If you judge the merit of your days based on the number of yummies? consumed (which I often do),then Mom’s Day was a? resounding success around here.

Let’s see—there was the chocolate shake at Ruby’s for lunch (my favorite chocolate shake in the whole wide world), then a Cold Stone cheesecake and berry ice cream right after dinner (yum!), and finally, the peach cobbler and ice cream for the post-dessert dessert (hey, we had an early dinner and besides, the cobbler was “no sugar added”).

I suppose today I’d better cut back to my typical two yummies, lest I start looking pregnant again (not to mention wonder why my normally mild-mannered 7-month old is bouncing off the walls).

The rest of the day was good, too—I got to snooze a little extra after the first nursing session AND take a short nap!? Ah, the? small joys in life really are the best.

As a special bonus, my daughter was over the grumpies from having either hand, foot and mouth or roseola.? Just one of the plethora of fever with rash viruses we can expect my son to bring home from preschool, I’m sure.? Nothing like a baby with a few high fevers for a good night’s sleep, I always say.

Anyway, the doctor first diagnosed teething, then hand, foot and mouth, and then concurred that maybe it sounded like roseola.? Tell me again why I bothered to haul my daughter into? the office, pay $30 each time, and probably expose her to much worse cooties in the process?

At any rate, here’s a photo of her rash (which she presented me with on Mother’s Day—how sweet!)—note it’s on her trunk and back, not her hands or feet.? You be the judge.

Well, at the very least, I’m guessing I don’t need to worry too much about any weight loss during her virus.? Maybe we can both go for the pregnancy-look together.

One minute, you’re having a nice meal outside with your family.? The next, your 6-month old daughter has set a new secret password on daddy’s phone.? And she ain’t talkin’.

Don’t let this happen to you—-another good reason to Just Say No to infant cell phone usage.

Cheeky little sucker, isn’t she?

So, just when I was getting ready to return Fergie to her breeder, express mail no less? (yes, mom, I was going to let you know before the delivery man showed up on your front porch), she? had to go? and show me why I can’t quite muster up the desire to drop-kick her naughty tushy back to Colorado.

This feeling will probably last until such time as when she decides to make another collage out of the kitchen trash (yes, she can open cabinets, an-oh-so-special genetic trait handed down from her Grandmama, Shani) or track sand throughout my house (apparently, she thinks my son’s sandbox doubles as a hound sunbathing spa)—which will basically be twenty minutes, tops.? But I’ll enjoy it while I can.

Seriously, though—don’t let anyone ever tell you Ridgebacks aren’t good with kids.? And I suppose I’m stuck with the Ferganator, if Finley has anything to say about it.

Exhibit A:? ? Hey, look, mom, I’m a Ridgeback, too!

?

Exhibit B:? Hey Fergs—what’s shakin’?

Exhibit C:? ? ? ? Look, I got a hound dog leg!? Wonder if they’re yummy?

Exhibit D:? Forget the hound dog leg—-get a load of that ball!

Exhibit E:? ? I’m going in for the kill…..

Exhibit E:? ? ? Wow, this is oodles better than any teething toy my mom gives me…..Thanks for sharing, Fergie!

So, I guess instead of one of those highly sensationalized Dog Eats Baby news clips, we’ve got the slightly less sensational Baby Eats Dog Toy thing going on here.

Can I just say—yuk?

So, lately I’ve been wavering back and forth on when to introduce solids to my 6.5 month old baby.?

I realize it’s not rocket science, but decisions aren’t exactly my forte (okay, so? maybe that’s a bit of an understatement—sort of akin to saying pit bulls don’t like Michael Vick).? Hey, it’s tougher than it sounds.? On the one hand, Finley eyes our food with a ravenous expression? (at least in my imagination it’s a ravenous expression, but I’ve never been? especially skilled? at reading baby signs—I suppose it could also be her “I’m going to poop” or “Where did my foot go?” look), and she’s reaching for every morsel we eat.?

Of course, she’s also? grabbing for? grass, my hair (can you say, “ouch”?), and our dogs’ butts with equal excitement, so I’m not sure this behavior is as relevant as its cracked up to be.

