I Am Much More Cheerful Than This Post Would Indicate.

So. That happened.

And by "that" I mean I spent Christmas Eve night hunched over the toilet in fervent prayer to ye olde porcelain gods as a raging 12-hour stomach bug had its way with me.  It wasn't pretty, it wasn't pleasant, and only my husband will ever know the full extent of what he cleaned up for me that night.  Suffice it to say that it was maybe the most thoughtful and self-sacrificing Christmas gift ever.  Nay, perhaps "Christmas Miracle" is not too strong a word for his actions.  But my perspective could have been skewed by the fact that I was incoherent with the vomiting and the diarrhea and such.  I might also be half-convinced I saw Elvis in a Santa hat streaking naked through our back yard out my bathroom window, so my impressions of that evening should likely be taken with a grain of salt. (A really, really big grain of salt.  Perhaps a salt lick?)

So the whole family has been through that bug and back again, and we're all well just in time for New Year's Eve.  Also, just in time for me to realize exactly how boring we have officially become as our NYE plans consist of a bottle of champagne (which I keep forgetting to put on ice - one sec - okay, done!) and probably several hours of me whining about my husband playing Gears of War 2 instead of hanging out with me because there is nothing more interesting to do.  If we're feeling frisky, we may break out the Scrabble. (And not Strip Scrabble, either. Also not "Scrabble" in the euphemistic sense, but the actual game of Scrabble.... which, incidentally, became way less interesting to play together after I scored an opening Bingo with "tornado" on my first turn when we played one time at a bed and breakfast in Maine and do you love how I am rambling this sentence on in the hopes that you'll just go ahead and realize there's nothing useful to be read in this post?)

Oh 2008.  You brought us Milo, for which I am forever thankful, and of course the candidate on whom I have pinned my hopes for a better future for my country ... well, he got elected. (Obama Mama - Hollah!) but beyond that I'm struggling to find anything else that was good to mention.  I mean, we are fortunate to have a roof over our heads and my husband is still (for the moment, anyway) employed -- allowing me to continue my decadent lifestyle of Pop Tarts and network television -- and on that point we are doing better than a lot of other people.

2007, for us, was the year of The Miscarriage, the year of the Herniated Discs, the year of Appendicitis and Emergency Surgery.  It was the year my husband was on travel for about 4 months straight and the year my Grandmother died.  So 2008 was a year of such high hopes.  And yet here I sit without my winning lottery ticket or a million-dollar idea to change the world and take early retirement.

So, I guess what I'm saying is: 2008 was my year of the status quo.  And I suppose, given the alternatives, that is probably just fine with me.

But 2009? If you could somehow drop a big bag of money on my head, or wake me up in the middle of the night with a really supremely awesome way to change the world or at least move somewhere closer to a nice beach? That would be really Quite Okay with me...

I seem to have misplaced my cheer, but I'm hopeful I can locate it somewhere in 2009.  In the mean time, I've still got my sense of humor and - really - what more can I ask for?

Happy New Year, Internets.

One and Two and Three.

First there was just one.  He was one, he was only, and he was ours.  He was perfection, and we spoiled him with abandon.

Then there were two.  There was one and there was two, separate but equal in the eyes of the house.  Everything was a division -- Mom and Dad, Big and Little.  One-to-one defense, if you will. A constant attempt to be fair, and spoil them equally.

Now there are three.  Where there was once a competition between one and two, now I sit here on the sofa next to our tiny three.  One and two climb the stairs, engrossed in animated discussion, off on an adventure that will doubtless end in one bedroom completely destroyed.  But there are bad guys to be vanquished and heroes to be made.

Three is tiny and helpless.  Three has his mother.  One and two seem to understand this.  They have each other.  And they break my heart with the sweetness of it.

All Jacked Up!

Rounding out our week-long-ish rotation of "Photos of my Offspring!" it is now the turn of the eldest.  The Jack.  The impish/angsty teenage man in the body of a sturdy 5-year-old.  Do not mess with him, he will charm your heart... and THEN break it by telling you "Mom? Can you go take a shower? Like, right now? Because you smell REALLY bad."  Even if you just showered and, really, it's your breath that stinks because how were you supposed to know the kid would want to kiss you before 8am?  And who brushes their teeth BEFORE their coffee, anyway???

You have been warned.

