Father time, Mother Nature, and whoever else is in charge of the weather...

Yesterday NYC had the most shitacious weather. 

 

It wasn't snowing.  

It wasn't raining. 

It was pissing slush.

All.

Day.

Long.

Even Oliver was annoyed. 

Here's his face to prove it. 

He's sick and tired of being bundled and unbundled.

And frankly, I'm sick of it too. 

Memo to Springtime: Get here fast, or Mama S'mores is moving to Hawaii.

Who do I think I am?

I am a city-living, dining out, beauty routine junkie who can't live without getting her mani/pedi's and brow waxes. I know the latest jeans to trot around town in (Denim Leggings), the juiciest lip glosses to frost your lips with (T. LeClerc) and the most amazing stiletto in town to sum it all up (Balenciaga Fishbone Slingbacks).  

The other day, Brett remarked how domesticated I have become.

Domesticated? Could he have hurled a bigger insult at me?

Fine, I haven't worked in a few months. So what if I have time to frequent the grocery store and clip some coupons. Cooking is a good thing and it saves so many calories. I can watch my carb vs protein intake and make sure I'm getting enough daily vitamins and minerals. So what if I see this as a healthy new obsession...my nails and hair will for sure prosper from what Brett calls "domesticated."

Okay, fine. I've decided I like the living room organized as to how I go about my day. I want the kitchen pots stacked properly and our bed made in the morning. I don't think it's bad to not want left over shaving cream bits or toothpaste in the sink. I want things put away. I had dinner ready as Brett walked in the door last night. Yup. I sure did. And, I have the whole weeks dinner menus already planned and prepped. I started a database of weeknight recipes so that Sunday grocery store runs are efficient as hell. Don't even get me started on how I do the laundry.

These are no small things. I'm not a natural housewife.  

I admit, there are days when I haven't been so graceful while working at my new gig, and sometimes, I've even been resentful that Brett gets to go to work in the morning. But I really have to give it up to my husband for sticking by me through this most unexpected time.  He's a champ like no other and goes above and beyond for Oliver and me on a daily basis.

Domesticated or whatever, I'm getting my hair highlighted this weekend. 

Old habits die hard.

Check your kids homework...

My friend Vinny sent this to me in an email yesterday.  I found it hillarious.

After the picture, there was a letter to the teacher from the Mommy.

Dear Mrs. Jones,

I wish to clarify that I am not, nor have I ever been, an exotic dancer. I work at Home Depot and I told my daughter how hectic it was last week before the blizzard hit. I told her we sold out every single shovel we had and then I found one more in the back room, and that several people were fighting over who would get it.  

Her picture doesn't show me dancing around a pole.  It is supposed to depict me selling the last snow shovel we had at Home Depot.

From now on, I will remember to check her homework more thoroughly before she turns it in. 

Sincerely, 

Mrs. Smith

My life has changed 002

For as long as I've been the special lady in Brett's life, I've wanted him to have fun and memorable birthdays. They were always very easy to plan. Brett loves looking and feeling dapper so I usually gifted him shirts from Barneys and goodies from Kiehls. A solid steak frites satisfies Brett's tummy like nothing else, and since there's no dearth of french bistros in NYC, dinner was always filled with possibility.

This year, well, things are a bit different.

Instead of waking up on his birthday weekend and lolly-gagging around the apartment until noon, we were up, just as we've been up every morning, at 6:45 am. At 7:30 we were getting spit up on and at 8:30 we had already done the laundry. By 12:30 we were getting spit up on again and at 2:30 we were at Barnes & Noble with the rest of Tribeca and their sticky kids. 4:00 came and we were home and showering, getting ready for our big date night out. 

At 5:45, 15 minutes before our babysitter got to our apartment we were showered, dressed and ready to rock. Our instructions were clear, written down, and within 3 minutes, we were out the door headed to the subway. No friends, no Oliver. Just us. Brett and me. Let's talk about us. Us, us, us. Let's flirt, steal a few kisses, be coy, and pretend like we're on a second date. Giggles, swooning, dreaming...yum.

For this to work however, the first step to success meant we had to get out of the neighborhood because I am so damn sick of Tribeca I could die. So, off to Brooklyn we went. We were at the restaurant by 6:45 and we hung out at the wine bar around the corner until they called us. Wine. Perfect. I love you.