On the other hand, once I introduce those solids, there goes that nice exclusive breastfeeding immune bubble we’ve got going on.? Hey, it might not sound like a big deal, but let me ask you this—do you enjoy grumpy, snotty-nosed, hacking-up-half-a-lung? babies?? Yeah, that’s what I thought.

And then, as I’m looking through a bunch of old photos of my son, I get my answer.?

Exhibits A, B and C:? ? Connor meets pad thai

? So—not only will I not be introducing solids at six, seven, or eight months, I’ve decided to forgo them altogether until Finley can? adroitly handle? a fork and spoon and get every morsel into her mouth accurately.?

I’m thinking sometime around? 10th grade? or so ought to do it.

Our lives, as we’ve known them for the past two years, are over.? Done.? Finished.? Caput.

No, my family hasn’t been diagnosed with some rare disease (although, if we were, I’m sure it would? probably be hound-dog transmitted).? Nor are we moving to Siberia or Mars, or even the foreclosed house across the street.? In fact, there’s nary a runny nose in the house at the moment (although that changes on an hourly basis around here) and? it’s not like we could sell our house even if we wanted to? (in case you haven’t been watching the news for the last year or so, here’s a tip—nobody’s buying).

What’s happening around here is equally huge, though.? Maybe huger (okay, is that actually a word?– because it looks awfully strange).? At least in my mind.? You see, our daughter is trying to crawl.? And she’s getting darn close.

Before you break out the champagne and propose a toast, let me educate you—this is not a good thing.? Not even close.?

Of course, with the first baby, you think it’s great.? Amazing.? The most spectacular thing ever to happen.? I mean, can you imagine?? A baby that actually crawls?? It’s got to be some kind of miracle, akin to the parting of the seas.? Or having the entire family sleep in past 8:00 a.m.

And then reality sets in.? You see, once the baby can crawl, the baby can get into trouble.? Lots and lots of trouble.? Okay, so maybe if you have a tidy, Martha Stewart-esque home, a crawling baby is no big deal.? But c’mom, folks—we’re talking about our home.? You’ve seen the photos, you know the chaos.? And it’s about five thousand times worse than when our son started crawling.? Why?? Because now his plethora of completely useless stuff has? mated with our plethora of completely useless stuff, and? said stuff’s mutant offspring? has taken? over the house. (Obviously we’ve been cursed, because it looks like he’s inherited those pack rat genes from my dad and I.? They really should do genetic testing for that kind of thing.? Really.)

And I have nightmares.? Scary, terrifying nightmares.? Not about serial killers or massive earthquakes (but thank you, Mr. Newsman, for sharing that tidbit of info with us? about the expected big one in California—perhaps I can oblige you with a horrifyingly bad dream sometime in the near future), or even massive blow-outs on airplanes.? No, I have nightmares about not being able to? locate my daughter, because she’s been buried alive in a? sea of papers or junk somewhere in our home.?

In fact, the idea is so frightening that we might actually have to (gasp!) keep our house tidy on a weekly basis.? And I’m not sure it can be done.? My brain just doesn’t work that way.? And hubby?? Well, I don’t even think that part of his brain existed in the first place.

Okay, so I realize she had to start crawling at some point.? It’s just that thus far, I’ve managed to live in blissful denial, suppressing that concept so it only existed as a vague, fuzzy notion in the far, far reaches of my brain.? Sort of like ironing.? And there should be some kind of age limit.? No drinking until you’re twenty-one, no crawling until you’re two.? Hmmm….maybe if I’d actually obeyed the former law, I’d be having better luck with the latter.

So, based on the photographic evidence provided below, can anyone tell me how much time they think we have left?

Exhibit A:? Okay, so technically it’s not an attempt-to-crawl photo, but it was so darn cute, I had to include it.

Exhibit B:? What, has she been watching the Jane Fonda work-out video or something?

Exhibit C:? Oh no, here come the knees:

Exhibit D:? And this one is just way to close to comfort:

For awhile, I couldn’t find the little doo-hickey (technical term) that attaches the photo card to the computer (I know, it seems so strange that something would go missing in our uber-organized home), so I just came across a few photos that didn’t get posted.

