I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have changed several times since then.

I have a lot of Alice moments.

Nick and I went out to check on his boat last weekend to make sure it was still afloat. And it was. With the new engine and whatever else, it doesn't take on water like it used to.

While we were there, he looked around, and said that he'd bought it almost exactly two years ago. Scant weeks before we met. Two years ago he was single, buying a boat prior to turning 40, and contemplating eternal bachelorhood.

And now there he was sitting on his boat with his wife and son.

So I was thinking about where I was two years ago in contrast to now. And now is worlds better. And so vastly different.

Then yesterday I realized that Monday was the three-year anniversary of Lemon Gloria. Three solid years!

And I forgot! Sorry, LG.

I started the blog heartbroken, as so many people do. I wrote and I cried daily. And of course, threw myself into dating. Because that's the best thing to do when you're heartbroken and not ready.

I began to chronicle my dating frustrations. And I wrote about my family ups and downs, and ultimately the death of my father. And I wrote about Nick. His proposal. Our wedding. My pregnancy. Our Jordan.

It's been a varied ride.

But currently I feel like I've taken on this new identity - one in relation to Jordan, and to Nick - and in the process, lost some (much?) of myself.

I mean, I think it's necessary when you have a new baby to be all about the baby. His needs are so great, and so immediate. And you can meet them. And honestly, when he looks at you and smiles, it just squeezes your heart so tenderly and so hard at the same time.

I've never felt anything like it.

But at some point Refugee (who, I should add, is a friend of mine, and included this in a compliment to me) referred to me as a mommy blogger - albeit an interesting one - and this caught me up short. Because since the arrival of the kid, that's pretty much all I talk about. And think about. And subsequently write about.

I'm a mommy blogger.

And I've started to wonder who I am anymore. My life has become so narrow. I love this window to the outside. But does the world really need another mommy blog?

And am I am boring the tar out of you all?

I'm still on maternity leave. I spend the bulk of my time with Jordan. I don't have random encounters on the street. In fact, I often don't leave the house. I don't even change my clothes daily.

Mostly, I write about one topic: my baby.

Which, now that I think about it, is probably preferable to writing about my vagina. I'm not sure.

The early struggle for only childhood

Turns out, I had a cold when my brother was born.

This was one of the pictures I scanned for my dad's slide show. I quite like how my mom looks a little stunned, my dad has clearly had his attention caught by something to the side of the camera, and I am staring down the photographer.

We moved from India to Bangladesh a couple months before my mother's due date. Bangladesh had just gained independence, and medical care was better in India. Plus, all my mom's doctors were there.

So she decided to deliver in Delhi.

While Betty and I we were on the plane from Dacca (now Dhaka) to New Delhi, I apparently asked the following:

"Mama, when the baby gets to New Delhi, can we not go get him?"

Sleep and suspect lullabyes

Doesn't he look like he should have a can of Bud in one hand and the remote control falling out of the other?

You kind of expect to see a bag of potato chips on the floor and hear the game blaring out of the television. I mean, except for the fact that he's asleep in the arms of lovely Jenny. But if he were on a couch...

So lately, we've begun fighting sleep. By WE I mean the sleep pirate.

His eyes will get all tired and pink and puffy and he'll yawn and not, but still insist that he IS NOT TIRED! NO! What he really wants is to EAT! Or LOOK AROUND! Or CRY!

But sleep? No! Nonononono!

Apparently this is exactly how I was as a baby. I am lucky Betty didn't feed me to the wild dogs. Which is what I wanted to do with my brother. But that is a whole nother story.

What I have learned, though, is that he doesn't actually know what he needs. What he needs is more naps. This leads to not melting down at night, thoroughly exhausted.

And so I have begun forcing naps upon him. Which makes him a much happier baby.

Just not in the pre-nap moment.

Most of the time, leading up to the nap is a struggle. He'll fall asleep after nursing, and I'll think I can ease him into blanket and bed like I used to. And suddenly he's wide awake. And not happy.

So I have begun to swaddle him tightly, lay him with his head on my chest, rock, and sing to him.

Although if you know me, you will know that I don't sing. I can't carry a tune to save my life. And I'm self-conscious. Unless you know me really well, you likely will only see me mouthing words. Even to songs like Happy Birthday.

Plus, I don't yet know a lot of lullabyes.

But you know, he's my baby. And also, he doesn't know the real words yet.

So we have this continuously made up version of Lullabye and Goodnight.

I start with all the lines I know. And then continue on, sticking as closely to the tune as I am capable. Which is not very.

It's all done very calmly and sweetly. Even when I use profanity. Which is regularly.

Lullabye and goodnight.
Close your eyes and sleep tight.
I know that you are tired,
And you do not want to sleep.

Lullabye and stop your crying.
It's annoying as all hell.
I'll truss you up like a little turkey.
You sleep better when you can't move.

Lullabye my little sweet pea.
You are cranky and now so am I.
Mama wants to have some breakfast(/lunch/M&Ms/Valium/you name it).
So I wish you would just fall asleep...

A day in the life of an itty-bitty pirate. Arrrr! Gah!

Itty-bitty pirate tries on his outfit.And has a pre-marauding snack.And then snuggles into the car seat. On the way to the high seas, of course.Happy Friday!

Fodder for the teen years

I never, ever thought I'd say this, but changing diapers is not really a big deal.

I was absolutely dreading the poo. And then I started changing diapers, and I'll be damned if what every single other parent has said wasn't exactly true.

When it's your own kid, it's fine.

It's a little weird, in that breastfed babies, at least in the beginning, have this yellow poo that looks like Dijon mustard. It even has those little brown grains in it. You could totally picture it on crusty bread with lettuce and ham.

I mean, if it weren't poo, of course.

These little brown grains are remarkably sticky. They get stuck everywhere, and you kind of have to scrape at them, very gently, with baby wipes.

I've realized that this kind of activity could be useful, you know.

Because one day, one day, when Jordan is a belligerent teenager, I am going to be fully prepared with the following.

That I not only wiped poo off his butt and smeared his anus with butt paste. No, not only that. I also scrubbed those little grainy brown mustard poo chunks off his little balls.

Nobody is going to want their prom date to hear about that.