After downing my volcanic, earthy, dry red in 10 minutes we sat there talking about how everything in our life has changed. Instead of giggles, swooning and dreaming we laughed at Oliver's most current habits: his meat-head like grunts when he wants our attention, his want to walk even though he can't even flip over yet, and how he furls his brow, just like his daddy, as if to say to the other babies, "What the f$ck man?"

We watched a couple flirt... they were clearly on their 2nd date.  Amateurs. 

It was 7:30 when our name was called and while ordering dinner, we realized most of our friends probably hadn't even showered yet- it was still too early for their night to begin. By 8:45 we were paying the check and all we wanted to do was get to the subway and crawl into bed. 

We were home by 9:15, a full 45 minutes before we were expected, but it was freezing outside and it's not like we could just walk around. A movie would end too late, and coffee was not an option. So we just cut it short and called it a night. 

As we entered our building three adorable girls in their late 20's passed us on their way out. They were coiffed, slicked and glossed, all ready to jump start their night. They were probably going to the newest restaurant in the West Village.  They had loads of perfume on and they were oh yeah, oh yeah, working it. Brett and I were in bed by 9:45.  

As Brett whispered thank you for the best birthday ever, I laughed and said, yes, it was a perfect Saturday.

I could spend everyday with my boys.

Things that make you go Hmm....

For those of you who don't know me personally, I am a passionate reader. 

Reading has always been something that I can always count on to clear my mind, teach me new things and hell, just relax. I collect books like lip glosses. I seriously believe you can never have enough of either. It's hard for me to replace my current favorites, but when I do, if you're a bestie of mine, you can be sure I'll be gifting you that book in the near future. I do the same thing with lip glosses.

Anyway, I stopped in Barnes & Noble with Oliver this afternoon and meandered my way toward the kids section. While I don't need another kids book (Oliver is only 4 months old) I firmly believe a child cannot have enough of Shel Silverstein, Leo Leoni, or Dr. Suess.

That's when I saw it. And my reaction was...Holy Hell...wtFFFF.

There were, no joke, 60 strollers in the middle of the store.  I was sure there was an event taking place so I kept walking to check it out.  

Now I know Tribeca is the new family central in NYC, but I was not ready for the 100 or so kids under the age of 3, running around like they were on sugar-coated crack.  They were tearing apart toys, teaching themselves to walk and emptying book after book off the shelf and eating them. 

Where was the supervision? 

In the corners, in the shelf aisles and all along the floor, as it was in high school, there were cliques of nannies socially organized by race and geographical location. 

First of all I noticed these nanny's are NOT focusing on watching the child they are being paid to care for. They are eating and gossiping and talking on their phones.  I know. I eves-dropped on like 7 of them.

Second, what about the store's poor employees! Can you imagine yourself having to clean up after this mob goes home? I asked an employee if this happens everyday and she sighed and said yes. Oh shit what a crappy job.

And finally, I left thinking that B&N could be the most unsanitary place in the world now that I know every book has been in the sticky mouthes and fingers of every babe in the neighborhood. Talk about a place to get sick.

So what are the options?  

Work and leave your new baby with a nanny? Or stay at home and give up a few years of your career life? 

It's a tough call, and I'm finding myself caught smack dab in the middle.

Keep it to yourself mama...

From the moment you share the news that you're pregnant it can feel like you're getting hazed.  Everyone suddenly feels the need to "initiate" you by telling you what you're in for and how you have no way of prepping for what you're body has told you is already on the way. 

For the first 5 months of my pregnancy everyone told me how small I was, that I was carrying so high, and that if I hadn't thrown up yet you can be sure I would at any moment. For the last 4 months, they flip-flopped and decided I was too big, carrying low and should prepare myself for an excruciating 30 hour delivery with no medication, sleepless nights, and never going out for dinner ever again.

A coworker expressed disbelief when I didn't have a pediatrician locked in at 30 weeks. Strangers at dinner shot me dirty looks when I had a sip of Brett's wine. And when I ordered vegetable sushi a waitress wanted to know "if I was sure?"  My doctor assured me the occasional indulgence would not deform my baby.

And, it didn't seem to stop after I gave birth.  My doorman told me Oliver should be wearing a hat at all times. My cleaning lady expressed her concern that "el bebe cry mucho." And the checkout woman at Food Emporium actually told me my diaper bag was inefficient. The final straw, however, was my pharmacist at the old Dwizzel Rizzel (Duane Reade for those of you who don't live in my apartment).  I had a question about the formula I was buying. Well, instead of answering me, she exclaimed:

"FORMULA!???? HOLY HELL! WHY AREN'T YOU BREAST FEEDING!  GASP!

