C is a passing grade, right?

Sometimes I'm a good parent. Sometimes I'm a bad parent. Most the time I land somewhere in the middle at "okay parent."

Like yesterday. I thought, "Ivy needs to learn colors." The good mom in me decided," I'll make laminated flash cards with drawings of familiar objects in corresponding colors." The bad mom in me said, "Ha. You fool. That's never going to happen." So the okay mom in me purchased a color-learning ninety-nine cent app on the iPad. Could I do better? Yes. Could I do worse? Yes. 

Earlier this week temperatures rose above 60 degrees and the entire town acted like they'd never seen the sun. So many, too many, white legs in shorts. I too came down with Spring Fever and thought, "I should take my dear, sweet child outside to ride her tricycle." But then the bad mom in me was like, "Ugh. I'd have to carry the trike down one flight of stairs." The okay mom in me waited for Stephen to return home from school, handed him the miniature bike and said, "We're going for a ride." We've been married for a while now, so Stephen knew my statement actually meant, "You'll be doing the actual parenting while I fill up an entire memory card and any remaining phone storage with photos." Maybe it was still a bad mom move, but these lines are not finite, and sometimes success just means falling above Call Social Services on the spectrum. Besides, who else was going to take seven thousand photos?

Luckily, Stephen is a good dad, always. 

This last photo is inexplicably sepia-toned. I'm registered for a photoshop class in June. Once I become a PS Wizard, the internet will no longer have to endure my hack-editing jobs.

Just an obnoxious mom post

I think Ivy is destined for a managerial career. Earlier she pulled out her coloring book, handed me a crayon, then pointed on the page where I was to color. Why do yourself what you can instruct someone to do for you, right?

Or perhaps work in the field of veterinary science. Today she asked the dog, "Ollie, what are you doing?" Then she berated him for napping. "Ollie! NO!" she said while pointing her finger sternly.

Maybe she'll be an actor. I asked her if she needed a new diaper and she started to say "yes," then remembered that she hates diaper changes, and quickly changed her answer to "no." It would have been convincing had she not made that earlier slip.

And let's hope that she continues to develop her already impressive musical abilities. Such rhythm. Such vocal talent.

Ivy Lou Turned 2

Well, it happened.

My baby became a kid.

Stephen's parents flew in for the birthday weekend and we started celebrations with some pancakes. It quickly became apparent that Ivy does not like fire.

But she does like presents. As she sat down to open her gifts she said, "Okay! Here I go!" which is her longest string of words ever. She was either really good at faking enthusiasm or genuinely excited about everything she received, including the socks that I purchased to make my Gap.com order total eligible for free shipping.

We spent the afternoon at the zoo, cause, you know, it was a day that ends in "y". We're at the zoo all. The. Time. As we pulled into the parking lot Ivy said, "Monkey, lion, quack quack," quack quack referring to the geese and peacocks that roam the grounds. Ivy chased a peacock for a good ten minutes, and we fed half a bag of popcorn to the geese. We also saw a baby leopard, performing sea lions, and zip-lining monkeys. Mary and Phil (the Walter parents) took Ivy for a ride on the carousel, a real birthday miracle, and I have one million pictures of their blurry faces on the back of a ceramic cheetah, like so:

It was a short visit for Mary and Phil who flew home that evening, and Stephen, Ivy and I spent the rest of the night watching Brave and eating popcorn.

The next day, her actual birthday, we had my aunt, uncle and cousins over for dinner and cake. They have kept us alive and nourished these past two and a half years with Sunday dinners at their house, and we decided it was finally time to return the favor so they joined us in our shoebox apartment. But because I am apparently incapable of photographing anything or anyone beyond my child, I have no proof that guests were actually in attendance.

Anyway. Here's the cake. It's a frog. My vision of what I wanted the cake to be was a lot less sloppy, but my vision didn't account for my lack of piping bags and tips. 

Still afraid of the candle flames, this is as close as she would get.

Two years ago, when I was waiting for Ivy's arrival, I'd take long walks around the neighborhood to try and jolt my body into labor. Everyday I listened to "She's a Rainbow" and everyday I grew more excited (read: unbelievably anxious, irritable, and impatient) to meet my baby girl. When she finally did make her appearance, she did not disappoint. 

I can't believe it's been two years. I can't believe this sweet kid is mine.

Dear Beyonce

Hey Bey,
How are things?
Things are good here. We're out of toilet paper so I'll have to go to Target later, but other than that, no complaints.

