Week 14: Singing!

 

The last time I saw my CD copy of PJ Harvey's Dry it was nestled in the console of Magda's car. This was about two years ago and I think its very possible that she rocks out to tunes like this on her ride over to yoga class.  She can still pick out a Smiths tune in the first few bars thanks to the fact that I had The Queen Is Dead on repeat from 1992-94, and I am pretty sure she know who The Creatures, Bikini Kill and Faith No More are.

We often have music appreciation at home and when I sing to the baby I generally skip the usual lullabies - because honestly, I don't know any- a stick to songs like Brand New Key and this one, Mairzy Doats, which turns out was a favorite Layne family ditty that Rob and I both sing to the boy, loudly and with much enthusiasm (see the previous post about Rob's singing career doing Cher covers,) sometimes until Desmond cries and we are forced to stop. 

If you listen carefully in the video above you will hear PJ Harvey's You Said Something playing in the background over Desmond's singing.  If he grows up with the talent for music it won't be anything he's inherited from his parents, but we sure hope to impart the same excitement and enthusiasm that we have for music, and maybe, just maybe we will get matching outfits and become the Layne Family Singers and entertain you- until, of course you cry and we are forced to stop.

Three Months Old!

 

Desmond can tell it better than I can, but its been a big few weeks:

• I have gone back to work, and the transition has been easy for him, and not as easy for me, but not in the ways I expected: Desmond can eat. EAT. Sometime the multiple bags of frozen breast milk only last until noon. Sometimes I sit at my desk and wonder if I really will bust if I don't get off the phone and pump, already, which have already turned into me speeding over to the sitter's house and nursing, all before my west coast clients have had their first coffee.
• Desmond has been to two Roller Derby bouts, and has already made some baby-friends there; He met his first girl-baby last weekend and it went as you would expect- all eyebrows and coos. Lock up your daughters...
• This is a transcript of a text message from Rob, to me, this morning. Rob was keeping an eye on the Eat Beast while I spent the morning at the office: "I may also have to give him formula before you get home, and there is pee all over the loveseat."
• Coming up: Desmond will be attending his second wedding, wearing feetie-pajamas in 6-9 size as he is nearly as tall as his Daddy, he's working on the Journey songbook in case they need another new singer. All in a day's work.
•  Its hard work being the baby.

Week 12: The ButtStamp Of Approval! (Or, Desmond is Better Than CATS!)

I wish I could add sound effects.

Many of you have asked about how our household (some meaning the two of us as parents, some asking about sleep deprivation, but mostly meaning The Cats) has adjusted to a new baby.

The answer? Doing OK. I admit to a sleep-deprived meltdown and the house could be cleaner, but whatever, I would rather make faces at Desmond than wash dishes. I eat lots of sandwiches off paper towels. Sometimes these sandwiches don't include bread. Sometimes a sandwich is three tablespoons of peanut butter. Don't judge.

The Cats, however, alternate between behaviors; often they want to participate in family snuggle time. They lick my toes. Sometimes they meow and make sweet kitty face as one of us feeds them. They have smelly breath. Very often I chase them down to administer various medications to keep the mean geriatric felines alive. Mostly though, they act like jerks and put their wee-banana-slice-kitty-butt all over everything. We have a mesh tent over the crib to kitty proof...it doesn't work. The evil destructive monkeys touch everything with wet noses, gritty paws, butts and leave a trail of hair letting everyone know exactly how much they enjoyed sleeping in the basket full of diapers. On everything. Everything. 

Everything.

Every. Thing.

Desmond has not yet expressed any interest in the kitties. He is more interested in his own feet, laughing at his own farts and splashing in the bath tub. (Check out the photo pool for more pictures.) I can't wait until he corners one of them. I do love The Cats, don't get me wrong. But The Cats have been demoted. At this point the level of poop, drool and vomit has reached critical mass, and (forgive me) the baby can't clean his own bottom or bring me presents caught in the yard.  There are only so many butts and noses I can clean off in a day. I don't even have the chance to put my sandwich on a sandwich some days. The Cats are now second class citizens. Don't judge.






Everything. 










Everything.

WHEE! EVERYTHING!