We’re 7 months as of last Saturday. And yes, I’m going to be that uber annoying mother that uses the pronoun “we” when referring to my little man.

As in:

We’re finally getting teeth.

We like carrots.

We’re having trouble pooping.

That last one makes me slightly regret the “we” thing now.

Anyway. Here we are.



What, what?  4 months old already?  This can’t be happening.

Someone, quick!  Hand me a newborn!  So I can sniff its furry little head and take naps with it on my chest.

Because my little dude is now strong and likes to throw his head around and give my cheekbone a shiner.  And he rolls around his crib so that at 4 in the morning I find him facing the total opposite direction with his head shoved in the corner.  And he’s pissed about it.  And this little tater tot also likes to grab my hair and talk to his hands and coo at his daddy.  Seriously.  He is growing up so fast now.

So, yeah.  Time to have another one.

Just kidding, Tony.  You can get up off the floor now.

Here’s our little Fox-a-doodle at 4 months.  Partying hard for New Years, of course.

(Don’t worry…we limited him to only ONE glass of Champagne.  We’re not super terrible parents, after all.)


I am telling you this story only because I didn’t kill my family in a freak arctic winter accident.  You will understand what I mean in a minute.

I am a prompt person.  I pay my bills on time.  I’m always early for doctor appointments.  I cook chicken at the correct temperature for the correct time.  I’m pretty by the book.

Which means that when Fall Back Day comes around, all the clocks in my general vicinity are dutifully rewound an hour and life continues as normal in my happy little bubble.

My husband, on the other hand, isn’t quite such a freak of nature when it comes to being anal about the time.  In fact, he might be on the complete other end of the spectrum, as he still has yet to set the guest room clock back.  This is the very same room that he spends most nights sleeping (because someone has to get some sleep in this house, I guess…)  His clock in his man cave in the basement is set on some completely random time, possibly due to all the Fall Back days of the past decade being compounded together or something.  Who knows.  But the point remains – my husband is apparently on permanent vacation mode and has no use for this petty thing us common people call time.

So cue a few nights ago at 1:30 in the morning.  I just started a diaper change, which resulted in my discovering the contents of said diaper did not stay in said diaper.  So also cue a pajama change.  And then cue a feeding.  It’s now 2 in the morning and I’m slowly walking down the hall after putting Fox back in bed and discover that the thermostat time is an hour off.

And at 2 in the morning there is absolutely no possible way that I can let this be the case.  Que terrible!

So I start messing with the thermostat in the dimly lit hallway.  And after about 5 minutes of fumbling, the clock is now accurate and all is right in my world.  I permit myself to go to sleep and know the little OCD elf inside of me is pacified for the night.

Now cue to 6 o’clock in the morning.

I wake up to Fox crying, which is par for the course around here, and crawl out of bed to get him.  I realize I’m freezing cold, but decide it’s a result of only being in a tank top in the middle of November.  I walk into Fox’s room and realize it’s even colder in there.  My poor little fellow had chilly little fingers and cheeks and felt like a little Fox-sicle.

I scooped him up to bring him back to our bedroom and peered over at the sound monitor which shows the temperature.  His room was 60 degrees.  Holy! Shit!  Bad parenting alarms are going off all over the place.

I run to the thermostat which reads 64 degrees in the house.

My initial thought is that the furnace died.  It wouldn’t be completely unreasonable, as each time the furnace starts up it normally sounds like an old car engine on its last leg.

I start yelling to Tony (very much in the same fashion as I did when the bathroom was leaking water into our basement and I thought the house was on fire).  I don’t hear a peep so I’m forced to be an independent woman and figure this shit out, damnit!

That’s when I realize that the thermostat is SET at 64 degrees.  What the what?

And then THAT’S when I realize that sleep-deprived Katie from 2 o’clock in the morning was that fool who accidentally set the furnace to 64 when she was fumbling around with the clock.  Damn that stupid, 2 o’clock Katie.

So all turned out well in the end.  Fox was wrapped in a fleece blanket, then buried underneath mounds of comforters while we nursed that morning.  I threw on a sweatshirt.  Tony kept sleeping and being the top-notch concerned husband and homeowner that he’s proven to be time and again.