So. Girl. Listen.
I heard about your album debut. Congratulations! That must have taken a ton of work. And to not tell anyone about it? Super impressive.

The thing is though, I kind of feel like I've been ripped off with one song in particular.

Exhibit A:

A duet. With your daughter. Your daughter named Ivy.

This is clearly a blatant copy of the single I released last fall:

It got 40 hearts on Instagram, so there's no way you didn't hear about it.

I'm sure there's some way we can settle this without a lawsuit. Maybe you can send me royalties?
I'll be in touch.

Love,
Meg

Meck, irishus, and accidental obscenities.

We're rounding the corner on Ivy's second birthday and she has the vocab to prove it, though it takes a fair amount of listening and concentration to determine what it is she's trying to say.

Ivy calls me by my first name, or her version of my first name: Meck. "Meck!" she yells first thing in the morning. "Meck?" she implores while knocking on the bathroom door.

She learned to say "no way", and then decided that "way" belongs at the end of lots of words. Bottles are now called bottle-ways, water is water-way, and popcorn is cockaway.

"Cookie" is a favorite word.

A particularly tasty meal is declared "irishus" (delicious), and she'll say "yum" as she force-feeds her parents goldfish.

Her pronunciation of both "Frog" and "Fork" are extremely profane, as is the way she says "sit."

But some words she's mastered. She still says, "Bye! See you!" but now with so much bravado you would think she was yelling it from the upper deck of a luxury ocean liner to the bon-voyagers on the dock below.

She says "NICE!" every time she throws a ball, and "BUBBLES!" every time she hears bath water running. She can count to ten, but usually counts to 5 and then adds some letters.

Her favorite word by far is Ollie, and she spends all day lecturing the dog, sometimes ending her thoughts with "Amen."

I'll close with a direct quote: "I see Doggie! Woof! Meow?"

It's her party, so...

This morning Ivy cried and handed back the fresh bottle I had just presented her. It was the wrong temperature.
Ivy cried when I changed her diaper.
Ivy cried when I changed her clothes.
Ivy cried when she pressed the home button on the ipad and unintentionally exited her Elmo app.
Ivy cried when I threw away the crumbled oatmeal cookie she left on the bed.
Ivy cried when I gave her a small piece of  nectarine to try.
Ivy cried when she dropped the nectarine on the ground.
Ivy cried when I gave her a new slice of nectarine.
Ivy cried because she liked the nectarine and wanted more.
Ivy cried when  I  took away the plate of nectarine chunks after she had stopped eating and started throwing.
Ivy stopped crying for a minute when she caught her reflection in the mirror.
Ivy started crying again when I wouldn't let her have my Diet Coke with a straw.
Ivy cried when I put a straw in her sippy cup.
Ivy cried after she removed the straw from the sippy cup and insisted that I put it back in.
Ivy cried after she removed the straw from the sippy cup and insisted that I put it back in.
Ivy cried after she removed the straw from the sippy cup and insisted that I put it back in.
Ivy cried after she removed the straw from the sippy cup and insisted that I put it back in.
Ivy cried after she removed the straw from the sippy cup and insisted that I put it back in.
Ivy cried after she drank all the water from the sippy cup.
Ivy cried when I changed her diaper again.
Ivy cried when I wouldn't let her close my laptop.
Ivy cried when I opened my laptop she somehow successfully closed.
Ivy cried when I put her down for a nap.
Ivy's asleep now.
I'm bored.

A post about actual life

As far as weeks go, this past one was pretty solid.
Have I mentioned that DC in the summer is normally hotter than the very bowels of Hell? Well the Devil must have taken leave because we here in The District as the locals seem to call it, have been experiencing some perfectly lovely weather.
So on Thursday when  Stephen gchatted "Want to drop everything and go to the Nats game right now?" I gave an enthusiastic yes and fifteen minutes later we were in the car. Turns out Stephen's company has tickets for every Nats game. No one claimed them for this particular game, so to the lowly intern they went. We were surprised first of all to find that our tickets included parking in an actual lot, for free. We were surprised further still to find that our seats were not the nosebleeds we expected, but instead in the Diamond Club, just a few rows from the field. AND I GOT FREE NACHOS. FREE. NACHOS. Plus Diet Coke, obviously.

True fans are willing to give up nap time to attend a game

We walked away from that afternoon deciding that selling out is worth it if it means more baseball games like that. Then, what better way to follow up a great game (and it was great watching Harper hit the final, winning run in the bottom of the  ninth), than to go to another game?

