Betsy: New Year, Schmew Year

Well, happy 2013 to all of my loyal readers! I have a long history of loathing New Year's Eve, and this year was no exception. We started the day by running out for a little family outing to the mall. I dressed my daughter as Sergeant Pepper, or Captain Kangaroo. Take your pick.

I now just adore dressing her for outings, and relish in people telling me my child is beautiful, cute, darling, etc.

I am totally becoming Patsy Ramsay.

No flipper yet, so don't get too concerned.

She needs some teeth for that, I've learned.

She cheered on IU in her Bumbo, wearing this little number.

When I put this little onesie number on her, I noticed that it was a little tight as I pulled it down over her head. When I went to remove it, I was quickly reminded that her head is in like the 90th percentile.

Damn, it got stuck.

Parents, you know this moment, at least those of you with big noggined children do.

Screaming ensued.

Up, down, which way do I pull it?

I made a split second decision and yanked it off over her head, knowing it had to come off at some point.

I think I removed some of her eyebrows and she may have relived her exit through the birth canal, had she been privileged enough to experience that in the first place.

It was awful.

Baby girl was in pain.

I rushed out to Trinity for consolation, thus cracking her ankle on the door frame. At that juncture, she lost her sh**.

Her mother had inflicted some serious pain on her, and she was going to go out of 2012 with a bang.

Lots and lots of screaming.

I nearly cried.

It's one thing to try to console a baby who is crying for some unknown reason. It's quite another to know it's because you are an idiot mother who put a too small onesie on her giant head and then rammed her into the door casing.

Guilt, I tell you.

Finally, things settled down.

T and I relaxed on the couch.

It was very different from my favorite NYE in Chicago when I famously announced to Courtney and Elizabeth that " I just made out with the band."

Courtney's response, "No, you didn't. You're drunk and you just went to the bathroom."

Touche.

You know who wasn't sitting around like old farts?

G's grandparents.

Abby and Papi sent this text of the two of them celebrating, Bonefish Grill style.

I love that place.

There weren't gloating at all.

Nope, not one bit.

They even wished us a happy new year!

Pat proves that she is indeed at my favorite place.

YaYa and Bob rang in the new year with their friends. This crew has been partying together on NYE for the past 30 years.

Mom reported things got particularly exciting this year, and most of them stayed until 10:30.

Woot.

Stinky hound guarded the beef tenderloin.

So the 60 something crowd (minus Pat who is still hanging in at 59) totally rocked it out.

We spent our eve watching our little lady fist pump, Jersey Shore style.

We are transitioning her out of the swaddle, and she currently is now sleeping feet out, and left arm out. She gets that left arm going in bed, and either fist pumps or roundhouses it like she's playing in a recreational women's softball league.

The NYE arm got pretty crazy.

She got it going at one point and was squawking and it was a bit like that moment in Roadhouse where Patrick Swayze decides to clean up the bar.

Only she didn't have a knife.

I was asleep by 9:15.

I won't lie about it.

You would know I was lying anyway, and then all blog relationships would cease.

This morning we drank our coffee from the beautiful hand-painted mugs that niece Caroline made for us.