Spit up

I keep meaning to update with pictures and videos, but I've opted to spare you, or rather, spare myself. I hate updating. I probably hate it because my fingers are sore and tired from the constant removal process of spit-up. Seriously. Rip doesn't just spit-up either, he pours sour milk from his mouth like a fountain... the entire day. Spit-up sounds kind of cute and innocent. What Rip does is neither cute nor innocent. It's a vicious assault of my person and my decency. It's an act of terrorism and it needs to be stopped. I'm pretty sure it cannot be stopped. This baby was designed to try me and milk upheaval tries me.

There are so few breaks in between the constant upheaval of milk, that I've resorted to wearing t-shirts all day every day. This might not seem low, but considering I firmly believe the t-shirt to be an article only worn to exercise or sleep, this is a huge development. I loathe myself for stooping so low, but even my resolve to dress like you aren't going to bed has dissolved. My will has dissolved. Life, as I know it, has dissolved. I love the word 'dissolve.' Dissolve.

And to top it all off, the baby just puked on my bedspread.

I'll post pictures tomorrow/later/probably never.

My life is better than yours

I'm furious. I just wrote an entire post and was just adding a title when somehow I deleted the entire thing. Honest to goodness, if this computer was a living thing it would be shriveled on the ground weeping, for fear of the harsh expletives that fell out of my mouth.

To sum up what the would-be post said, I noted that I didn't have much of anything to write, being that I sit at home with a baby all day and realistically, babies do not make for very interesting companions (anyone denying this is welcome to come and sit with me and Rip and see all the wild adventures we get into; it's both magical and wild and I'm lying. We get bored staring at each other all day, so he screams on the floor and I watch 'What Not to Wear' at subhuman volumes). I mentioned that I left the house the other day with a shirt covered in a film of spit-up and someone pointed it out to me, asking, "Is that spit-up?" Without the slightest measure of embarrassment, I said, "Uh huh. Want some?"

I also noted that I tried to shave Rip's head today but was foiled by Josh, who was horrified by the idea. I pointed out that Rip is currently sporting a comb-over and would be utterly humiliated by it, if he was at all self-aware and not completely focused on milk and the consumption thereof. Josh stood his ground, but has left for work for the day. I'm not sure where he put the clippers but it's only a matter of time. I give it 40 minutes until I crack and shave all the dark fuzzy goodness away.

Last, I mentioned in the deleted post about looking worse than I did 2 weeks ago. Sad, but true. I guess that can be expected with a diet rich in brownies and chocolate chips. I plan to start running my big post-pregnant body, but am slightly concerned about dying along the way. I haven't exercised for a long time, and I'm pretty sure my body is going to remind me of that when I'm trying to haul all of it up a horse trail, and it's trying to haul itself to the refrigerator. We'll see. I'll keep you updated on my love-handles.

Utah ruins babies

So I'm still alive, barely. And so is the baby, barely. We're making it. We had a scare back a few days after we got back from Utah, but we've pushed past it. The baby had some wild notion after being held all day every day by family that that was going to be the norm from there on out. He had a rude awakening when the day we got back, he sat on the floor screaming for want of being squished in someone's arms. Muahaha. I won that battle. Well, actually I didn't since the baby is sitting in a sling strapped across my chest. Hey. As long as my arms are free, I consider myself the victor. Courtney - 1, baby -9,757,866.

Now, pretend to care and stare at some pictures of Rip. He is 6 weeks old going on 2 weeks old. I swear he should be progressing in some regards but he is still refusing to do much of anything besides poop, stare, eat, cry, sleep, and eat. Oh, and poop.

Here is Rip at 6 weeks sitting in his bumbo. Or trying to. Hey. I'm desperate.And Josh took Rip swimming. Here he is clinging on for dear life. I'm pretty sure Josh had some kind of hickey after this.

It's funny because I was looking at the box of diapers sitting in Rip's room and noticed a few discrepancies.

First off, the baby and the mother are both smiling. Together. At each other. At the same time. In the same place. Now, if that were me and Rip, I would be smiling and he would be staring blankly in response. Or, he would be smiling and I would be scowling because I've just finished changing a diaper and he is currently doing his best work to insure that I will very soon be changing another diaper. See the problem? They were both smiling and so far, I'm not convinced that that really even happens.

