Saturday, February 28, 2009

Toy shop armageddon

Trying to figure out how this thing works:

Give him a month or so and he'll be hopping around like a lunatic.

Price of grain

Rice cereal. He threw it right back up.

Color in your cheeks

Friday, February 27, 2009

Kiss the mirror

Trying to look at himself in the mirror:

Action man

On his belly!


His hair is falling out. I said I'd never give him a mohawk, that baby mohawks are for the spawn of suburban bropunks. So of course his hair is falling out in the shape of... a mohawk.

I'm sort of thinking about thinking about dating again. I learned a lot from my last relationship and I know I've got to be super aware of the role any future partners of mine are going to play in the kid's life. What will someone show my son about masculinity, femininity, and gender roles? Responsibility? Respecting women? Respecting oneself? 
Would I want my kid to grow up to be like this person? 

Sweet dudes + sweet ladies

Dream space baby

Thursday, February 26, 2009

White punks on hope

In his bouncy swing chair thing
(Thanks Cheryl!!!)

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Monday, February 23, 2009

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Thursday, February 19, 2009

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

Fear (of the unknown)

It feels like a hundred years ago I found out I was pregnant and Amanda just happened to be there...

(Me, terrified? Most definitely.)

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Rival tribal rebel revel

Happy Valentine's Day

Joker in the pack

Eau de lesbianism

He's got some good ladykiller role models, if he needs them:



Thursday, February 12, 2009

Desperate days

Imagine this scene:

We're at a restaurant, in a booth in the corner. The beast lies on the slick vinyl, his stubby little legs bicycling in the air, pedaling madly toward the blinking Christmas lights that hang overhead. I sit next to him, one arm bent akimbo in front of his body to keep him from wriggling off the seat and onto the sticky floor below. My other arm claws desperately at my food, stuffing chunks of meat into my mouth, huge wedges of naan, clumps of rice, frantic, shoveling, trying to fill the gaping maw that is my tired, aching body. My dining partner calls me a feral mama. I feel it.