The next night Fox went to bed with an extra layer on.  Just in case mom got more brilliant ideas at 2 o’clock in the morning.




Props to you if you sang the title of this blog post.  Mad props to you, 90’s child…

I’m back at work.  Day 3.  Numerous emails and voice mails done and accounted for.  Numerous head smacks on the desk as I tried to remember my logins and passwords to various networks and work sites.  Numerous times I had to go sit in an unfinished office in our work building with no electricity or heat and pump breastmilk as if it’s a totally normal thing to do in the middle of a workday.  In a silk blouse and suit pants.  Totes normal, you guys.

TMI?  Don’t mind if I do!


I might have failed to mention in my last couple posts that I actually got a promotion while on maternity leave.  Seriously, who goes and pops out a baby and then gets a raise?  Me.  That’s who.  Yeah buddy.

I will no longer be the Circulation Manager of the magazine.  Oh no.  No more exciting Excel documents and audits.  No more irate older customers who were offended by the lingerie ad on page 5 so they’re calling to cancel their subscription and “by the way, have you found God, young lady?”  No more of it!  Imagine me, “Office Space”-style, out in a field with a baseball bat.  We’re moving on up!

I will now be in charge of the promotions.  Which is…pretty cool.  It’ll be a challenge for me, but one that I’m welcoming with open arms because I’ll get to use more of my creativity.  And writing skills.  Not the snarky writing skills, though.  One day I’ll put those to use besides this blog, no worries.

I’m glad to be back at work and interacting with real live adults, but I also miss my little pickle during the day and find myself extra tired every night after a long day of work.  It doesn’t help that we’re still not on a sleep schedule and my nights consistently revolve around an 11 o’clock feeding, a 3 o’clock feeding and a 5 o’clock feeding.  And, oh hey, Mom, make sure you’re awake at 7 o’clock, too, because that’s when I’ve decided I’d like to wake up for the day and have a diaper leak in your bed.  Love, Fox.

It WILL get easier, I know this.  I keep reminding myself that he will sleep through the night when he’s 16.  So I have that to look forward to.  Unless he has that wild streak like  his father and I and constantly tries to sneak out of the house.  Good thing we have squeaky wood floors.

There’s really not much else new to report so let me throw a few pictures your way.  Please do not eat my delicious-looking child, though.

The Before Photo:

Oh hey, Mom and Dad, you guys takin’ pictures?

Aaaaand, The After:

Well let me just pose for you real quick here…vvvvlurp…

Dear Fox,

Today is my last day of maternity leave and as I’m sitting here typing this, you’re on the floor playing under your play-gym toy with all the fun dangley things for you to grab at.  And you keep coo-ing really loud and batting at the orange monkey because he’s your favorite.  Sometimes I think you two hold some pretty intense conversations.  You both are over there talking about the state of the economy and then my big head butts in and says “Poop?  Did you poop, my little punkin?  Ooooh, yes, yes, yes, mumma’s little baby pooped.”

No wonder you look at me like, “Woman!  Stop talking about my bodily functions in front of my new monkey friend, here.  Isn’t it bad enough you gave me the name Fox?  I’m already going to get beat up on the playground, I don’t need extra help from you.”

As you can see, this maternity leave might have given me a little too much time on my hands, as I’m now making up entire imaginary conversations with my 2-month-old in my head.

What was I saying?

Oh right.  Last day.

And while I tend to take the humorous approach to most things in my life on this blog, today I’m not feeling so lighthearted.  As evident by my far-from-comical introduction above.  I mean, really.  Poop humor?  It’s totally not even funny.

Nope.  Today I feel this sick pit in my stomach.  Like sadness.  And worry.

Sadness because this has been the most incredible two months.  They’ve been challenging, as living with most newborns can be.  But they’ve  been so full of joyous moments, it makes me tear up when I write about it.  I was the first to hold you in my arms and feel you curl up on my chest.  How strange to feel you on the outside instead of the inside after 9 months.  I witnessed your first smile.  I watched your thought process as you learned (and are still learning) to reach for things.  I laughed with the doctor when you rolled over on the exam table and started flirting with the nurse.  I’ve even watched your daddy fall madly, deeply in love with you.

