I'm back...and back to blogging. How were the holidays? Well, let's just say they didn't go quite as expected.
I think the best way to handle this is to let the numbers do the talking...
3: # of hours of sleep I got the night before we left for Chicago, mainly due to someone (::cough, cough::) waking up, inexplicably, at 2:30am and then staying up until 3:30am.
4:15: the time of day (am) that my alarm went off on the day we left
30: # of minutes Scotty decided to sleep on the plane out of a 3.5 hour flight, yet was remarkably well-behaved. Me, on the other hand? A stress-bucket.
1: # of methed-out Vegas party dudes that also sat in our row on the plane
approximately 2,215: # of Christmas cookies I consumed during the course of the week
130: amount (in pounds) of dog that lived in my parents house during our one week stay.
1: # of people who cried it out during our second day in Indiana. Scotty went on an all-offensive sleep strike for the first 72 hours of our trip, leaving me in tears and Brian having to deal with two, helpless, crying humans. I cried it out, Scotty got rocked to sleep.
2: # of snow storms we endured while in Indiana
86: # of pictures I took when Cousin Ben arrived
45: # of minutes Scotty howled during Christmas Eve dinner
6: # of different sleep options we tried when the little monkey went on his sleep strike. Pack 'n' Play bassinet (weight limit: 15 lbs), bottom of the Pack 'n' Play, Pack 'n' Play in my sister's room, Pack 'n' Play in my closet, sleeping on the floor in my closet (I nixed this one as soon as I realized his sleeping accommodations rivaled a POW's), and finally, stuffing the Pack 'n' Play with a bunch of pillows, putting the bassinet part back on, and calling a day.
10: # of degrees the old rocking chair actually moved when attempting to rock. I was all nostalgic about this ("I am going to rock my son to sleep in the same rocker my mom used when I was an infant!") until I realized that 31 years ago, baby stuff really sucked. After this rocking chair, I practically vaulted both Scotty and I out of our state-of-the-art glider that we have in Vegas upon our return. Our glider requires little to no leg action; the rocking chair: let's just say it was worse than spin class.
65: degrees, in Fahrenheit, that my room was constantly at. Mind you, we only had Vegas-ized pjs for the Bear (snap-ups with no feet) and the Bear insisted on kicking off his socks on a nightly (hell, hourly) basis. All of this equals....one very cold baby and one over-tired mother.
.5: # of thumbnails lost during an over-zealous nail clipping session with a well-intentioned aunt
15: # of minutes I cried when I saw Scotty's bloody thumbnail
4: # of hours it took me to drive Brian back to Midway during a blizzard
3: # of times a night the Bear decided to wake up during our entire vacation
4: # of days earlier I returned to Vegas, tail between my legs, consumed only with the idea of having my once-pleasant, sweet, well-mannered child return to his normal self
1: # of pieces of luggage Southwest Airlines lost upon my return home
15: # of tears shed to the woman at the Southwest counter when I told her my breast pump was in my lost luggage
3: # of people at Southwest Airlines who had to listen to my whole sordid tale about why I have to pump, how Scotty never really latched on, how my milk came in late and why I never went to 'just formula.'
$50: amount of money Southwest Airlines refunded us. Probably to just shut me up so I would stop blathering on about my damn breast feeding issues.
101: my temperature upon my return
4: number of joints in my body that did not work (mainly, both elbows and knees) when my temp was up, causing me to howl to Brian that I cannot do this without his help, he cannot go off to work and leave Scotty and I to fend for ourselves, and please, please, please stay home.
2: # of minutes it took Brian to decide that he was still going to work that day, mainly to escape a hysterical wife and screaming infant
*************
So, yeah, Christmas didn't go exactly as planned. My visions of everyone wearing matching pajamas singing along to Christmas carols as I played the piano did not materialize. But, I guess the take-home point is that we survived, Scotty survived his first (and second) plane ride, and I realized (sadly, as noted my mom) that I have 'acclimated' to Vegas weather.
I am, however, so happy that Scotty and Ben had a chance to meet. It was Jake, my brother-in-law, who pointed out that they could easily be fraternal twins; their facial structure is different, but they are very similar in terms of height, weight, head size, etc. They were so sweet together and I am so happy we got some really great pictures. We did a little 'family photo shoot' on Saturday morning, and Scotty and Ben were definitely stars of the show. I will post the professional pictures soon -- there is a picture of them, kind of in a baby pile-up, that is so adorable. Scotty is posing on the bottom, with his arms crossed, and cousin Ben is on top, head up, grinning at the camera. I still can't believe the photographer managed to get both of them smiling.
In the meantime, though, enjoy some Bear and Benjamuffin shots:
I think the best way to handle this is to let the numbers do the talking...