I'm sorry, but I didn't realize I needed to include you in my most personal of decisions you stupid-ass slut! Yes. Breast is best. I've heard it a million times.  But frankly, some of us can't and some of us frankly don't want to. You don't see me going around gasping:

"YOU'RE BREAST FEEDING! COVER THAT SHIT UP!"

No. I would never do that. I think it's a beautiful thing to be able to do.  But as far as I'm concerned breast or bottle, stay-at-home or working, nanny or day care, co-sleep or crib sleep, epidural or natural, public or private school, cloth diapers or disposable, you decide what works for you. It's not my business to initiate you into the club of motherhood. You'll figure it out. Everyone does.  

Here's a story in the NYtimes by Lisa Belkin which spoke about this much better than I did:

http://parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/01/13/why-does-everyone-try-to-scare-new-parents/?emc=eta1

Let me know what you think.

We did it America!

I'd like to raise a glass (my mug of morning coffee) and toast today.  

Today, W. and his loser wife Laura leave D.C., and we WELCOME the Obamas.  

We welcome their inspiration, their message, their love, their ideas, their thoughtfulness, their common decency, their sparkle, their radiance, their candor. We welcome their civic responsibility.  Hell, we welcome their international responsibility. 

Congrats America.  We did it.

Sunday stroll around the neighborhood...

Yesterday, Brett went for a run.

He was gone for a long time... longer than his usual jaunt. Just when I was starting to worry about him he burst through the doors insisting I've GOT to go down to Greenwich Street. He said everybody in the neighborhood is there, the police, the fire department and every news van in the city. So, I threw Oliver into the stroller and walked the few short blocks. And there it was.

The US Airways Jet that landed in the Hudson was sitting there. Just 50 yards from me on the lawn where my husband and I relax in the summer and play Scrabble. The engine is ripped off and while it's very obvious the plane is not in the best shape it is definitely and impressively intact. It is a shocking sight. Especially when it's sitting in your neighborhood's backyard.

I hope Sully gets himself front row ticket to tomorrow's inauguration. If anyone deserves it more than Bono, it's definitely Pilot Sully.

Here's a picture of Oliver with the "Miracle Plane" behind him.

What'd you do this weekend?

If you live in NYC like me, I'm sure you had a fabulous weekend.  

Despite the weather being a bit on the freezing side, I have no doubt you got your hair blown out, wore your fave Intermix dress that barely covered your girl parts and trotted down to Butter or Marquis, or wherever the hell you go, to booze it up and dance the night away. I'm sure you got home to your warm bed around 6am this morning, slept in till 4pm, caught up on all that beauty sleep you so crave, and then woke up and did it all again on Saturday night.

Well I think you're a whore.

While you were getting your hair blown out I was letting my hair air dry into a mess of frizzy, untamed curls. My baby needed his pacifier because he chucked it somewhere in his crib. And, since he can't look for it himself, I had to get it for him, thus missing my opportunity to blow-dry.

When you were getting dressed into your adorable low cut dress and saddling into a fresh pair of Manolos, I was putting on my mommy sweats again and gym shoes so I could be ready for anything Oliver throws at me, literally.

When you were coming home at 6am relishing the adventure that you were on for the past 7 hours, I was waking up.  Yup, I was starting my day as I've started my day, every day for the past 3 months and 19 days: Getting shot in the eye with a healthy dose of pee by the lovely boy.

But you know what?  It's all good.  

Because while you were out slutting around town I got something this weekend that made everything all okay.  Yup.  I sure did.  And my husband and I used it over and over and over and over again...all weekend.  For HOURS at a time.    

You want to know what we did ALL WEEKEND LONG?  

2 words for you.

GUITAR HERO. Yup.  We played Guitar hero on our wii ALL WEEKEND LONG. And let me tell you how AWESOME this game is.  We played, no, we ROCKED OUT, non stop. I can't wait till tonight.  I have a feeling we're gonna play again.

Whose the whore now?

Mmmm mmmm Chicky!

Ina Garten is one of my favorite cooks out there.  Besides DVRing all of her episodes on Food Network, I have every single one of her cookbooks and they are all my favorites. The newest one that just hit bookstores, Barefoot Contessa, Back to Basics is every bit as good as her previous ones. 

