Not about baby.

I'm just going to throw out there that I am not a fan of celebrities who dabble in fashion design. The Mary-Kate and Ashleys, the J.Los, the BeyoncePDiddyParisandNickyMileyHillaryMandyJessicas all need to sit this one out, thanks. (The Gwens and Justins - you walk right on by.) So when I heard that Sienna Miller - the most unstylish style icon since... I can't even think, I'm so blinded by the leggings - was launching a line (twenty8twelve), I was practically foaming at the mouth to mock.






Clean. Comfy. Nice little details and flattering oversizedness. Not only did you get to ball Bond (back when he was a regular bloke), you get to take credit for stuff I'd totally wear if I spent $500 on blouses. Damn you, Miller! (But I stand by my loathing of leggings.)

Thanks, www.dailykos.com

I know you all have seen this, but I can't get enough.

Electriclady, the TONY Kids subscription is yours!

It's like a giant, fuzzy erection on his head.

I had so many things I wanted to talk about - bedtime routines, sippy cup wars, 10-month-olds with excessive button pushing abilities - but then I stumbled upon "The Pick-Up Artist" on VH-1 and it's game over, folks. HOW HAVE I NOT SEEN THIS? I, who am on a first-name basis with every washed up rocker, wanna be model, and former child star this side of Chateau Marmont, have somehow missed out on the worst of the worst: "Mystery", a Criss Angel-ish mindfreak with a penchant for chin piercings and pimp hats. O to the M to the G, people. I will never get anything done.

I've turned off the TV. I was starting to talk back to it and that's never a good sign.

Speaking of pushing my buttons, is anyone else's kid driving them to drink? I love my boy more than life but I will sell him to the gypsies if he doesn't stop taking off his socks. The kid haaaaates having anything on his feet. Around the house that's fine - it gives him more traction for crawling, lets me know where I need to sweep (if he spends more than 2 minutes examining the floor, it's time to break out the broom) - but now that we're into overcoat weather, footwear needs to stay ON. Unfortunately someone's cankle situation makes wearing shoes almost impossible, making socks easily accessible and very, very tempting. It's like a ballet, our outings these days. He grabs a sock, starts to pull. I warn him not to pull, he pulls some more. I stop the stroller, put the sock back on, continue walking. He grabs a sock, starts to pull. I stop the stroller, put the sock back on. He grabs a sock, starts to pull. I ignore pulling, continue walking. He grabs other sock, starts to pull. I grit teeth, continue walking. He drops sock on NYC sidewalk, puts other sock in mouth. I grab dirty sidewalk sock, put back on foot. Remove clean sock from mouth, put back on other foot. He grabs dirty sidewalk sock, puts in mouth. I yank sock from mouth, shove back on foot. He grabs other sock, drops on sidewalk. I grab both socks, throw them in back of stroller, and announce that he will now have cold feet. Ignore "bad mother" stares from passers-by. Lather, rinse, repeat with bibs, diapers, washcloths, hats, spoons, and sippy cups.

We're full-on into the "You're Not The Boss of Me's" and I'm DONE, peeps. I thought that shit didn't start until the Twos. 12 hours of back labor! 45 minutes of reconstructive surgery! I'M THE BOSS! (Stop trying to flip over on the changing table and listen to me for a minute, dammit!)

Uh-oh, we have crying...

I'm back. Poor kid, his body is doing a number on him. Not only does he have 5 new teeth coming in but, having just mastered crawling, his body is now pushing him to stand. Which means we've gone from up-on-all-fours-in-his-sleep to up-on-his-knees-clutching-the-crib-for-dear-life-in-his-sleep, which means no sleep. Dude, I am done with no sleep. And to all those strangers who natter on about how one day he'll be a teenager and sleep for days - BRING IT. Ba-RING it. Mama needs a nap.

I was planning on launching a commiserate-a-thon about how he was refusing to be rocked - straightening his arms and legs against me like a cat avoiding the vet - but today I stumbled upon a sure-fire sleep inducer: "The Wheels On The Bus". By the time I got to the parents on the bus, Baby Boy was making snoozy noises against my chest. The drawback? The song will never leave your brain.

The wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round
'Round and 'round
'Round and 'round...

At least I've stopped thinking about the TV.

They also mentioned becoming a book publishing professional...