"Your seats are four rows from the top," said the mean usher. 

This time at Camden Yards to watch the Orioles play the Red Sox. I was torn. I come from a long line of Red Sox fanatics, but it's hard to cheer for a team that lost so atrociously as they did. I took comfort in good company and some waffle fries with crab dip. And Diet Coke, obviously. 

Sitting in front of us were some youths, probably 18 or 19. A song I'd never heard played, and they knew every step to a dance I'd never seen. They asked how many children we had, assuming Ivy was the youngest of many. When the game ended, one of the girls asked me, "Ma'am,  can you take our picture?" Ma'am. So I guess I'm a ma'am now. 

Also, Stephen got new glasses,

"Smile. No, smile like a human. That's not a smile. Fine. Whatever."

and Ivy turned 18 months. 

She celebrated with a directorial debut

I apologize if you've seen these photos/video already on Instagram. I accept your apology if you don't follow me on Instagram. 

Hantavirus has a mortality rate of 38%

It's been a MORNING so far.

It started when Stephen sent me this insightful article about the effectiveness of wind as a mosquito deterrent. I immediately carried our box fan outside to try and clear our stairwell of the ugly bug ball that's hopping 24/7, and I didn't think anything of it when the door slammed shut. But as I searched for somewhere to plug in the fan cord, I realized the lock was set to automatic and I was unable to get back inside. Ivy sat at the kitchen table, happily eating her breakfast, and when I peered through the window, she waved. I should mention that Ivy and I never really switched over from Colorado time. So while the rest of the world wakes up at 8:00, we roll out of bed around 10. At this point it was 11:00 and I was standing outside on a fairly populated street in North East DC, wearing my pink polka dot pajamas, waving like a maniac at a toddler through a window. Thanks to the kindness of a neighbor, I got back inside and was relieved to find Ivy still sitting happily at the kitchen table. The relief was premature.

We're out of dishwasher detergent. There were a few squirts left in the bottle, so I supplemented with some dish soap. Do you know what happens when you put dish soap in the dishwasher? Of course you do. You're a responsible, educated adult with the right amount of common sense. I, apparently, am not, and was horrified to find suds creeping nearly halfway across the kitchen floor. Still in my pajamas, I grabbed every towel available and kept the bubbles at bay. Crisis number two averted.

But then I went to the bathroom. When I came out, I found Ivy standing in the kitchen with a massive grin on her face. "Meow," she said. Then I noticed what she held in her hand. A tail. A tail connected to a mouse corpse. The next sixty seconds went something like this:

Me, screaming: IVY PUT IT DOWN
Ivy, smiling: Meow
Me, shaking my hands in terror: IVY PUT IT DOWN
Ivy, smiling, walking toward me: Meow
Me, Jumping up and down with panic: IVY PUT IT DOWN
Ivy, laughing: Meow

Then, finally, she put it down.

Half a tube of hand sanitizer, a scalding bath, and a thorough vacuuming of the apartment later, I spent a solid hour, still in my pajamas, researching rodent-carried disease online.  

I think I've got things under control now. I occasionally mop up the soapy mess under the dishwasher, I've sprayed a healthy dose of RAID outside the our apartment entrance, I've checked every corner for mouse droppings, and I finally showered. But it's only 2pm. I dread discovering what surprises the rest of the day holds.

puppy, baby, tomaeto, tomahto

My child thinks she's a dog.
Whenever Ollie growls, Ivy growls right back, and now she's started growling at every dog she sees.
She tries to get to the dog food any time she's on the floor.
She's gotten in trouble more than once for chewing on shoes.
If I'm not paying close enough attention, she'll nibble on a cracker, let Ollie have a few licks, then nibble on it again. I've learned to pay closer attention.
Last night for the first time in a long time, Ivy refused to sleep and screamed for what felt like an hour. After trying everything I could think of, I laid her down next to Ollie and she immediately stopped crying and fell asleep.

I just took the computer cord away from her and she growled at me.

Happy Weekend

First, shout out to to Megan Geilman for designing my new header. It's great right? RIGHT?

Second, in case you thought I was kidding about Ivy's love for growling and electronic devices, behold:

Cause you can't, you won't and you don't stop

8 months!

Miss Ivy Lou works tirelessly to find anything that runs on electricity or is covered in dog slobber. We spend a good part of our days preventing her from putting these things in her mouth.

She growls whenever we growl at her and at Ollie all the time. She squeals with delight when she sees someone she knows, yells at the tv and laughs at herself after sneezing.  