Ignore the possessed demon baby. I was too lazy to fix red-eye.

One of the many "action" poses in his repetoire.

Action pose meets Thanksgiving headband.

At his Kindergarten Thanksgiving feast. He is obviously too cool for his Mama.

The Faces Of Tobin

The Son Also Rises.

Picked Up The Phone, Gave You A Call.

You might have noticed I haven't been around much lately.

You wouldn't be the only one to notice.

My husband? He has noticed, too.  And as I've been physically in the room with him, that I haven't been around much is kind of a big deal.

I don't feel terrible.  I'm not moping or staring blankly at walls.

Not yet, anyway.

But after going 3 days before I remembered I hadn't had a shower, and looking blankly at my husband when I said "Wait, it's DECEMBER already?!!" because, honestly, I was at Thanksgiving and everything and it's not like I suffered "lost time" but I honestly couldn't tell you what I did the last month.  Except watch lots of TV and keep 3 children alive.  Oh, and install a floor, but that might have just been a manic episode.  Or pathological home improvement.  But I have spent the past 2 months getting from beginning of day to end without a hint of anticipation for the next.  I'm going through the motions but, as my husband gently pointed out to me, I'm not really here.  He also gave me a hand squeeze or two and reminded me that it's okay to need help, and that nobody expects me to make this all better on my own.

Which is to say, internets, that I made a phone call today.  I have an appointment Thursday morning.  I'll be shaking hands with my old friend Zoloft.  

Hopefully I will soon remember the feeling that life is full of joy and not just a trial to be muddled through as best I can.  Hopefully I will rediscover an enjoyment of writing, of cooking, of quiet afternoons.  Hopefully I will rediscover what it is like to look forward to... well, anything.  And then, hopefully, I will truly be back... and maybe I'll even find joy in telling you about it.

Wish me luck.

Photos Will Have To Do.

What, You Didn't See Me?

Because I was so totally here.  I just, uh, wasn't posting.

Yes, it is November again and this marks the first time in 3 years that I have decided NOT to participate in the insanity that is NaBloPoMo.  (National Blog Posting Month for the uninitiated).  And I thought I would feel a lot more guilty about it, but mostly I feel relieved - like a kid on a snow day who didn't study for a test.

I have not been feeling my blog mojo lately.  I think this is likely due to sleep deprivation and perhaps a touch of the blues.  Oh, and also due to pathological home improvement, but I'm not posting photos of my finished living room floor yet... Oh No, I am not.

You see, my darling husband, Mister Big Daddy, got called away at the last minute to the Czech Republic and I'm tormenting him by making him wait until his return to get the full effect of my efforts.  So all y'all will just have to wait until after tomorrow to see what my crazy hath wrought.  (Trust me, though, it's pretty spectacular. I am officially In Love with the TrafficMaster vinyl flooring planks.  Like laminate - but cheaper! Also can be installed by a crazy person, such as myself, wielding only a box cutter and a pair of flat-nosed pliers.)

Dear TrafficMaster, I just gave you the most awesome recommendation EVER.. on my website.  Because I installed your stuff in a fit of post-partum nesting frenzy and I still managed not to screw it up too badly and it looks quite nice.  How's about you send me a few gajillion dollars because, really, who doesn't want a positive review that includes words like "Crazy" and "Box Cutter"?!  

Sincerely, 

Crazy Mother of 3 Boys (and yes, I realize the "crazy" is redundant there.)

So.

Um. Wait, what were we talking about again?  I seem to have lost that train of thought somewhere between removing a soaked pull-up from Toby and sipping at my cold coffee while eyeing his Cheerios.  Is it wrong to steal breakfast cereal from your toddler when he's not looking? I figure he'll never miss those 3 pieces, unless he smells them on my breath.  He's sneaky that way. I think he's going to be a detective some day.  Or maybe a train conductor, what with the Thomas & Friends obsession.  But hopefully not the creepy guy who asks all the neighborhood kids to come over and play with the trains in his basement.

I'm suddenly realizing it's probably not a great idea to post in my current condition.  And by "condition" I mean when one's husband is across an ocean and very likely enjoying himself some Viagra gingerbread.  No, really.  Here's the photo:

Apparently Czech gingerbread is famous.

I'm hoping it's not for the reason this would indicate.

