The Walk to 160 Pounds

I'm starting a new series wherein I pretend I'm a real photographer, who does serieses. A real photographer who knows the plural of series is series. Weirds. You pretend that I didn't take all of these photos on my broken camera, which can only be accomplished by physically holding the lens on the camera in exactly the right position so that the broken "hold the lens on the camera" latch doesn't release and the camera doesn't get all shitty with me and flash "error, error, error, the freaking lens is not properly attached to the freaking camera." Grrrrrr. You also pretend that I don't have a brand new camera (A Nikon D3000) with two beautiful new lenses (lensies?), sitting in a box on the floor of our kitchen, a birthday present from my parents, who are now thinking, "what is wrong with you, open the box and figure out how to use the new camera."

Haven't you all learned anything about me? I fear change. Also, in case you've missed how I mention these things constantly, or maybe you're new: I can not stand for anything to be sticky, even temporarily; I am mercilessly anti-clutter; I obsess regularly about the passage of time and the steady growth of my litter of children; I'm addicted to chai tea lattes; and I hate messy crafts and/or messy art projects for children of any sort.

[[Funny aside. Today was my work day at coop preschool and our delightful Teacher M tried so hard to distract me from the fact that Ess was purposely doing this thing that drives me batty. She digs her fingernails into the ink pads set out on the art table for finger print picture making and pushes down until all the ink collects in this horribly bubbly puddle under her hand and I melt down into a psychotic, incoherent mess of a mother who's all, "if you do that one more time, you are done finger print painting," which is absolutely the worst thing I could possibly say because OF COURSE she does it again to test me and we are then engaged in a horrible power struggle at preschool and she is sitting in the hall pretending to cry but secretly delighting in the fact that she can drive me certifiably insane by squishing ink into puddles.

So yeah, Teacher M was all "How are you, Stacey, and isn't it wonderful how they are exploring with the finger printing today? And how is your puppy? And how was your weekend?"

Me: I can totally see over your shoulder, Teacher M, because you are short and because my daughter is looking me in the eye taunting me as she makes ink bubbly puddles and NO! That is not exploring! That is intentional horrible mess making and there is a difference! "Great, perfect, thank you, essthisisyoursecondwarningIamnotkidding."

Teacher M casually glanced at Ess, "Oh. Look at that, Ess. Doesn't that feel weird. Isn't that a neat feeling in your fingers?" Meanwhile, I have lost it, "Three! Done! Ohmygodwashyourhandsandfindsomethingelsetodorightnow!"

Teacher M: You are psychotic. (She didn't say that, but I'm pretty sure she thought it.)

I believe I failed coop preschool parenting today. I'm not sure that I care. End of long funny-in-an-I'm-absolutely-crazy-way aside.]]

Where the hell was I? Oh! Yeah! Look. Distraction. Puppies. Babies. Cuteness. A photo series.

The walk to 160 pounds.

Week Six.


Dear Hampton Noodle,

Your howling at night is annoying. Be quiet. I barely have tolerance for the sleep I've lost to the croupy human baby in this house. A whiny puppy is over the line. Also, it makes my milk let down. I haven't nursed anything for eight days and I'm trying to let go and be happy about moving on to the next phase of my life. I object to laying awake with a painful boob that has responded to your pitiful yowls. You pooped under my dining room table twice this week. There is absolutely nothing adorable about that, my friend. Curb it. While we're on the subject of not very endearing: Chewing on Nate's leg, standing on Nate's stomach and snarfeling in Nate's ear like there's a gourmet meal in there. Not to give you a complex, so on the positive side, it is absolute hilarious when you can't walk after you eat because your stomach is too big for your legs. You make that really cute puppy grunt/snuffle noise when you fall asleep in my lap. The fact that Matt has to get up with you all night amuses me. You weigh eight pounds.

Week Seven



Dear Hampton Noodle,

Hello? Hampton? You are not a human child. That is not your chair. (Nate, I'm sorry. You are not replaced, I swear it.) You have an aversion to grass. It's pissing me off. You are a dog, dude, that's where you pee. Thank you for sleeping through the night. I run a tight sleeping-through-the-night-required household and I appreciate your getting on board with that. The kids love it when you chase them around the basement. That may not be the case much longer. You weigh ten (!) pounds.

Okay fine. Maybe it is your chair, but only because I like it when you sleep. (Nate, I'll get you another one. Don't worry, the joke is totally on the dog, he won't fit in that chair in two weeks.)

This post completely exploits the creative genius of Panic Room Ryan for satirical purposes, except that I employ far less beautiful models and command a pitiful lack of photographic talent. His Walk to 40 Weeks series is stunning. I'm hoping he'll think this is funny and won't sue me or anything. Ryan? Email me before you sue me.