? This one is from when I was sick last time and hubby worked from home, with his little helper.

And here’s a close up of Finley.? Note the finger in the mouth—that was the beginning of the end. (Actually, she did much better this weekend with the nursing–knock on wood, or hound-dog heads, or whatever else happens to be convenient to knock on at the time).

….and to top it off, she’s grumpy today as well.? If anyone knows a magic spell that will make those darn two bottom teeth come in faster, please email me asap. I would happily? pay millions of dollars (well, no, I don’ t have millions of dollars—would you take a well-used, slightly defective, growling rottweiler instead?) just for a glimpse of those pearly whites.

Well,? at least? I’m getting to spend some good quality time with my new best friend, who I like to call Mr. Pumpy.? Honestly, just the sight of the darn breast pump these days makes me? throw up? a little, in? my mouth.

And in my spare time today?? Why, I’ve watched some delightful videos on proper latch techniques and breast feeding, and did some scintillating reading on a million and one ways to end a nursing strike.? Of course, the disclaimer is that these techniques may or may not work for YOUR baby.? Sigh.? Almost as? compelling a read as Water for Elephants—Not.

I’m sure one day soon all will return to normal again.? Although the “again” part is probably a bit misleading.? Isn’t “normal” a relative term, anyway?

We have a situation in my house.? A nursing strike, to be exact.

No, we don’t have a shortage of medical personnelle or anything like that.? I’m not talking that kind of nursing.? What do we have?? Well, one pint-sized container of stubborn baby, to be exact.? You see, ever since Finley started teething hard, she’s decided she’d like the milk to simply flow into her mouth, with little to no effort on her part.? Maybe via funnel.? And you may or may not know this, but that’s not exactly how breastfeeding works.? See, the baby sucks, and the milk comes out.? It simply doesn’t just fly out unsolicited (well,? not unless you’re out in public and it’s at a? very inconvenient moment, and you forgot your nursing pads—but’s that another story), and as far as I know, there’s no way to shot-gun milk.?

I know this may not sound like a big deal to some of you, but trust me—it’s gargantuan.? Because? believe it or not,? when the baby doesn’t nurse, the milk doesn’t come.? And the more and more baby doesn’t nurse, the more and more the milk supply goes caput.? Obviously not a good thing.

So now, instead of nursing Finley for about 5-10 minutes tops, several times a day, I get to follow the? following oh-so-convenient schedule:

? 1)? nurse baby as much as she’ll nurse (and listen to intermittent fussing) for about 5-10? minutes.?

2) supplement baby with cup (note–not a sippy cup–a regular cup, no lid) for about 15-20 minutes.?

3) change baby’s soggy clothes after feeding with cup and/or wash baby, since just as milk gets on baby as in baby.?

4) pump milk for at least 20 minutes to get about half the amount baby could have sucked in 5 minutes had she been so inclined, so that supply doesn’t diminish (oh, the joys of pumping).

5) wash out pumping supplies

So, basically, what used to take 5-10 minutes a pop now takes well over an hour.? Several times a day.? Suddenly, what? (negligible) free time I had suddenly took a nose-dive.

And you thought my house was messy before.

So, I’m sitting here, on this beautiful, sunny, warm California early-spring day, and I’m wondering something.? No, I’m not? wondering? about the musical chirping of the birds, or if we’ll have a nice summer this year, or even who’s going to win the stinkin’ Democratic nomination? (by this point, it could be my dog Fergie for all I care—she says free liver biscuits for all, by the way).?

Nor am I wondering why I can’t decide, after months of deep and profound introspection, whether my son should attend morning or afternoon preschool sessions (these days, I’m just chalking? my indecisiveness? up to a disturbing genetic defect and leaving it at that).

No, what I’m wondering on this idyllic, lovely day, is this—would I, or would I not, serve jail time for chucking the largest rock I could hoist without breaking my back? at the moron across the street’s car, which is currently blasting? music at about a billion decibels and making my entire house vibrate from his pimped out base?

What, you think that’s extreme?? Puh-lease.? Can you honestly tell me you’ve never, not once, in your entire life, ever thought about? taking a giant baseball bat and bashing some dude’s dance club on wheels into smithereens?? Or blowing it up?? With maybe just a tiny nuke?

