We are actually not a fan of Tummy Time (not to be confused with Tatey Time, which rates quite highly in Remy’s book.) Most of the time we look around for a couple of minutes, then peck at the ground a few times like a baby bird before faceplanting in the blanket, which of course worries our Mommy to no end.
We’ve found another tactic to avoiding Tummy Time, though. We just plop onto our side.
This is our “idea face”.
Once we’re there, though, we’re not entirely sure what our next move should be.
“Now what do I do??”
It’s evening now, and I’m sitting near the kitchen with all the lights off; all the better to see the sky outside going grey. The leaves on the trees in the backyard are nearly fully out, which means soon our neighbors’ windows will be blotted out, and between the owls and the squirrels and the occasional opossum, it’s easy to glance out the back and imagine we live alone, in a forest somewhere. Then the neighbors drive up, with their gangster music blaring, and the illusion is shattered. Oh well!
Remy will be two months old tomorrow. I am beyond enjoying my role as a stay-at-home-wife-and-mother, though I have found I have to stay busy in order to not feel like I’m taking advantage of the position. Somehow, in the bustle and routine of the schedule, I have found my creative streak again. Or maybe it was taking up word puzzles again that did it–or, perhaps, my promising myself that I wouldn’t get on the computer when Ephraim is awake, which gives me plenty of time to think aloud to a most willing (and adorable) audience.
I’ve got a goal for myself: to get my Etsy site back up and running by the end of the month. I think I can do it…I think I can…
I was nursing my son this morning when I was struck with serious Xanga nostalgia.
Eight years ago, next month, I started this site. Two years ago I abandoned it. I think I’d like to come back.
There’s nothing like Xanga, or there was…Xanga isn’t what it used to be.
Everyone I know has stopped writing here. Facebook took over the important updates. Xanga was for writing.
I’ve forgotten how to write.
I gave birth to our son eleven days ago. (I did have to count on my fingers to come up with the number.) His name is Ephraim, his nickname is Remy.
I don’t really call him by either.
It struck me this morning (shortly after the Xanga nostalgia waxed and waned) that we refer to Ephraim by any and all sort of pseudonyms except for the one on his birth certificate.
Froggy. (Which then leads to many rounds of “Froggy Went A-Courtin'”)
Little Man. (I use this one a lot.)
Toots. (Won’t he love that when he gets older?)
I guess now is the time to exhaust our capacity for embarrassing nicknames, before he really understands them or can protest their use.
I’m wondering, though, how long it will take for his real name to stick?