Thankfully, Big Daddy is now on his way to Prague to catch a flight that will eventually bring him home again.  I'm pretty sure he packed half my brain in his suitcase when he left.  I'm hoping he remembers to bring it back again, and that it hasn't been displaced by souvenirs for the boys and suspicious gingerbread wrappers.

The Balance Myth.

This is why you love me: Because I will rear my head in your airspace to drop a rant on a random Friday morning.

Today's myth to be busted: "Mothering Balance"

It's dangled out there in front of us as the epitome of "doing it right".  Find that balance! The elusive "work-life-mothering" balance.

Allow me to pose to you a radical and revolutionary idea for our time: There Is NO Such Thing As Balance.

Life is not balanced, and whenever I attempt to ponder this mythical "balance" I find that the hours in my day are spent in the planning and pondering instead of the actual living.

Instead of running ourselves ragged attempting to live up to some sort of balance, let's just admit that - most of us? - we muddle through as best we can.  Some days we do too much work, some days too much playing with legos and too few dishes.  The only balance I expect to achieve is to get to the end of the day and not feel like I've screwed anything up too badly.

So, please, Oprah? Regis and Kelly? GMA Ladies? STOP with the deluge of "experts" telling me how to find Balance.  It doesn't exist.  Like unicorns or decent laundry stain remover, I believe it's a pretty legend that exists only in the minds of the believers.  

I hereby declare that I will no longer concern myself with finding the Balance.  I'm going to concentrate on completing the essential tasks of the day and using whatever time is left in whatever way I see fit.  

And what do you know, so far it's working out pretty well.  Apparently when you stop trying to figure out how to find something and just start Living your life On Purpose... the balance will take care of itself.

*Disclaimer: The above was written by a mother of 3 while holding her six-week-old infant. She got 4 hours of sleep last night.  She hasn't finished the laundry but she vacuumed her whole house yesterday, fed her family, packed a school lunch, cleaned the toy room, nursed the baby a dozen or so times, and she may or may not be typing this at her kitchen table while pantless.  Which is to say she's doing pretty well in her assessment, and has not wasted a moment of her precious time wondering if she is "balancing" all of her responsibilities and goals well.  Later today she plans to go to the playground with her toddler and perhaps lay a new floor in her living room.  This is Life: Lived On Purpose, but not necessarily As Planned.

Still Standing. (or Laying Down, as the case may be)

I know you thought I had abandoned you.  I keep doing these periodic check-ins and then disappearing again.  And I know you forgive me, what with life being totally taken over by the Infant Overlord and his co-Dictators, the Demanders of Snacks.

I'm still here.  WE'RE still here.  I'm still getting over this cold/virus/what-have-you, which includes coughing up things I have only ever seen in my nightmares until now.

Today marks 6 weeks since Milo joined our little posse.  I can't imagine life without him... all glorious, 12 pounds of him.  No, that's not a typo.  He came into the world at 9 pounds 14 ounces, left the hospital 10 ounces lighter, and by his two week check-up had gone up to 10 pounds 7 ounces.  At his one month he was up to 12 pounds 5 ounces.  His pediatrician chuckled and said "So the breast feeding is going well, then..."  Um, yes.  Also, I am thinking of attaching a storefront to my chest and selling it off as soft serve ice cream.  (You're welcome, PETA.)

Also at his one month check-up, the doctor noticed a heart murmur.  

So today is going to be spent having my lady parts inspected by my cheerfully silly OB (whose jokes remind me of my Uncle George) and a visit to a cardiologist who will inspect my tiny wonder and declare him perfect.  We're not discussing any other possible outcome, because my head might explode all over the clean kitchen and then someone would have to scrape brain matter off of the light fixtures.

Which is my offhand way of saying I am doing my very best not to Freak. Out.  Because murmurs are incredibly common in babies and children, and most of the time they are entirely benign.  And still, knowing this, if I think too much about it I start to break out in a cold sweat and my own heart skips a few beats, as though it is trying to send them straight to Milo's heart - just in case it's not as strong as it should be.

The thing is, though, you see... MY heart is not as strong as it should be when it comes to my boys.  Add in the lack of sleep, the lack of clothes that will fit this tired, stretched out body, and the uncertainty of everything right now and... well... there just has not been a lot of me left over to pour out into this chronicle we call "blog".