So I'm sitting here eating pumpkin bread and taking a career quiz (which is exactly the same thing I did last night, only with empanadas) and feeling more and more grumpy. Maybe it's the sugar talking but does anyone else feel a profound sense of guilt over the fact that they stayed at home while their partner worked? I realize that this question applies to (counts fingers) very few of you but I've been feeling the squinty eye of shame and am twitchy to fix it. My husband works ridiculously long hours for a job he hates. I go to the pool. He spends an entire day lesson planning and teaches class at night. I get sleep-drunk kisses and make lunch. I'm not saying that motherhood is easy (we alllll know I'm not saying that) but I'm not hauling rocks. (For now. We haven't hit potty training.) I've considered getting a job but even at my best wage we'd still be trading work for childcare, and at least now there's a chance that I'll book a commercial or something. But I hate watching my husband dread his day. I also can't help noticing the fact that my infant is looking more and more like a child. Maybe it's the new teeth (the poor kid's got FOUR coming in, all at the same time) but he looks so pre-school, which makes me wonder what I'm going to do with myself once he IS in pre-school, which is why I'm taking career tests and eating unwisely. So far I've taken a somewhat floaty test that told me that I was an adrenaline junkie and should consult a Higher Power and one from the Princeton Review that told me I should be - wait for it - an actor or a writer. Granted it also told me that I'd make a fine archaeologist, antiques dealer, priest, cosmetologist, disk jockey, inventor, philosopher, and secretary, so there you go.

Any of these sound like something I should pursue? Because at this point I'm taking suggestions. (Although I can tell you right now that the Clergy is out.)

More on the boy tomorrow. I've got pumpkin bread to eat.

For the record, LAMEST PROJECT RUNWAY SEASON EVER.

Two quickies before the kid hits meltdown.

1) Does anybody know how to get these ads above the fold? I've messed with the sizes but nothing is small enough. I know some of you use Blogger and have ads; what sizes did you use?

2) Anyone want a free subscription to Time Out New York Kids? I have a buy-one-get-one-free deal and don't know who to give the other subscription to. First come, first served!

More later. The boy is going to eat through the drywall if I don't get him outside soon.

Maybe it was the hat...

Have I mentioned how much I hate taking the kid along to auditions? Aside from the crowded offices, the "will he/won't he" meltdown anxiety, and the saccharine charms of professional children, you've actually got to get the kid there. Gas prices and traffic may be upsetting but I challenge anyone to emerge from a rush hour subway ride - with an infant and 20 lb. stroller - unscathed.

It started out so well. As I was preparing to hump the stroller down the subway stairs, a smiling middle aged man offered to help. As we made our way up the steps he smiled at the babe, telling him how cute he was, how he loved his smile. And then -

"You want to come to my house, don't you? You want to come home with me? You can come to my house -"

Imagine this said in a squeaky little girl voice and you will understand the creep factor. I practically ripped the cart out of Freaktone's hands trying to get the boy away. The guy quickly mentioned that he had a daughter, calming me a bit, but a word of advice: Middle aged men who coo creepy nothings? Mention your kid before launching the Gacy voice. I was about 10 seconds away from pulling out the keys. (Always go for the eyes.)

Unfortunately I hadn't escaped the weird. As we were sitting on the train, a young, artistic-type (piercings, Docs, heroin teeth) wandered towards us.

"What's he going to be?" he asked, tapping the stroller.

"Whatever he wants to be."

It was clear that this was not the answer the wannabe Basquait was hoping for. He stood there grinning uncomfortably, waiting for me to continue.

"What do you think he should be?" I asked, playing along.

"An artist. If you want better art, create a better world," he said, smiling broadly.

"Amen."

Rule #1: Careless use of religious epithets may inflame the crazy.

"Babies are born knowing Jesus' name," he said, sensing a fellow believer. "Hellfire and damnation reign when sinners unite."

Yeah. Wow.

Luckily we only had to go 3 stops so it was a quick escape. I pity the poor fools headed to Brooklyn.

Alas, I don't think I'll be "carrying on" with Tim Gunn. I was paired with a comedic genius and swallowed whole. Ah well. At least I got a story out of it.

Did I mention that he's 9 months old and occasionally wears a 2T?

I have had a week, peeps. As I mentioned, the hub hurt his back something fierce which meant
- no lifting
- no bending
- no standing
- no walking
which meant life at Chez Bebe was all mama, all the time. Being the sole provider of house managing/baby wrangling is a serious time suck. And little dude isn't even fully mobile!

