Tofu Nation

The only thing that can make this shirt better is a pocket protector.

Who doesn’t want to hire this professionally-dressed Little Person? I mean, she’s on her way to CEO-dom!

Now, if only it came in adult sizes…

When your life is radically changed to include 3 a.m. feeds, poop talk, rushed meals, and an all-around inability to form complete sentences or thought, you take what you can get at “happiness.” And being home all day with an 11-week-old makes you redefine what makes life so great.

HAPPINESS IS…

…pairing up all the socks in the laundry. Hallelujah!

…stealthily putting on baby sunglasses in the store and taking a photo without waking the square-jawed one.

…ordering books online at 11 a.m. in the morning and receiving them in the mail THAT SAME DAY at 4 p.m. (Perk to living in the same city as Amazon!)

…being able to spend an hour ALONE at the dentist. (I know, it’s kind of a sad happiness.)

…having a glass of white wine with Jay at a semi-nice restaurant for lunch. Ruby was asleep (but then awake) and I had to eat with one hand. But as I said, baby steps. Baby steps.

…enjoying the Little Poop who makes us smile every day with a look, a sound, a move.

Little Rubes, we love you so!

Do not adjust your screen. This is not a distortion.

Yup, that is Ruby, in all her triple-chinness.

As Rube the Cube fills out her square dimensions like some Cubist painting, I am finding it increasingly hard to carry the (not so) little one around the house.

Unfortunately, that is exactly what Ruby has been demanding these days. The Carry and Jiggle Move does nothing to calm her nightly Nuclear Meltdowns — I use both words in all their seriousity — but at least it makes her parents feel like they’re doing something.

The result? I am left with a very sore right arm. This problem can only get worse as the Cube goes on to fulfill her genetically predetermined Baby Mass Index.

So the next time you see me and notice my right arm bulging disproportionately to my weak-assed left arm, I want you to tell me how good I look.

Yes, above the nuclear-crying din and in spite of my exhausted, aged face, PLEASE, tell me how good I look.

I don’t get why people want to live on a golf course.

(First, full disclosure: What I know about golf consists “Tiger Woods is crazy good;” I hit maybe 19 out of 100 balls at a driving range once; I suck at miniature golf; and we live on the border of an exclusive gated community that’s on a golf course.)

That said, I am surprised how coveted and premium a home on a golf course is around here.

Hello? Fast moving solid ball + glass windows = High possibility of broken panes? Or worse, Flying ball + passer-by = Chance of head trauma? What about one too many instances of “FORE!” shouted outside your bedroom window?

Makes me want to go out there with a bad case of Golf Rage and overturn a cart.

Since Rube the Cube entered my life, I have had to make a painful adjustment.

For food-crazed Dot, that means fine dining restaurants are now out of the question. When we do go out, my new eating routine is Fast, Faster, Fasterer!

I have developed and honed that rare talent bestowed on all new moms known as the One Minute Chew. Put any meal in front of me and I will finish it in under 60 seconds.

I will not be polite, I will not chat, I will not wait for other people’s food to arrive, I will not chew with my mouth closed. It’s all Dots for themselves at this point.

Because (a) I never know when the Cube will wake up and fuss; (b) I never know when the Cube will wake up and fuss; (c) I never know when the Cube will wake up and fuss; (d) All of the above. Don’t forget to triple the pain for fussing in a Public Place.

It’s like holding your breath and watching a clock for an alarm you don’t remember setting, for a time you have no idea about, expecting to hear an extremely annoying ring that doesn’t turn off.

And oh, there’s no sleep button on this clock.

I took a nap right after breakfast.

I discovered this thing that tasted really yummy. Hello, HAND!

I took another nap.

My mom strapped me into the car seat. She was singing nonsensical songs, opening her eyes really wide, and rocking the car seat at the same time to entertain me. I was enjoying the show so I didn’t tell her that I actually LOVED getting into the car seat. Maybe next time.

I read a book. (Looks like my dad is reading to me, but that’s a technicality.)

I had what is described in infant parlance as Explosiria Pooptamnus and got a new outfit. My mom tried to justify the pockets — those darned pockets — by stuffing a tissue into one of them. I think I looked silly.

I attempted to levitate from my shame. Alas, only my feet succeeded.

Ruby is a genius.

I can tell because she is talking to me.

Trust me, this baby is this close to solving the Riemann Hypothesis: That’s how smart she is.

Take a look at these photos.

Ruby’s Brain: “Why do these peons bother me with such silly questions?”

Ruby’s Brain: “Told you I’d beat you in speed chess. So where’s my milk?”

Ruby’s Brain: “These computing FOOLS at Design Commission have got nothing on my Ruby on Rails skills!”

Ruby’s Brain: “I’m not only intellectually superior, I dress better than you. Uh-huh.”

Ruby’s Brain: “You are getting sleepy, very sleepy…now listen to me and undo this swaddle!”

Ruby’s Brain: “Eureka! I’ve got it! Now where do I send in my Nobel Prize nomination?”

Men and women of the jury, I rest my case.

I have a problem with the communal bathroom key.

Think about it.

Firstly, you’re assuming the Bathroom User ahead Of You (henceforth referred to as BUOY) washes his or her hands before returning the keys.

Secondly, you’re assuming the BUOY places the key in a relatively sanitary area of the bathroom.

And lastly, you are of course assuming that BUOY is not holding the key while doing the business.

Hell no.

Now that Ruby’s all of nine 10 weeks old, I face a conundrum when I take her to the doctor’s.

You see, there’s a discreet corner of the waiting room that is reserved for “well newborns,” ostensibly so bigger sick kids don’t pass germs on.

She’s well, but is she a newborn?

Up till a week ago, I merrily pushed the pram into the section. But now that Rube the Cube is growing and looking all of her 12 pounds, AND getting on in age, I wonder if she still qualifies as a newborn.

I didn’t want her to be the awkward Giant Kid surrounded by Two-Day-Olds, so I did the next best thing by hanging just outside the “newborn” zone, all the while furtively looking around and hoping we didn’t get beat up by the 10-year-old terrors in the “real” waiting room.

And since we’re considering size, I’d like to know when Ruby in her carseat qualifies for the HOV lanes on the highways.

Or should I invest in a blow-up doll for now?

Recently, Ruby has developed a — How shall I put it? — severe aversion to something. We’re not sure what. We’re guessing it’s gas/constipation/invisible gnomes punching her in the face.

It goes something like this.

I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine. Gurgle, gurgle, smile, gurgle. I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.

WAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Not fine.

Nothing will appease the Crying Munchkin. No diaper change, no breast, no amount of jiggling will make the crying stop. Just make it stop, for the love of God!

Once, and just once, we heard a loud ass BURP, then the crying stopped.

Oh. I. See.

These days, when she winds up for the Cry That Launched A Thousand Blood Pressures, I throw her over my shoulder and start whacking the burp outta her.

I hate to admit it, but the gnomes are winning.