So forgive me if I continue to be a little sporadic in the posting.  Rest assured I am coping quite well with the post-partum part of all of this.  In fact, I'm getting ready to lay down a new vinyl plank floor in our living room, and the carpet installers will be here this week to replace the old carpets with lovely new carpets.  New carpets which have never been used as a litter box by cats, dog, or small humans. (Seriously. Toby's idea of potty training this week was to give the playroom carpet a fecal frosting.  It was lovely.  I'm taking the cost of the therapy, which I'll need in order to recover from the horrors, out of his college fund.)

But just so you know that we're still here... and perhaps so you can understand when I spend the few minutes I find in the day that could probably be used for writing to instead gaze at his wonder... I present, once again, Milo. 

Happy Halloween

Do you know what scared me today?  That I realized I forgot to fax in my forms for BlogHer Ads.  (Hi! If you are reading this, I am sending them today. Please don't burn then in effigy to my stupidity. Thanks!)

Yes, I will hopefully be adding a little adverts column over there <--- or perhaps over there --->

Moving right along...

Here is what you came here for.  I know you don't want to hear from me right now, because even I don't want to hear from me. (Except to share that the pediatrician confirmed Jack's ear infection this morning.  FUN! Games! Excitement! PUS!) Excuse my sarcasm, apparently someone forgot to put the magic happy dust in my coffee this morning.  I'll try to find it by tonight, otherwise my happy clown costume will have to be a sad clown instead.... and nobody likes the sad clown, do they?

Here are the photos from Jack's school carnival last week.  I'll try to take more costume photos of the kids at trick-or-treats tonight, but I make no promises because I am still coughing up green fraggles.  I might need to go to the doctor myself, but I'm running on Dr. Allie's "you are only sick if you acknowledge you are sick" theory, which only works if you are someone who should totally know better. 

This public service message brought to you by the number Q.  Also, I might need to go lay down now.  But first, here's one more photo of Milo... because I can't help myself.

The Roof Is On Fire.

Hello, Internets. Have you missed me?  

I'd go into detail about where I've been, but that would involve a detailed description of the things I have been coughing up and nobody needs to read about that.

Between being sick, taking care of sick kids, and - you know - not sleeping (what with having a newborn in the house and all) we are trying to refinance the mortgage and going along with Toby's plans to slowly potty train himself.  Oh, and the mountain of laundry threatens to consume us all.  Remind me, please: in case of an avalanche, you're supposed to put your arms up over your head to make a hole so you can breathe, right?  I'm assuming that works as well with dirty sweat pants as with snow.

Which is to say "HALP! I am losing my mind! Please send a nanny, a case of mallomars, and a check for 1 million dollars!"

Yesterday was a really special day.  Allow me to share it with you.

The appraiser was due at 2pm to scope out the house and determine if we can refinance to a low, 30 year fixed rate.  The alternative would be sucking it up with the ARM adjusts next fall and waving bye-bye to any hopes of funding the kids' collective college educations.  So, yeah, we really need the house to appraise.

In front of our house sits a huge Bradford Pear tree. 

There are two things you should know.  First, Bradford Bears are notoriously weak trees. Builders love them because they grow fast and give the illusion that a new neighborhood has some foliage, but they are infamous for toppling in strong weather.  Second, our neighborhood and all of the streets in it are named for some variation of the word "Wind".  

You can see where this is going.

So yesterday I'm minding my own business, getting ready to run the steam cleaner over a few spots on the carpet to prepare for the appraiser (because every little bit helps, right...?) when the power goes out.  Since we only have a cordless phone I had to rely on my cell phone.  That's when I noticed the batteries were almost dead, and realized that this would probably be the day that Jack fell and re-broke his collar bone and of course the school wouldn't be able to reach me. (which didn't happen, but have I mentioned that the day he broke it to begin was the first time I had gone more than 10 minutes from home in months?  And I had to turn around and come back without even getting inside the kids museum we had driven almost an hour to get to? Yeah.)

So Toby, Milo and I trekked to our local MegaSuperCrazyMart to get me a car charger because, really? I don't already own one of those? But no, I didn't. So we got one.

We pulled back up to the house and I immediately thought "Hey! Where'd that huge hedge in the middle of my yard come from?"  And then I realized that it was actually one third of the tree.  I would have taken a photo of that sight for you, but by the time I got the car unloaded and got the kids in the house and got lunch started... well, here:

Yeah, see. Now 2 parts are down.