Tonight I cooked up the Tuscan Lemon Chicken and the Maple-Roasted Butternut Squash. Both were overwhelming easy and yummy. What I especially love about her recipes is that, if you like to cook, you will probably have almost half of the ingredients already in your kitchen.  

Check out the recipe for the Tuscan Lemon Chicken as it's featured on her website!

Photo:  Quentin Bacon 

Those things...

For one reason or another there are so many things that I promised myself I would NEVER do. 

For example, I swore I'd NEVER call my doctor at his home.  My father is a physician and I have countless memories of his patients calling in the middle of him reading a bedtime story to me.  I was pissed.  This was my daddy.  And this was my daddy time.  I even got mad at him for taking the calls.  He spends all day with his patients.  When he gets home, he should be on my clock. Me. Me. Me.

Well yesterday, low and behold, I got the flu.  My head, nose, stomach, legs and body felt like they were collapsing in on themselves and I broke down and called my doctor...at home. 

I did it. He gave me his home number years ago and I put it away vowing to never use it.  

But yesterday, I used it.  After I got the medicine I needed to provide me with some much needed relief I got a startling new perspective on my father.  

Thank God for him. 

Thank God patients felt comfortable enough to call him.  

Thank God he was willing to take their calls at 8pm, midnight and 4am.  

I don't know too many doctors willing to give their numbers to patients, but for the ones that do, I say it's more than okay to call if you really need to.  They wouldn't have offered it if they didn't mean it.  

Nowadays when you go to the doctor it's truly a freak show.  After waiting at least 45 minutes to see the doctor, you get 10 minutes of face time.  There's no time for Q&A.  And it's not like anyone follows up with you. They come in the room, check your chart, grab your wrist and take your pulse, jot down a few notes and leave. Their justification is they have so many patients to see in such small amount of time.  

Well I'm sorry, but when you go into a room of a sick patient, pull up a goddam chair.  

You think that person waiting for your attention is there because they want to hang out?  No, they're there because they feel like shit.  They are vulnerable and in pain.  They need to be walked through, in terms my baby can understand, exactly what you are going to do them and how its going to make them feel better. Period.  

So if you are lucky enough to find a doctor, who is willing to give you his home number in case you have a question you forgot to ask or are feeling kind of sick, dial those digits.  That doctor of yours cares about you.

The same way my father cared about his patients.

After my dad hung up the phone with his patient, we ALWAYS finished the bedtime story.

 

Jaded...

This is a snippet of my conservation tonight with Brett:

Brett:  It's so weird to think a plane crashed less than a mile away from our apartment this afternoon.

Alexis: Eh...

Brett:  Eh?  Really?  You don't think it's odd the plane is sitting in the water literally less than a mile away from where we are sitting right now, at this very moment?

Alexis:  Eh...

Brett:  EH????

Alexis:  This is New York.  Nothing surprises me anymore.

Truth be told, I'm thrilled and elated everyone is okay. It's because they are all okay that I can say "eh." 

If there were major fatalities a mile away from me then yes, you better believe I'd be plenty upset.  But there are not.  The pilot was the definition of perfection.  He should be bestowed the biggest honor a person can get and set an example for all of us to our jobs with such grace under pressure.  

All time fave 001...

Since over 75 million people have watched this, I know this is nothing new.  But Charlie makes me laugh hysterically every time I see this:

Hell hath no fury...

...like a Mama scorned.

If it's pouring outside, hailing even, and a new Mama drags her baby to the pediatrician's office for his first set of shots, a moment she's been dreading for weeks now, and a bitchy 21-year-old receptionist, who hates kids, tells the Mama that the appointment was for 10:30am not 11:30am and that she's shit out of luck, and so the Mama demands to speak with the doctor because surely the Doctor will show some understanding, but the Doctor says she can't bend her schedule because she has a lunch date with her new boyfriend, and the Mama's standing there soaking wet feeling like an idiot, and looks at her baby and sees him starting to turn beet red because he's pooping, and the bitchy 21-year-old receptionist tells her the next available appointment is in a month and a half, and her baby starts to cry because there's poop in his diaper, and she can't hear the bitchy receptionist because his screams are getting louder and louder, and she's soaking wet because it's pouring outside, hailing even, and she's so pissed because what kind of pediatricians office isn't flexible or understanding, and her poor baby is sitting in poo, and the Doctor just grabbed her purse, reapplied her lipstick and walked out the door, and the bitchy 21-year-old receptionist throws on her pink coat, grabs her leopard purse and starts heading out the door for lunch too.