Ivy loves grapes, shredded chicken and rice. She's not such a fan of enchilada sauce or choocolate ice cream



She finally fits into six month size clothing and will keep shoes on her feet for more than three seconds.

The other day she crawled out of my lap and Stephen said, "You know that's a metaphor  for our future, right?"Every day she becomes more of her own person, roaming all over the apartment, entertaining herself, laughing at who knows what, becoming decreasingly dependent on me. For all her new independence, I forget that she's still just a little baby. But yesterday she was playing in the living room while I was working on a project. Everything seemed fine until Ivy suddenly screamed. Not a tired whine or a hungry scowl, but a terrified scream. I ran and picked her up. She burried her face in my shoulder and sniffled, letting me hold her without resistance like she was just weeks old again. I don't know what happened and I hope whatever it was never hurts her again, but I was thankful for the five minute reminder that my baby still needs her mom.

Just some pictures of a baby in a hat

I wish I was a little bit taller. I wish I was a baller.

Ollie and I are training for a half marathon. Ollie is better at it than I am, probably because he has twice the number of legs. Today is a rest day, and while I was savoring the extra hour of sleep this morning, Ollie sat at the foot of the bed and growled. He looked at my running shoes. Looked at me. Back to the shoes. I don't know where he finds the drive.

Speaking of small animals, turns out having a mobile baby makes life about 147 times more complicated. It's unbelievable how quickly Ivy can scoot from one side of the room to the other. Is she interested in her stuffed animals and teething toys that we've strategically placed around the living room? No. Is she interested in the ethernet cable, blinds and the fireplace? Yes.

Speaking of strategy failure, Stephen taught me how to play chess and we've played every night for over a week now. I have yet to win. Suddenly my skills in Scrabble and Monopoly seem silly. I'm playing with, and losing to, the big boys now.

If you woke up this morning and said to yourself, "I really hope that today Meg blogs about three unrelated topics and feebly attempts to tie them together but ultimately fails," dreams do come true!

one of the beautiful people

In his infamous article "Why Women Aren't Funny," Cristopher Hitchens wrote, "Is there anything so utterly lacking in humor as a mother discussing her new child? She is unboreable on the subject."
Sorry, Chris, and those who may agree with the above statement, but Ivy is seven months today and I can't wait to gush. Deal with it.

Ivy is on her third outfit today. Between the baby food, the cheerios and her new found love for scooting across on the floor, clothes don't stand a chance. Neither does her face or hair, for that matter. I guess it's time to increase the weekly bath quota, even though baths are Ivy's most hated activity. Right now Ivy is on her tummy, trying to grab my computer. She occasionally rests her head on the floor and makes a singsongy noise then looks at me and giggles. She knows I think she's adorable and hilarious. She'll briefly hoist herself up on her knees, trying to get some crawling momentum. She sits by herself for a minute or two before reaching for a toy and toppling over. 

Ivy and Ollie have a healthy symbiotic relationship wherein one party drops cheerios and the other eats them. Although jealous of the attention Ivy constantly receives, Ollie seems to recognize that she has some sort of value.He shows this by giving her feet lots of kisses. Or he could be licking off the cheerio residue. Hard to say.

Ivy loves talking to people and listening to people talk. She babbles at strangers and laughs every time I answer the phone. She flashes her big, gummy smile at everybody and grins at the camera. She tries to put everything in her mouth, including my toes. She is always moving around, grabbing, and observing whatever environment she's in. Her two bottom teeth are very visible and are growing in a way that suggests there will be many orthodontist visits in our future. Her hair seems to multiply every day and she's still skinny though her cheek's are wider than the length of her head. 

It's hard to believe it's been seven months. It's even harder to believe our tiny, twitchy, sleepy newborn has transformed into a nearly crawling, constantly exploring, sweetly charming little human. 

Apollo, appollo

"She's a calendar baby fo sho!" said the man in the star-shaped sunglasses selling water on Constitution Avenue.

I don't know what a calendar baby is. Does it mean Ivy was born during the calendar year? That's accurate. She was. Does it mean she belongs on a calendar? That would suggest Ivy resembles a puppy or a fireman. While both are adorable in their own right, neither seems a fitting or flattering description of my infant daughter. Does it mean water-selling dude was nuttier than pistachios? Probably.