And that last part? It's pointed right at my living room.

So there was a dilemma, the solving of which involved me, my pregnant neighbor, a hacksaw, and reluctant assistance from my (skeptical, bordering on terrified) home appraiser (who arrived minuts after I did).  Also, as the last portion of tree began to fall its controlled fall and veered horrifically towards the house... well, let's just not say anything to my mother or my OB/GYN about me leaping into the air and swinging from a branch in order to lure the hunk of bludgeoning death to fall onto the driveway instead of my roof.

So now our front yard looks like this:

And a tree-removal guy is coming this afternoon to haul away the carnage.  

In addition to drastically reducing the curb appeal of the property, the loss of our tree means that we now have to be much more careful about ensuring the blinds are closed before parading around the house in various stages of undress.

Also the appraiser was sure the tree was coming down on either the house or my head and he was obviously terrified at the prospect of his involvement in this catastrophe.  The moment the tree was safely felled the man tore out of here like zombies were after him. (The slow-moving sort of zombies; ones which would require you to move quickly and efficiently but not so fast as to break into an outright run.)

So that's the short version of what has happened to me the past week. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go finish coughing up this lung.  Perhaps later I will post cute baby pictures to cheer us all up.

Waxing Quickly Political...

Because I likes a little politics with my breakfast... (which, this morning, consists of the kids' leftover scrambled eggs and an english muffin plus a liter of coffee, if anyone's interested.)

... here is what Peggy Noonan (of all people) had to say about Sarah Palin in her column Friday: (excerpted):

She doesn’t think aloud. She just … says things.

Her supporters accuse her critics of snobbery: Maybe she’s not a big “egghead” but she has brilliant instincts and inner toughness. But what instincts? “I’m Joe Six-Pack”? She does not speak seriously but attempts to excite sensation — “palling around with terrorists.” If the Ayers case is a serious issue, treat it seriously. She is not as thoughtful or persuasive as Joe the Plumber, who in an extended cable interview Thursday made a better case for the Republican ticket than the Republican ticket has made. In the past two weeks she has spent her time throwing out tinny lines to crowds she doesn’t, really, understand. This is not a leader, this is a follower, and she follows what she imagines is the base, which is in fact a vast and broken-hearted thing whose pain she cannot, actually, imagine. She could reinspire and reinspirit; she chooses merely to excite. She doesn’t seem to understand the implications of her own thoughts.

So, uh, yeah.  Let's just leave it at that.  

10 Days New

Milo, My Love: A Story in Pictures.

"Before"

Pay no attention to the chins.  It's water weight, I swear. I don't really have 3 chins.

Labor is hard work.

Being born is hard work, too.

"Hello, world.  Please to be turning down the lights."

And baby makes... uh... five.  HOLY COW. 

Also, pitocin makes you swell.  A LOT.  I don't really have six chins.  

Enough about the chins.  This is the reason you're really here.  

Yes, he really is JUST. THAT. AWESOME.

Enough to justify all those capital letters. And more.

Milo & Me

Milo Duran

9/29/08  5:34pm EST

9 lbs 14 oz,  20.5"

Yes, those cheeks DO taste like heaven.

So on the way to the hospital our camera fell out of the bag.

Thankfully, Big Daddy's Mama came to the rescue with hers, so we were able to get great photos of Milo as soon as he came into the world.

Unfortunately, we haven't been able to get the photos downloaded from the camera because of cable issues.

Fortunately, this hospital (the chi-chi one I mentioned before?) now has WiFi in the patient rooms.  And I have my trusty macbook, with the built-in camera.  

Long story made somewhat shorter, that explains the fuzzy photo.  Better photos will be forthcoming, but for now - how can you complain? LOOKIT MAH BABY!

One Last Look Before I Go.

I woke up this morning with a strange sense of peace. 

Also with the realization that I really, really had to pee.  

And so it is that this, the final day of this pregnancy, begins.

The boys and I are celebrating with toasted-coconut donettes while Daddy has one final opportunity to sleep in before he has "big kid" duty for the next 2 weeks.  Me? I'll be the one passed out with a baby attached to one nipple.  (I'm suddenly imagining the google searches that last sentence will no doubt invite, and it would be funny if it wasn't so sad.  *insert Jedi Mind Trick wave here* "This is not the porn you are looking for".)