The second problem with the diaper box is that it only comes with 216 diapers and honestly, a day's supply in a single box just seems dishonest.

Third problem, the mother looks well rested. Either that isn't her baby or she is one of those idiots who has magic babies who sleep through the night. She should have dark circles under her eyes or at least have a little crazed look about her. I prefer both.

The Disgusto Manifesto

I would post pictures, I really would, if the Rip wasn't possibly the most disgusting baby to ever have lived. I say this all with a heart full of love and fondness, of course. It's just that he has the worst case of baby acne, and to add to his grotesque features, he has developed cradle cap, scale-like things all over his head. I hate it. It frustrates me to no end. It's like if there is a single gross thing that can happen to a baby, Rip is sure to break out with it. I'm starting to search for gross baby skin diseases on the internet, just to be prepared for when Rippy gets it. I have to mentally prepare myself.

We went to the beach today with some friends and I found myself hiding Rip in a blanket so no one could see his nastiness. I'm pretty sure one girl figured me to be an overly protective parent, little did she know I would have let the stray bum with one arm hold Rip, had he asked. On second thought, the bum would probably have been worried about contracting one of Rip's skin diseases and asked not to let the baby get too near. I don't blame him.

It just doesn't seem fair that my baby looks like he's been washed in acid and then scrubbed with a scouring pad. People often peer into his car seat and inevitably come up with, "Adorable!" or "Precious!" Come on people. His skin is trying to eat itself. Let's just call it what it is and be done with it. It makes me dislike the general public more than I already do. What's worse is that I feel responsible to acknowledge his nasty skin to every person who comes within 40 feet of him. It's exhausting. I'm exhausted. And Rip's skin is exhausted from trying to ooze and blemish so much. When this phase is over (likely never), I'll post a picture or two. Right now I'm too busy searching for cures for shingles, as I'm sure Rippy is on his way to getting it.

Happy 30th, well, almost...

Last night, as Josh and I were about to embark on the wonderful world of oreos and sleeping babies (our baby was asleep, thanks due to letting him scream himself hoarse... we're awesome parents), it hit me. Tomorrow was Josh's birthday. "Tomorrow is your birthday! Holy crap! Am I seriously just remembering?" Josh's reply was something like, "I wondered if/when you were going to remember. No big deal," all said with a smile.

For the following 30 minutes, I continued to apologize, force more oreos into his hands, and promise all sorts of fantastic ideas of how I could take him sky-diving (no I couldn't) or I would take up surfing (unlikely) or anything really to just make him believe that I'm not as terrible a partner as I sound. I couldn't believe I had forgotten! Granted, I have a newborn baby that pretty much consumes my waking thoughts, but still. I mean, it's his birthday and I'm his wife and I'm supposed to not only remember these things, but plan huge festivities with clowns and balloons and wild trumpets (?). Because as anyone who knows Josh knows, he deserves the wild clowns, balloons, and trumpets.

Josh turns 29 years old today, which might as well be 30, for how old it seems to me. We're both stunned he made it this far. I'm not one for mushy/sappy tributes to loved ones, but Josh deserves one. He's that awesome, that I'll forgo my sarcasm for a minute and relay to my friends and family who read this blog just how incredible he is. I could go on and on why Josh is amazing, but I'll keep it brief to just 5 reasons Josh is the best person I know.

1. Josh is the hardest worker I have ever known. He is the perfect example of doing things even though you don't want to (a completely novel idea to me). He works hard at everything in his life, at his job, at his calling in church, at being a good husband, father, everything. If something is to be done, it is to be done the right way.
   