And starting tomorrow I won’t get to be a part of that for 8 hours each day.

And here’s where the worry (albeit irrational) sets in.  What if you don’t get the same attention every day?  What if you’re stuck in your swing for hours and everyone just keeps popping a Nuk back in your mouth when you cry?  What if you forget who your mom is?

Holy irrational Toledo, yeah?

I know you will be well-loved and well-cared for when I’m not around during the day.  But is it wrong that I wish it could be me continuing the love and caring for?  Is it wrong that I don’t look forward to going back to the daily grind of a 40 hour work week?

I know things might have an extra level of difficulty as we struggle to work out a schedule from here.  There might be later evenings and earlier mornings.  But.  I’m so thankful for the time I was able to spend with you every day during leave.  On days when I didn’t think I could pull myself out of sleep after a particularly rough night, I’d look over at you sharing our bed and you’d give me that signature Fox smile and I’d bust out laughing.  You’ve been a little light in our lives.

I’m going to miss you during the day, Bud, but it will make it so much sweeter at 4 o’clock when I’ll look forward to returning home to you.


Your Mom




As I write this, Fox is lying next to me on the couch and we’re playing this game where he spits out his pacifier and I must get it back in his mouth before the first wail.  It’s a really fun game.  Totally more entertaining than Monopoly.

Because this game takes up the majority of my time nowadays, I’ve been a little neglectful of my blogging responsibilities.  But because all faults can be forgiven with pictures, I’ve decided you all can’t be too mad at me if I go the cheap route and throw a few pictures in your direction.  You can’t be angry when you see a teeny, tiny face like the following, can you?  I think not!

Catching flies.

Milk drunk baby.


One very concerned-looking baby is not so sure about going for a walk.

Fox invited a friend to his Monday night Packer party.  Later they rioted on the streets over the NFL replacement refs.  Who knew my little tater tot could overturn cars like that?

There you have it.  Still mad at me?

This will probably be the last letter I write to you while you’re still baking, as I’m about a week away from your due date and I’m praying in every religion that you don’t decide to make a late appearance.  However, I must remember you ARE your father’s child, so you very well could come on your own damn time, thankyouverymuch.  Sigh.

I don’t sleep anymore and while I’ve carried you low throughout this entire pregnancy, you’ve all of a sudden gotten wise to the fact that you’ve been missing out on the precious real estate below my rib cage and have moved on up to check it out.  You’re heading in the wrong direction.  Just an FYI.

I have tried everything from walking to sex to learning to use a weed whacker to try and jar you loose, youngin’, but you seem pretty content to  prove all the wives tales false.  Your father drew the limit on letting me mow the lawn yesterday.  But that castor oil myth looks more and more tempting by the day.

These last couple weeks have been a big time of reflection for me and things are starting to finally feel a little more real.  In less than 2 weeks I will get to meet you.  It seems like yesterday I stared down at a pregnancy test with two lines and squealed loudly through our empty apartment.  Your dad was hanging out with friends and I couldn’t wait for him to get home.  I taped the pee stick to our refrigerator for him to find.  Which, looking back, might not have been the most sanitary route to go.

It’s been quite a journey ever since.  And now as I near the end I think a lot about how labor will go and how life will be with a newborn.  But most of all I think about what you’ll look like and who you will be.  Whose eyes you’ll have.  If your hair will be curly and blonde like mine or if you’ll have your dad’s darker complexion.  Will you be a little neurotic nutcase like your mom or a mellow little fellow like your dad?  Will you be a mama’s boy or will you live up to a name like Fox and be the kind of child we’re pulling off the ceiling fan and buttering his head to get it unstuck from the banisters?

I try to imagine the first moment I see you.  Will I cry?  Will your father cry?  Will my worries that you’re healthy and happy start from the moment I hold you in my arms?  Will I look at your dad and realize that we have so much love for each other that you’re our beautiful result?

I’ve gotten a little sappy on you, I know.  But I just want you to know how much you’re loved now, already.  Regardless of all the bladder pinching and rib kicking.  The acid reflux and achy hips.  You are so worth it already and I can’t wait until the day we meet and start our own beautiful journey.


Your Mom

39 Weeks Pregnant Belly

You’re huge, kiddo!