3: # of hours of sleep I got the night before we left for Chicago, mainly due to someone (::cough, cough::) waking up, inexplicably, at 2:30am and then staying up until 3:30am.
4:15: the time of day (am) that my alarm went off on the day we left
30: # of minutes Scotty decided to sleep on the plane out of a 3.5 hour flight, yet was remarkably well-behaved. Me, on the other hand? A stress-bucket.
1: # of methed-out Vegas party dudes that also sat in our row on the plane
approximately 2,215: # of Christmas cookies I consumed during the course of the week
130: amount (in pounds) of dog that lived in my parents house during our one week stay.
1: # of people who cried it out during our second day in Indiana. Scotty went on an all-offensive sleep strike for the first 72 hours of our trip, leaving me in tears and Brian having to deal with two, helpless, crying humans. I cried it out, Scotty got rocked to sleep.
2: # of snow storms we endured while in Indiana
86: # of pictures I took when Cousin Ben arrived
45: # of minutes Scotty howled during Christmas Eve dinner
6: # of different sleep options we tried when the little monkey went on his sleep strike. Pack 'n' Play bassinet (weight limit: 15 lbs), bottom of the Pack 'n' Play, Pack 'n' Play in my sister's room, Pack 'n' Play in my closet, sleeping on the floor in my closet (I nixed this one as soon as I realized his sleeping accommodations rivaled a POW's), and finally, stuffing the Pack 'n' Play with a bunch of pillows, putting the bassinet part back on, and calling a day.
10: # of degrees the old rocking chair actually moved when attempting to rock. I was all nostalgic about this ("I am going to rock my son to sleep in the same rocker my mom used when I was an infant!") until I realized that 31 years ago, baby stuff really sucked. After this rocking chair, I practically vaulted both Scotty and I out of our state-of-the-art glider that we have in Vegas upon our return. Our glider requires little to no leg action; the rocking chair: let's just say it was worse than spin class.
65: degrees, in Fahrenheit, that my room was constantly at. Mind you, we only had Vegas-ized pjs for the Bear (snap-ups with no feet) and the Bear insisted on kicking off his socks on a nightly (hell, hourly) basis. All of this equals....one very cold baby and one over-tired mother.
.5: # of thumbnails lost during an over-zealous nail clipping session with a well-intentioned aunt
15: # of minutes I cried when I saw Scotty's bloody thumbnail
4: # of hours it took me to drive Brian back to Midway during a blizzard
3: # of times a night the Bear decided to wake up during our entire vacation
4: # of days earlier I returned to Vegas, tail between my legs, consumed only with the idea of having my once-pleasant, sweet, well-mannered child return to his normal self
1: # of pieces of luggage Southwest Airlines lost upon my return home
15: # of tears shed to the woman at the Southwest counter when I told her my breast pump was in my lost luggage
3: # of people at Southwest Airlines who had to listen to my whole sordid tale about why I have to pump, how Scotty never really latched on, how my milk came in late and why I never went to 'just formula.'
$50: amount of money Southwest Airlines refunded us. Probably to just shut me up so I would stop blathering on about my damn breast feeding issues.
101: my temperature upon my return
4: number of joints in my body that did not work (mainly, both elbows and knees) when my temp was up, causing me to howl to Brian that I cannot do this without his help, he cannot go off to work and leave Scotty and I to fend for ourselves, and please, please, please stay home.
2: # of minutes it took Brian to decide that he was still going to work that day, mainly to escape a hysterical wife and screaming infant
*************
So, yeah, Christmas didn't go exactly as planned. My visions of everyone wearing matching pajamas singing along to Christmas carols as I played the piano did not materialize. But, I guess the take-home point is that we survived, Scotty survived his first (and second) plane ride, and I realized (sadly, as noted my mom) that I have 'acclimated' to Vegas weather.
I am, however, so happy that Scotty and Ben had a chance to meet. It was Jake, my brother-in-law, who pointed out that they could easily be fraternal twins; their facial structure is different, but they are very similar in terms of height, weight, head size, etc. They were so sweet together and I am so happy we got some really great pictures. We did a little 'family photo shoot' on Saturday morning, and Scotty and Ben were definitely stars of the show. I will post the professional pictures soon -- there is a picture of them, kind of in a baby pile-up, that is so adorable. Scotty is posing on the bottom, with his arms crossed, and cousin Ben is on top, head up, grinning at the camera. I still can't believe the photographer managed to get both of them smiling.
In the meantime, though, enjoy some Bear and Benjamuffin shots:
Striped Bear with the Benjamuffin
Pardon?
Bear to Ben: I love you, Cousin.
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