2. Josh is the most dependable person I think I've ever met. If he said he would do it, you have a 100% chance that he'll do it. Josh does exactly what he says he'll do. This is a miracle in today's world, in my opinion. You just can't rely on people to do what they say they're going to do. I'm one of those people.
3. Josh is a people person. There is noting he loves more than sitting in a group of people and just hanging out. He loves to talk but he loves to listen as well. He doesn't have to be the one talking to have a good time, he doesn't mind listening as well. I love this about him.
4. Josh is considerate. He thinks about others before he thinks of himself. He thinks about my needs before his own. He gets up every night/morning with Ripkin and feeds him (I pump a bottle and put it in the fridge for him), changes him, and puts him back to bed. He does this all so I can sleep. He wasn't asked to do it, he asked to do it. He wants me to be happy so the baby can be happy so the baby doesn't get thrown out the window. He cares that much.
5. Josh is enthusiastic and is never too cool for anyone or anything. He's willing to try anything and isn't afraid of looking like a dork, which he rarely does. He can be friends with anyone.

Basically, I admire the crap out of him (I have such a way with words...). He is someone I want to be and he really is one of the best people out there. He's a goodie and a keeper. I hope Rip ends up half as good as he is. I'll consider my job well done as a parent if that happens.

The picture above is right before I delivered Rip. Whenever I think about that whole experience, I think of Josh sleeping on a cot next to me. He was so uncomfortable and miserable, but he wouldn't leave me, even though I repeatedly told him he should go. This picture reminds me that we're in it together, and that makes looking at Ripkin's baby acne bearable (his face looks soooo bad right now. I won't leave the house for fear of people thinking my child has the plague and being quarantined). Knowing Josh is in it with me keeps me sane.

Happy Birthday Joshy! Sorry I forgot, but don't worry. I went to the grocery store and bought hot dogs (something I refuse to do) for you. That's how awesome I am.

He's Here!!!

Ripkin Joshua Robbins

Born August 12, 2009
8 lbs 8 oz
20 inches

He arrived! I don't really know what to say about the whole experience, other than I'm a firm believer in epidurals. Magic. Sheer magic. After two days of painful and regular contractions, I'd like to be a spokesperson on how amazing an epidural is. I was due to be induced on the 13th, but considering I was having contractions 5 minutes apart pretty regularly, they admitted me. Pretty soon the nurse told me we were ready to start pushing, and after the initial push, she turned to me and said, "You want a C-section?" I told her 'no.' "Well, then you better be planning on pushing a whole lot harder than that." I quickly obeyed and 2 hours later, there was a huge baby blinking at me. I couldn't believe how big he looked to me. I was expecting a low 7 pounder... not so much.
He's kind of a chunk, and after a week, this boy has gained an additional 7 oz, making him just under 9 lbs. He also now measures at 21 1/4 inches, meaning they measured him wrong in the hospital. That or he's the incredible hulk and grows an inch and a quarter in the span of 5 days. Not likely... Anyway, that may not sound like a lot, but considering he gained 5 of those ounces in 2 days, I'd say the fella takes after his mom in the eating category. He likes to eat. He chooses to cry when he is not A) Sleeping or B) Eating while sleeping (we call this sleep-eating; it occurs when he falls asleep while nursing but then pretends to still be interested in eating when someone attempts to move him... such a fun game). We still love him, and as Josh pointed out to me today, "I really like that kid" (referring to his Rip).

On the second night at home, I woke up to find Josh and Rippy snuggled in together, both fast asleep (the cute part being where Rip is sleeping and not crying for more food). It sort of looks like two dudes just hanging out together.

And this is Josh working while gazing at Rip and his chunkiness. I seem to be the only one concerned that he's so chubby so fast. Apparently I make cream with a side of cellulite for milk. Figures.

I really do love this little creature. It was sort of a shock at first, seeing him and knowing I was now responsible for the little being, and it still is a shock, but a rather pleasant one. I think we're going to get along just fine, as long as I keep the milk coming, that is.

Too close

I think my eyes are too close together. I came to this unfortunate conclusion after I went swimming tonight and put some of my neighbor's goggles on. They immediately started trying to pull my eyes apart. I took them off, tried a few adjustments, and put them back on. Nope. No good. My eyes are definitely too close together since the flesh was nearly torn away from my face in an effort to see while I swim underwater (I can't open my eyes under water; never can and never will).

No, I have not had the baby. I have the sneaking suspicion that this baby would much rather sit squished in a ball in my gut than have to emerge from his warm bubble and hear me complaining about my grotesquely swollen ankles (picture tree stumps). Oh well. There are worse things, like having eyes that are too close together.