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.





Oh my gawd, you guys…I never thought I’d be the mother who shoves pictures of my wee little mister down every stranger’s throat.  But here I am again, uploading cute photos to my blog.  Be thankful you aren’t my friend on Facebook ‘cuz I be all up in yer newsfeed, bitches!  Check out mah baybee!  Lookit him sleepin, yo!

I am using this blog as my own personal rolodex of wallet photos.  Because I’ve probably been de-friended in large quantities on Facebook lately.

Here’s the little bean during a photo shoot.  Why is he dressed like an elf in the middle of November, you ask?

Because honey badger don’t care.

No, really.  Because my parents would like to send out a Christmas card this year with his sweet little mug on it and asked that I dress him in Christmas garb.  So what do I do, but dress that little tater tot in every single damn Christmas item we own.  I wanted to make sure people got the point.  You know.  That it’s Christmas and all.  I think it reads well.

Before I subject you to the Spirit of Christmas explosion of red and green and elf booties and Santa hats, I should also tell you that Fox spits up a lot.

What does that have to do with this photo shoot?

Well, wouldn’t you know, the minute we dressed him, he puked all over himself.  And we’re not talking a dainty little spit up.  That little sucker horfed up his entire meal.  Multiple times.  I shit you not.

Because dressing him is like trying to baptize a cat, we weren’t about to take another 15 minutes trying to straighten out his little chicken wing arm to get it through another shirt, all while he’s screaming his head off and quivering that bottom lip.  I just couldn’t do it, ya’ll.  The bottom lip is my Kryptonite.  So on we went with the Christmas photo shoot.  Puke or no puke.

(We are lucky my husband is a graphic designer because puke is surprisingly easy to Photoshop out.  As you’ll see in some of the pictures below).

Merry Christmas from our little grinch, who wants everyone to know he was NOT on board with this whole photo shoot thing.  And the elf hat.  Was not on board with that either.

I’m so ready for all these damn holidays to be over so you freaks can stop finding reasons to dress me up.

Behold the power of Photoshop!  Erasing all evidence of puke, both big and small.

I think I made the “Nice” list this year.  At least, I’m cute enough to have any offences overlooked, anyway.

Wait.  Another photo shoot?  I will pay you both back one day in the form of a wild teenager.

I’m not kidding.  You guys are seriously lame.

Hmm…that’s an interesting prop.  I will now ignore you for 4 minutes while I contemplate this.

I am no longer as interested in this prop and will now proceed to be pissed at it.

Fine.  One blue steel shot.  Now dress me in something normal and put me in my swing with the birds that fly around so I can tell all my friends how uncool my parents are. 

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?