I'm going to go ahead and recommend that nobody expects to see anything in this space for the next few days - unless of course Big Daddy is feeling ambitious and decides to post some photos while I'm in the hospital.

Thanks for all the love and well-wishes through this pregnancy - especially this last month.  My sanity has been kept just barely in check some days, and it's always nice to have the emails and comments cheering us on.  Even better than a caramel latte - and if you know how I love my coffee then you will appreciate the profoundness of that statement.

And so, dear internets, for the moment I will bid you adieu as I head out on this next leg of our Adventures in Baby Making.  

See you on the flip side, my peoples.

Or "Why I Obviously Need More Therapy".

See, I've developed an obsession with Facebook.  Which goes well with my addiction to Bloglines and Twitter, especially since the internet is the only thing that induces me to actually talk to other humans on many a day. 

And if you didn't already know I tend towards the reclusive, HELLO and welcome late to the party.

So the ADS on Facebook.  They have, so far, been wickedly in tune to my brain.  I think they're using some sort of advertisement brain ray to suck keywords from my brain.  Remind me to start wearing a tinfoil hat when sitting in front of the computer.

Today I was minding my own business, absently perusing the status updates while I waited for my cnn.com video to load, when I started seeing ads for birth announcements.

Well Crap.

This is the part where I confess that I have not once, not even for second, given any proper thought to what I am going to do about birth announcements.  

With the first two babies I was ambitious and creative and made my own.  I am, after all, supposed to be a photographer.  Linen paper and a good printer was all it took to come up with something I could distribute with abandon.

That was then, y'all.  

Now? Now I am desperately trying to live up to the expectation I set that I would not be one of those moms who lets the third kid get lost in the shuffle.  And the internet is making it so very easy to create fabulous birth announcements in a range of lovely designs, and at the cost of only about half the kid's college education.

So you see, Uncle Sam... before you go giving a huge check to these silly failing banks, PLEASE understand that the $2200 cost per citizen?  I already have that earmarked for printed paper products.  Because I am a good consumer, and also because I am high on estrogen and popsicles... and spending unholy amounts of money on something pretty trivial seems like a preferable alternative to actually, you know, making something myself.

Thank you for your attention to this vitally important PSA.  We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.  At our house, this means Noggin.

Are we there yet?

So after the doctor's appointment on Monday wherein I still had no cervical progress, my OB took pity on me and said "Okay, let's schedule that induction".

I heard the words "Tuesday night check-in and Wednesday induction" and nearly wept with joy.

Then the chi-chi hospital Birthing Center (where I had Toby and determined to have this baby, too, even though it's almost an hour away because it is just that posh, people) broke my fragile little heart by not having any openings.

No openings until Sunday night.

Which means that I will be induced Monday morning.  Which is also a full 2 days past my due date, which makes me want to weep again.

BUT.  But at least we have a date, peeps.  Monday! I'm having a baby on Monday!  And hopefully he won't be so huge by then that he won't fit through my delicate pink parts.  (And to the Lady Who Did Not Know Me at Walmart who decided to tell me I was "for sure having at least a 12 pounder! - you can suck it, Lady.  Keep your opinions to yourself. Unless you want to tell me I look fabulous and, by the way, did I know that I also smell really nice? Because THAT is all you are allowed to say to a pregnant woman you do not know unless you want her to get medieval on you.  If she could actually do that, anyway, but I'm too pregnant to lift this economy-size pack of toilet paper and swing it over my head to bash you with so JUST GO AWAY ALREADY!)

Phew.  Okay, so I feel a little better now.  Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.

Now I just have to figure out how to fill some hours between now and Sunday night.  You know, some stuff that's more fun than the laundry and vacuuming that I need to do anyway.  So far? I have decided to work on neglected crochet projects and maybe bake some cookies.  Yes, my own ambition impresses me as much as it does you.  (*cough*)

Yep. Still Pregnant.

39 weeks.  One week to go before we start blaring Black Sabbath at the belly in hopes of torturing the baby out.  

Doctor's appointment later today.  I'm not getting my hopes up.  Still looking for the services of a good cervix whisperer, y'all, because we need that 1cm so induction can begin.

Seriously, that is all.  I am now spent.  I think it's time for a cookie and a nap.

Doom and Gloom - Courtesy Guest Poster: Big Daddy.

