Talking with an someone I rarely see, but who has been following my social media since college:
Her: “How’s your nephew Tyler? Or as you guys call him, The Boog?”
Me: “He’s good! I love how I haven’t seen you in like 15 years but that you know my nephew’s name AND nickname.”
Her: “I mean….you posted about him a TON. Way more than you even post about your daughter.”
Me: “Yeah well I feel like it’s way less obnoxious to be like LOOK HOW CUTE MY NEPHEW IS than it is to say it about your own kid. Like when you say it about your own child, it’s annoying.”
Me: “But when you say it about your NEPHEW, it’s not annoying.”
In case you’re wondering what this guy looks like in real life….
I’ve had this photo in my possession for 48 hours, and I literally cannot stop looking at it and laughing. I’ve made it the background of all my electronic devices and it has increased my quality of life by about 65%.
The look on my nephew’s face perfectly captures how every baby must feel about all the ridiculous shit we adults make them do.
If Auntie Em has her way (and I will, because I am relentless), a framed, poster-size copy of this photo will 100% be the centerpiece on every table at his Bar Mitzvah. So help me god.
(Continuation of I Love Babysitting )
My sister and brother in law have a bar mitzvah on Long Island, so tonight’s the night Eric and I lube up the baby and watch him crawl across the hardwood floors, an opportunity we missed during Lubegate and have regretted ever since.
If that goes well (how could it not?), we will break out hockey sticks and use the baby as a puck.
We will then stick him in a huge steam pot with pasta, dump red sauce on him, sprinkle him with parmesan, take a photo, and advertise him on craigslist as a gourmet spaghetti-and-meatball dinner for 10.
And to think I don’t even charge Steph and Andrew for my services.
The entire family is here in the Outer Banks (OBX) for our annual 2-week vacation, but Jeremy doesn’t arrive until Thursday…
It had been a while since I’d seen my therapist, so I had a lot to catch her up on. I told her about my upcoming family vacation in the Outer Banks, and that I was excited because I had invited Eric to come along. I also told her about my weekend in the North Fork babysitting my nephew, and how funny it was to see him next to slightly older babies who were crawling and walking, as he has yet to do anything but sit and occasionally roll over (one way only). I said it would be interesting to see if he was able to do anything new by the time we go to the Outer Banks mid-August. She smiled politely through all my babbling, and then chimed in….
Therapist: “Well that’ll be really nice to have him at the beach. He should be mobile by then.”
Me: (skeptical) “Eh…I doubt it. He’s pretty fat.”
Therapist: “Oh, um. Oh…I didn’t know…”
Me: “No, you know what I mean. Not in like a bad way. He’s just a total chunkster. I call him my little porkpie.”
Me: “No, like, endearingly. He’s just a tub-a-lub. I just can’t imagine him walking any time soon. Like how is he supposed to get those lumpy doughboy thighs off the ground?”
Therapist: “Oh…but…is he able to do his physical therapy?”
It was at this point that I realized she was referring to Eric, who recently had ACL surgery. NOT my chubby 8-month-old nephew.
Me: “Oh my god…wait…you think I’m sitting here telling you Eric is a fat chunk who won’t walk any time soon?!”
Therapist: “Oh! You’re talking about the baby!”
Me: “Yes! Eric is not too fat to walk!”
Therapist: “Yeah you never mentioned him being fat…I thought maybe he gained some weight after surgery…”
Me: “I do not call Eric ‘my little porkpie!'”
Therapist (laughing): “Ok, good…”
It was at this point that I realized my therapist, who is responsible for my mental sanity, thinks I’m a terrible, twisted human being.
Eh. I’m ok with that.
My nephew, figuring out how to blog so that he can get Auntie Em back for all her baby-shaming posts.
Sang some nursery rhymes to my baby nephew last night…
Me: “Patty cake, patty cake, baker’s man….bake me a cake as fast as you can….rollllllllllll it….
(long, confused pause)
Me: “Do something elllllllllse to it….”
Brother in law: “Pat it! You gotta PAT it!”
Yeah, well, fuck this. Auntie Em doesn’t bake.
I don’t get it– my sister and brother in law are totally fine with me calling my chubby-cheeked baby nephew “little porker” or “my little pork pie,” but the second I suggest we stick an apple in his mouth and roast him over a fire, they get all weird.
You would think having their photo taken would be the ONE thing babies would be good at, given that they are so damn cute. But let me tell you something– babies are TERRIBLE at taking a selfie. Like, shockingly bad.
I tried taking one with my nephew all night, and he would not cooperate for ANY of them. He either blocked my mouth with his little alien hands, made the “I’m totally shitting myself” face (likely because he was), gave himself six chins, or stuck out his tongue like a drunk uncle. It’s like he was purposely TRYING to take the world’s first photo that Valencia couldn’t fix.
Luckily I Magic Hour-ed that shit and managed to filter out all the drool. It doesn’t matter WHOSE drool it was, guys. The point is, I fixed it.
Because I am good at things, baby nephew. Pay attention to your Auntie Em and maybe you’ll learn some things. You know, important things. Things EVERY SINGLE Kardashian knows how to do.
On an unrelated note, I should never have children.