Suddenly it comes to the Mama.

Her baby shat himself!

The new Mama asks the bitchy 21-year-old receptionist to hold off closing the office for a moment while she changes her baby before heading home in the rain and hail, and bitchy 21-year-old receptionist impatiently says okay but tells her to "make it fast," so the Mama takes care to walk extra slowly down the hall, find the bathroom, change her precious little boy's diaper, bundle him back up, say bye bye to the bitchy 21-year-old receptionist, and walk home happy and contented, because the Mama is imagining when the doctor and the bitchy 21-year-old receptionist get back from their hour and a half long lunch break, and have to pee, they will be greeted by a disgusting pile of used wipes and dirty diaper left on the counter that's been sitting there since they left, because the Mama wanted to show her appreciation for all their patience and understanding.

Mama's going to a a new pediatrician.

The Old Thermometer Trick...

It was awful.

We traveled to Minneapolis to visit my in-laws for Christmas.  

Even though it was a high of zero degrees everyday, Oliver had a wonderful time hanging out with his grandparents, playing with his Aunt and Uncles, and bonding with his new best friend Buck, the best golden retriever in the world.

So what could be so awful?

Constipation.

The poor boy just couldn't get his engine started.  Monday passed.  Tuesday passed.  And then Wednesday came.  After 20 minutes of Oliver bearing down with all his might, all we got was one little goose turd.  He was cranky, out of sorts and all together uncomfortable.

Brett and I decided we had to step up and help our little boy get his engine running.  We are parents right? So we pulled out the thermometer and stuck it in. Yes that's right. That's what we did.  He didn't seem to mind but boy did I feel terrible.  

Ironically, I know this is only the beginning.

There are going to be so many things throughout Oliver's life when I'm going to just have to bite my tongue. I will have to do exactly what I don't want to do simply because it will provide him with some relief.  

Needless to say, a couple of hours later the goose turds turned into the the normal lovelyness and Oliver was lighter in spirit and in body. I felt like a million bucks.

My my how life has changed. 

The hardest job in the world...

Ever since I was in high school I have had a job.  Hell, one summer I worked two jobs.

It's not that I had to work, it's that I loved earning a paycheck. I still remember getting my very first one.  My mother asked me what I was going to do with it and I said I would put it in my dresser drawer and save it to buy a home with one day.  She told me that's not how it works and then drove me to the bank to open my first savings account.  

I don't know if it was validation I was looking for, but getting a paycheck was instantly addictive. It gave me freedom, opportunity and the ability to make my own decisions.

After college, I officially entered corporate America.  After chugging an extra large dunkin' donuts coffee with loads of skim milk and sugar, my attitude was nothing short of a ready-to-work, can-do machine.

Fast forward 10 years.  

Married in NYC with a hubby and son to boot, the energy of the world has changed and suddenly I have a much different job.  And this job doesn't come with a paycheck.  

Mama/CEO*: Make sure Oliver is safe, happy and healthy. Make sure he's developing and growing.  Stimulate him, love him and cuddle him. Change all diapers, even the narsty ones. 

Being a Mama is 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. TGIF means crap because I know on Saturday and Sunday morning I'm waking up at 6:30am to feed the little bugger.  I don't get Martin Luther King Day, Labor Day or the 4th of July off.  If I have a headache or stomach flu, there is no calling in sick.  I certainly can't tell my screaming baby to turn the volume down because my head feels like it's going to explode.  There are no promotions from Jr. Mama to Executive VP Mama, there is simply Mama.  

Funny thing though...

Mama/CEO is the first job I've held where pay doesn't factor in at all.  It's a job solely about helping my baby reach his full potential in life by living morally and ethically true to his heart. And that's not just a huge job, it's the most important job of my life.  

One day, I'm sure in the near future, I will yearn for the quick high of a paycheck again.  

But when that day comes, it will be a breeze compared to the job I'm in right now.

*Mama/CEO's job description is identical to and no more important than Papa/CEO's job description with a few small differences to be discussed at a later date...

Economy getting to celebs?

I'm sitting here watching the Globes and all I can say is wow.  

Apparently the economy has spared no one because celebrity has never looked worse. 

Shame on:

Renee Zellweger: What???? Wait, really???

Zac Efron: You look better coming from the gym.