At least the week has been interesting. We had our first injury, crazy sleep developments, a new tooth... I've also been on a baby food making kick which is surprisingly fulfilling. Clearly sista needs a hobby because the the fridge is CRAMMED with unmarked baby food jars filled with unrecognizable goo. Poor Matt, he has no idea what he's feeding the kid half the time. ("For lunch we're having green stuff and orange stuff and maybe some of this lumpy stuff.") It's ridiculous how proud I am when the boy likes something. He's like my personal Tom Colicchio. (They're both round and bald and opinionated.) If you have some time, do a search for baby food recipes. Crazytown. Granted, I pride myself on my ability to hit "puree" so I'm not exactly breaking ground but some people take it to whole. new. levels. (There are parents who braise.) Not to toot my own horn (toot!) I've managed to come up with some real winners this week. I realize that exactly two of you have babies near Babe's age, but this is the closest I've come to being creative in months so bear with me. Baby Boy's favorite breakfast concoction:

- plain organic whole milk yogurt (for fat)
- a scootch of baby cereal (for iron)
- Irish oats (for lumps)
- organic flax seed oil (for... something good)
- banana lumps (the kid likes lumps)
and the crucial ingredient:
- avocado chunks (it is a fruit!)

Sounds weird. SO GOOD. The avocado makes it a pretty color when you mush it and the banana works well with the avocado and the flax gives it a nutty flavor without the potential trip to the ER. Kid eats it for days. I pre-make it at night because ain't no way I'm messing with that many ingredients at 5 am.

Another top hit:

- Pumpkin/peach soup! (I can't take credit for this recipe, alas.) B is obsessed with pumpkins so I bought him a small one at the farmer's market. If I'd known they'd charge me $3 for it I would've made the kid wait but he kissed it and hugged it and called it George so when it went south it seemed a shame to just toss it:

- 1 c. diced pumpkin (use a small sugar pumpkin unless you're a glutton for punishment)
- 1/2 ripe peach (or a whole one, if you like things on the sweeter side. I totally cheated and used Trader Joe's canned, BTW. They pack it in white grape juice instead of syrup which allows me to pretend that it's healthier)
- 1/2 cup cooked brown rice (again, cheated with TJ's frozen version)
- chicken stock (see: peach/brown rice cheatation. Mama doesn't have time to raise chickens. She does, however, have time to talk in third person.)

Scrape out the innards and peel the rind (the labor intensive part, for whiners like me). If you like to roast the seeds, by all means do. I find it more trouble than it's worth, but that's me. Dice up the pumpkin flesh into teensy tiny pieces for faster cooking. Add the peach. Cover pumpkin and peach with stock and simmer for 20 minutes. Add the (already cooked!) brown rice and simmer an additional 10 minutes. Puree. It sounds gross but trust me, you could charge for this stuff. (It always elicits an appreciative "GOOB!" from the critic in the bib.)

Anybody else's kid refuse to self-feed? Now that sleep has settled down, feeding has hit the fray. Someone - NOT SAYING WHO - wants nothing, I mean nothing, to do with finger foods. Scratch that - he loves finger foods, he just feels that they are better served by the fingers of others. Place a sippy cup in front of him and Baby Napoleon will shriek at it a bit, then try to pick it up with his mouth. If you try to place the offending Cheerio/steamed carrot/sippy cup near his reach he'll recoil his hands like a prissy Frenchman. (No offense to prissy Frenchmen.) It's not like he can't pick it up - the kid has fantastic fine motor skills. Leave him be and he'll happily scoot around the apartment picking up every stay piece of cat litter and lint. And it's not that he doesn't want to eat it - he makes it quite clear that those delicious Cheerios belong in his mouth. (So clear. Soooo clear.) He also feeds himself with a spoon, sort of, with significant help from the sidelines - he just doesn't want to do the dirty work. He has fed himself a few times, but unfortunately my enthusiastic reaction to the chunk of banana he put into his mouth was so exciting he decided to put every piece of banana in his mouth, and it seems that stopping him from choking to death harshed his mellow because he hasn't tried it again since. Web advice veers from the sane (keep offering it, eventually he'll want to do it himself and you'll rue the day you ever wished for self-feeding) to the less sane (strip him naked and let him fingerpaint himself with his food! Hey, why don't you get naked too?) to the ridiculous (if he won't feed himself, refuse to feed him! If he's hungry enough he'll eat, by god. Babies just do this to control you). I've never met a 10-year-old who couldn't feed himself so I'm assuming that he'll sort this all out but if anybody has any advice, aside from stripping and starving, I'm all ears. (We've also hit the "drop food on the floor and see what mama does" phase. I was so hoping we'd skip that one.)

So you want to hear the latest on sleep? Prepare yourself. This morning I woke up and the sun was almost up. I looked at the time:

6:45 am

I peeked my head into his room (had he perished in the night?) but there he was - head resting on the crib bumper, legs propped against the side, blankie in his mouth, staring contentedly out the window. I have no idea how long he'd been awake or why he'd been so quiet, but I know I liked it. I'll let you know tomorrow if it was a fluke. Speaking of tomorrow, I need to hit the hay. I have a callback for a commercial spot with Tim Gunn. Carry on, Ali! Carry on!