Okay, so perhaps I am a little warped.? But I mean, come on folks.? If people could just decide to be super noisy at appropriate times, that would be one thing.? But this dude had the audacity to make that unholy racket when my baby was napping.? NAPPING, I tell you.? It’s unacceptable, unpardonable, and goes against all the laws of nature, or at least, all of the important ones.? ?

And no, it? doesn’t matter that they have no idea I’ve got a snoozing infant in here.? If they’re neighbors, they should know I have a baby.? Babies typically sleep a lot, right?? Then I think it’s perfectly reasonably to expect them to assume she’s napping 24/7, and keep their stinkin’ speakers on permanent mute.? ? Or at the very least, keep them? at the level at which you would play a Barry Manilow song when your big rocker brother is home (and you don’t? aren’t craving a? good ass-kickin’? every day for the rest of your natural born existence).?

Let’s face it—when she’s napping, the chirping birds alone make me long for a good? pellet gun.? You can only imagine the kinds of cravings shaking walls bring on.? Okay, so maybe my urges don’t really necessitate nuclear weapons and bludgeoning (at least on really good days).? ? But they do involve flaming poo bags and upholstery.? Or (on really bad days), a smallish bazooka.

Heck, I’ll ‘fess up.? When my daughter is tucked away in her crib catching up on some zzz’s, I even want to rip the mailman a new one when he’s kind enough to bring our mail to our door.

So, I guess the moral of my story is this—Nobody messes with my? napping baby.? ?

Oh yeah—and if think you’re gonna pump up the volume around my ‘hood, you’d better sheath that ride in stink-proof armor.

Why am I jumping up and down with glee?? Because together, my miraculous, wonderful, brilliant daughter and I finally mastered the most? crucial of developmental milestones.? The grandaddy of them all.? The motherload.

For all you newbies out there—no, I’m not talking about walking, talking, or feeding herself.? Why on earth would I be excited about any of those?? Let’s see—walking?? Hmmm, I get to child-proof my home and follow her around hoping she doesn’t bonk her head every other minute.? Or knock over knick-knacks (except we got rid of all those with baby number one).? Or eat toilet paper holders? (no, wait, that’s Fergie, my chewing-challeged Ridgeback puppy).? Talking?? I figure the sooner they talk, the sooner I get to hear “No! No!? No!” and “Mine! Mine! Mine!”? As for feeding themselves—well, maybe you need a little more laundry to do, but my basket is full, thank you very much.?

So what AM I referring to?? Why, the baby transfer, of course!? In case you newbies still aren’t catching on, let me enlighten you—the baby transfer is one of the single most? life-altering skills? you? and your child? can achieve within the first few months.

Oh, it sounds simple enough–you take one sleeping baby from Point A (their car seat), and deposit the same sleeping baby at Point B (their crib/your bed/any designated nap spot).? But in reality, it’s about as simple as solving nuclear physics problems.? After going on a bender involving multiple tequila shots.? And some Boone’s Farm.

See, the key term involved here is “sleeping”.? Obviously, any? fool with a pair of arms? can transfer a baby from their car seat to the crib.? But when you add the “sleeping” requirement?? Then it’s a whole? ‘nuther ball game.? And trust me–you don’t want to fumble this one.

So? big deal if your? baby can’t transfer, you say?? Let me go over the options, oh-short-sighted-one.? If your baby never learns this amazing feat, then you are destined to one of two things:? a) a home-bound existence, because your baby becomes so cranky from missing naps that you end up agoraphobic and never leave your house again, except in the rare event of a large? alien invasion? or phone call from Brad Pitt inviting you to run away with him? or b) spending upwards of ten hours each week just sitting in or next to your idling car, twiddling your thumbs and? being forced to listen to “soundscapes” on infinite repeat? while your baby snoozes in the backseat.

So, unless you want to be parking your happy hiney in the driveway next to your? dozing child for hours on end, on a daily basis, until your kid finally gives up their nap (mine is four and still napping, if that’s helpful), then let me assure you, this is the milestone you don’t want to miss.? ? Really.

And that’s why I’m jumping for joy.?