrrrrrre we going to do?”

Blugh.

And for whatever reason, kids like to watch the SAME episodes, and movies, over. And over. And over.

And over.

Todd and I can quote, word-for-word, Wreck-it Ralph, Toy Story, The Incredibles, Cars and Ratatouille… in their entirety.

I was complaining to a friend about this, and she gave me the BEST advice ever.

Use this valuable time… to spice up your marriage.

The next time you and your husband are forced to watch Shrek with your kids…sit very close to each other on the couch…

And whisper…

You: “Do you think Shrek’s a virgin?”

Sexy ogres...

Sexy ogres…

Your Husband: “No way. He gets all that swamp tail.”

You: “Maybe I could come visit you in the swamp later?”

Your Husband: “We could get down… like ogres….if my ass doesn’t get in the way.”

Basically you just pornify whatever you’re watching.

It will make you look at the “magic kingdom” in a whole new light.

Your Husband: “Hey baby…when [insert your kid’s name] goes down for a nap, I’m gonna tell your “toy” a “story.”

You: “Oh! Is that you….Woody?

I’m Buzz-eta…Buzz-eta Lightyear (if that’s not the perfect stripper name, I don’t know what it is)… And I’ll take you… to infinity….and beyond.”

You do this out of ear-shot of the kids of course (otherwise you’ll need to refer to this post, and it could get ugly.)

Plus, the secrecy will make it all the more sexy!!

When’s the last time you and your husband whispered to each other? It was probably at church – reminding each other to silence your cell phones. And chances are, it wasn’t hot…

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The next time you’re watching Doc McStuffins for the 10,000th time…just have your husband give YOU a check up after.

Tell him he’s “Mr. Incredible” and show him your Elasti-girl moves…

In the words of Tow-Mater…just have fun, and…

Git-R-Done.

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