Lenny

Someone I know did this on her blog, and I find it to be quite brilliant. Instead of writing paragraph after paragraph of gibberish nonsense, I can use bullet points to summarize my gibberish nonsense. Well done, Marcia. Well done.

• Rip has begun pulling himself up on stuff, including his crib. He now has decided he would much rather pull himself up on the crib to a stand and watch the door, waiting to be rescued rather than sleep. Goodbye naps (what little there was to begin with...). Your 30 minute holiness will sorely be missed.
  
• I'm training for a marathon; yes, I'm a fool. Every morning I get up and pack up chunky Rip and we go running. Well, I go running and he sits in the baby jogger and stares at cars passing, and sometimes tries to touch things we run past. Ahh, little Lenny.
  
• Josh is still in Hawaii, having fun, not wanting to punch his own face off (?) listening to Rip not sleeping in the room next door.
• My upstairs is just about put together. Did I ever mention that we bought a house? Well, we did and the upstairs is about put together. Did I ever mention that we bought a house? Well, we did and the upstairs is about put together. Did I ever mention that we bought a house...
• Rip has been crawling for 2 months now and his wounded soldier look has become even more exaggerated. As my brother-in-law described it, "He looks like a blown-up soldier climbing out of his foxhole." Well put, Eli. But ever say anything like that about my child again, and I'll rip your face off. Only I can be rude about Lenny.
• I sometimes call Rip 'Lenny' from the book 'Mice and Men.' In fact, right now he's banging his fat little hand on the wall and laughing. Okay...
• I have had a bowl of ice cream every night that Josh has been out of town.
  
• Since Lenny likes to pull his fat little body up on stuff, especially the bar stools, he has started to collect the battle wounds of babyhood. Bruises, welts, and bleeding mouths, walking is going to be a nightmare.
  
• Lenny still crawls after me and clings to my legs, whining. I still resist the urge to drop kick him somewhere else.
  
• Lenny is 7 1/2 months old.
• I'm officially changing Rip's name to Lenny.
• Once Josh gets back, I've decided to take a few weeks off myself. I'm taking my ice cream-saturated body to a beach somewhere, and I'm going to sleep entire nights without having to get up in the middle of the night to push Rip back down, only to have him laugh and crawl back to the side to pull himself back up.
• Lenny needs a nap. So do I.
  

Pictures -Do you care?

Because I'm such a good mom, Rip had his real first pictures taken. Yes. He's nearly 7 months. I dare you to judge me!

Nothing fancy or artsy, just me, Rip, Target, and the girl with a neon-green thong. Yup. While Rip stared at the picture lady doing her best to make him smile, I had to stare directly at her neon thong covering very little of her tan-even-though-it's-winter-and-it's-your-bum-and-it-should-probably-never-see-actual-light rear end. Anyway, it went fine, other than the fact that Rip was less than smitten by neon thong girl. I mean, this baby generally likes everybody and he spent the first 15 minutes just staring at her like her head was behind the banister at our house (Rip is deathly afraid of the banister that leads to the basement. We don't know why, we just know that when Josh puts his face behind the banister, Rip starts freaking out. This provides the amusement on slow nights). He was completely confused by her neon green thong, I guess. I know I was.

This was his expression most of the time (the only time he would smile was when I would jump out from behind her; I don't think it was a genuine smile, but sheer relief that I hadn't abandoned him to the woman wearing such provocative underwear while shooting pictures of children). It pretty much says it all. Now picture me with the same expression. This is how we were both looking at the woman wearing a neon green thong hanging 2 feet above her pants. *sigh* I do wish the baby had more hair, but considering I probably didn't have hair until I was 10 years old, he's managing quite well. He's going to lose it when he's 25 anyway, so I figure he might as well not get too attached to having hair.

And if I must be honest, I find myself really enjoying this baby. Josh and I always talk about how sorry we feel for our next baby, because we couldn't possibly love another baby as much as we do Rip. Poor next baby.

The Jolley Robbins

This is our coed indoor soccer team. The name, Jolley Robbins, means exactly what it says. This team has Jolleys and it has Robbins. Three of Josh's sisters play on it, with two of their husbands, and then a couple of brother-in-law's brothers. It was really fun, only I would leave each and every game completely humiliated by my behavior.

See, I've become that girl. The girl who loses her temper and is screaming at guys twice her size. I have even punched a guy in the back... after the game, when we were shaking hands. I've told many a refs that they are nightmares. I've been honestly ready and willing to get in multiple fights with any number of male opponents. I have no filter and absolutely no control over what I say and who I say it to.

So why should last night be any different? Well, it wasn't. I always start a game making promises to myself that I'm going to remain human and not fly off the handle. No such luck. I didn't just 'fly off the handle.' I ran at a full sprint away from it, never to return.

Idiot defender guy: "Oh give me a break. Tell that girl to relax" (referring to my sister-in-law, Karen)

Idiot Goal Keeper: "Seriously. She's out of control!"

Me: "Why don't you both just shut your freaking mouths?"

Idiot defender guy: "Oooohhhh..."

Booty Shorts (girl wearing exceptionally small shorts): "Okay, everyone, it's just a game. Relax."

Me: "Save it Booty Shorts"

Idiot Goal Keeper: "What did she call you?"

Booty Shorts: "Booty shorts"

After the game was over and we're shaking hands....

Booty shorts: "Next time don't comment on what people are wearing"

Me: "Next time, wear clothes that fit you."

And this girl was just some random peacemaking type, who probably hadn't played a lot of soccer and honestly didn't have a pair of soccer shorts, so she opted for the next best thing -shorts that look like underwear. In her defense, she did have pretty amazing legs. Not the point. The point is I told a ref to go back to Mexico, I screamed a number of times at people to shut up, and ultimately, I was hoping beyond hoping that someone would just get in my face so I would have an excuse to punch him or her in the face. The rage that engulfs me during games terrifies me later.

Josh and I were discussing it after the game on our way home. I expressed that I hated the type of player I had become. I never used to lose it like that. I never used to (there may have been a time or two) argue with refs, get in fights with players, or completely forgo any self-respect I might have had and act like a complete lunatic. Josh summed it up perfectly.

"When you used to play to a certain ability, and you never had to say anything because you just let your play and skills speak for you, and you don't necessarily play at that same level you once were capable of, you improvise."

I guess that's what I'm doing. I'm improvising for all those missed passes, crappy shots, and failed one-on-ones. Sad. I wish I could still just be decent instead of having to fight every single person on the field. I don't think my mother-in-law is too impressed.