Sally Field: Did you just walk off the set of your Boniva commercial?  

Kevin Bacon and Colin Farrell: Lose the gel shit in your hair.

Drew Barrymore's hair: Uncomfortable to look at. You're not Marilyn. 

J.LO: Your opening golden outfit looks like the Oscar you'll never get.

Anne Hathaway:  Get out of your dark room and discover the sun.  

Amy Adams:  That dress?  Really? 

Brooke Burke:  It's time to make friendly with your aging self.

Tina Fey: This should have been your year.

Kudos to:

Bragelina: Always lovely to look at, even if you are a home wrecker.

Amy Poehler: You look fab for just having a baby! Share your secret.

Kate Winslet: Beautiful and gracious.

Jon Hamm: You are gorgeous.

Emma Thompson: Elegance defined.

Alec Baldwin: I'm always and forever a fan.

I watch to be inspired.

This year I can't even watch.

http://omg.yahoo.com/photos/golden-globes-red-carpet/2572/4#id=3

My New York...

...is where I moved to with my boyfriend into a 650 sqare foot apartment.

...is where I got engaged over a black and white cookie.

...is Tribeca.

...is working in the Flat Iron Building.

...is using the oven to store my wedding gifts.

...is brunch at Odeon, dinner at Ed's Lobster Bar, cupcakes at Magnolia, drinks at Spring Lounge and late night tacos at La Esquina.

...is where I live with my husband and baby in the same 650 square foot apartment.

...is walking the Brooklyn Bridge instead of the treadmill to lose the baby weight.

...is using the oven to store clothes my baby has outgrown.

...is down and dirty, disgusting Duane Reade.

...is Jon Stewart and Jim Cramer for entertainment.

...is Law and Order outside my building.

...is Udon, Pastrami, Paninis and Pasta sold at every deli.

...is humid summers, amazing falls, mild winters and perfect springs.

...is the 456 line.

...is Gourmet Garage for a Saturday afternoon snack.

...is Juan, Al and Sal.  The very best doorman a girl could ask for.

...is homeless men asking if the sandwich you are offering has mustard on it.  Because if it does, they don't want it.

...is sharing the pole on the subway with a 2 hispanic men, a french woman, 3 hasidic teenagers, an older chinese woman, a russian NYU student and a 9 month pregnant woman from the Bronx.

...is the best thing that ever happened to me.  

So Selfish...

It really is quite unbelievable.

First, you rent out your body for 9 months so he can grow.

Then, you deliver him, not exactly a painless task.

Then you feed him, burp him, change him, bathe him, dress him, soothe him, entertain him, swaddle him, sing to him, bounce him, carry him, and push him all over town.

Then you do it over and over and over again.  50 times a day.

For weeks, and weeks, and weeks.

And what do you get back?

Nothing.  Nada.  Zilch.

One day, somewhere in between feeding him, burping him, changing him, bathing him, dressing him, soothing him, entertaining him, swaddling him, signing to him, bouncing him, carrying him, and pushing him all over town, out of the blue he looks at you... and smiles.

And you realize, he's not as selfish as you thought.

One Armed Ninja...

I didn't realize being able to do everything with one arm was a skill, but it really is. I should know. See, I've been honing it to perfection over the past few months. Even Brett can now do everything with one arm. The only thing that differs between Brett and I is our technique.  I hold Oliver on my hip with my arm wrapped around his waist while Brett holds our boy like a football.

See, babies are considerate. They give you a choice:

A) Put me down and I'll scream bloody murder until you go psychologically mad.

B) Hold me forever and I won't cry.

Well, after you go psychologically mad, you quickly learn how to do everything with one arm.

Hold him and vacuum the apartment.

Hold him and search under the couch for the missing binky.

Hold him and check Facebook.

Hold him and brush your teeth.

Hold him and fluff the couch cushions.

Hold him and play Wii.

Hold him and cook Chicken Marbella.*

Hold him and blow-dry your hair.*

Hold him and give yourself a pedicure.*

The thing is, I don't really mind.  

I know I can't hold him forever and that right now, time, is completely precious. Soon enough he'll be squirming out of my arms so he can crawl the floor.  After that we'll eventually reach a point where he won't let me hug him in public or in front of his girlfriend.** 

So I'm not complaining.  

Nope. 

I will hold him for as long as he lets me.

*Expert ninja level only.

**By "Girlfriend" I mean "Girl that's a Friend."