I did google "baby calendar" and found this:

I think that's a buffalo skull on the third Friday. So that's fun.

e'erybody love me

Reader. this will probably come as a huge shock, but I'm not a great dancer. And by not a great dancer, I mean I'm a really terrible dancer. But the great thing about babies is that they don't have much to compare your talent to. I'm the best dancer Ivy's ever seen because I'm the only dancer Ivy's ever seen. This morning I figured I would take advantage of her ignorance and show off my best moves. There was shaking. There was twirling. There was roof raising. I finished my routine and awaited applause. All I got was Ivy's confused, terrified stare, the same look she gave me when I tried to feed her prunes. It still beats Ollie's usual reaction which is to totally lose his cool and try biting my feet off every time I make any sort of gesture that might possibly resemble a dance move. I'm not making that up. Nothing makes Ollie madder than me dancing. Sometimes we call him The Old People in Foot Loose (one word or two?).

But here's her number

6 months.
I know right? How can Ivy be that old already? I'm just as shocked as you.
In the past month Ivy celebrated her first Fourth of July, took her first plane ride, and tasted her first french fry.
She decided that Ollie is hilarious, banana baby food is delicious, peas are grody, and baseball is too loud.
She rolls over like it's her job, spends most the day in her bumbo and is getting close to sitting on her own.
She finally has chubby thighs and cheeks that are no match against gravity
She puts everything in her mouth. The shower curtain, paper towels, my phone, my hair, Stephen's glasses, her stroller straps, books and the mail.
She loves watching the elevator floor number change and is fascinated by the exit sign in the hallway.
She glares at strangers unless they smile.
She bounces her feet if she likes a song, looks bored if she doesn't.
She has to be in just the right position before she'll fall asleep in her crib. It's usually a solid fifteen minutes of tossing and turning before she finds that perfect spot.
She'll fake being tired and then talk to herself while lying down. We all need alone time I guess.

Yesterday I had a few brutal working hours. Ivy sat patiently and played, then slept, then played some more. She occasionaly babbled, but never cried. When I finished the many tasks at hand, she seemed to recognize that I had a rough few hours, and turned on her baby charm. She cooed and giggled and reached for my face. It was just what I needed and for the millionth time I felt completely thrilled to have this tiny little person in my life.

And now, a million pictures:

Our Parents of the Year Award is in the mail

Dear Parents,
A baseball game? Really? You honestly thought it would be a good idea to wake me from a nap, take me outside in 150 degree weather with 3,000 percent humidity, and surround me with smelly people screaming like banshees for three hours? Way to think that one through, guys.
Also, it was super classy of you to change my diaper on your lap and give me a hot dog wrapper to play with. And speaking of hot dogs, I know you ate two, mom. Oink much?

GO NATS!

Love,
Ivy

Something on the internet unrelated to healthcare.

You're welcome.

And 5.

I'll start by explaining that Ivy is working on a couple of teeth and isn't in the greatest mood today. So when I tried to take some precious, smiley pictures, she gave me this.

And this.

And this.

Real cute, Ives.

Anyway, she's 5 months old today. And what a month this child has had. She deserves some sort of award or gift certificate or gold star for making it all the way across the county and three days in the car without ever losing her cool. I wish I could say the same for myself.

Ivy's visited all sorts of new and exciting places since we arrived in DC. She's mastered napping on the metro, napping at the zoo and napping at museums. She makes lots of friends on the street and in the elevator. Sometimes it's terrifying.

Ivy enjoys "singing." Loudly. In quiet places. It's a high pitched squeal that lasts longer than you'd think would  be possible.

She is constantly trying to sit up. She lifts her head and feet in the air, again longer than you'd think would be possible.

Today I set her on a blanket and looked away. I looked back five seconds later and she had rolled onto her tummy. It wasn't the first time she rolled over, but it was certainly the quickest.

She's ticklish. If you poke her tummy she gives you a series of bubbly giggles. It's ridiculously adorable.

She loves standing. She'll go from screaming to cooing just by being placed on her feet and held under the shoulders.

Lately she prefers Stephen. I'm okay with this. As long as her favorite person is one of her two parents and not some guy named Spike who drives a bullet bike, I'm cool.

I don't know her percentiles this month, but she's still really long and thin. We're hoping solids will fatten her up, if she ever decides to not hate solids, that is.

People keep warning us that Ivy will get more difficult as she gets older. I guess I'll have to see it to believe it because as far as I can tell she just gets better with age. Smarter, cuter, funnier.

And now Ivy would like to say something about her past 5 months:

Background squeaking courtesy of Sophie the Giraffe.