Oh how I love you Uncle Sam!

No sooner had I read of AIG possibly being toast...it did, in fact, happen.  Feds are going to gobble it up.  80% ownership for the feds and an 85 billion dollar loan.  How kind. 

So not that I want to shake the tree of oddities and doom but when does one throw their arms up and say, "Welp, it's been great but this whole FREE MARKET ECONOMY thing is done."  Not that I BELIEVE that but the past year, especially these past few days, have certainly been a signal that it's not all it's cracked up to be.  

And to make a turn for "are we really having this conversation?" territory..  What American companies actually still remain?  GM?  Rumor is they're asking for a 50 billion dollar government-backed loan since their stock is in junk status.  Not that there is enough liquidity out there for them anyways.  So what then?  America's one and only company that can break the addiction to oil goes the way of the dodo?  I mean, what are we talking about here?  Will this country become a nation with a state-controlled economy?  By the time this is all cleared I'd wager that more than a good bit of America's private financing institutions will be gov-owned, gov-funded, or in some obligated stance with the government.  

So to follow my slippery logic to it's dubious end: Could we be seeing a situation where the US Government owns US Companies and fills these companies not with regular hard-working Americans but overpaid contractors (ZING!) and outsourced talent?  Will there be large swaths of the population working to pay taxes on takeover costs of companies the Government now directs - to become profit engines who lay off Americans and hire full working divisions overseas?   All the while continuing to squeeze the middle class and profitable tax base until we're left with a depleted middle class, further disillusioned with a government who runs all the financial institutions, has GM on the dole, and spends over 30% of its money on the military industrial complex instead of health care, education, and infrastructure projects?  

.... oh wait...  that's already happening.

I hate being chicken little but if you asked me 8 years ago... 4 years ago... hell... even TWO years ago if we'd be where we are today (hell, even 10 miles from where we are today) I'd not have believed you.  WHY would I?  Oh well... I heard McCain invented the Blackberry so there's clearly important debates now to be had.  Toodles!

Have You Ever Seen The (Frog) Rain?

We could talk about how Jack woke up at 2am this morning, wide awake and ready to party.  

We could talk about how Jack fell asleep this afternoon and took his first nap in about 4 years.

We could talk about how Jack woke up from his nap in order to vomit copiously.

We could talk about the lovely surprise baby shower the neighborhood gals threw for me this afternoon, wherein I was showered with kindness and presents galore.  Milo finally has some BRAND! NEW! STUFF!  Because, this being my third pregnancy, the sum total of what I had procured for him consisted of a couple of onesies from the local consignment shop.  No more! He now has a plethora of items that will be his and only his.  One of these items is a flannel set of bib, burp cloth, and satin-edged blanket lovingly hand-crafted by my friend's 85-year-old Grandmother - whom I have never met.  My own Gram passed away last Thanksgiving weekend, and my other Grandma just moved into a care center at the age of 90.  There aren't great-grandmas around to make blankies for Milo, and so he gets to be the lucky beneficiary of a woman with enough love to spare for a third little baby boy.  So, yeah, that's the point at which I nearly cried.

We could talk about how I finally broke down and got the Twilight series, and swore never to admit it... and how I got so wrapped up in the vampire world Stephanie Meyer created that I read the whole series in a week.  Twice.

But no.  Instead? Instead let's talk about how I finally screwed my courage (or stubbornness, depending on your perspective) to the sticking place and determined to shave my legs after six weeks pregnant neglect.  Let's talk about how I squeezed myself into a warm bath and determinedly wielded my pink Lady Bic until my wookie-like gams were finally smooth.  

Then we can talk about how I used my foot to open the drain and let the water out, then reached back to lift myself up and discovered several inches of standing water remaining in the tub behind me.  Because? Because my ginormous ass had made a watertight seal with the bath tub.  

We can talk about how this discovery was quickly followed by the realization that I was firmly wedged into the tub.  I was completely and undeniably stuck.  

And so I pondered my predicament for a few moments, then sighed and turned on the hot shower.  I sat like that, wedged into the tiny tub with the hot water running over me, for a few minutes before Big Daddy wandered into the bathroom after mowing the lawn.

"Are you okay?" he wondered.

"Yeah... not so much.  I'm stuck."

"Were you planning to call for help?"

"Definitely No."

"Can I help you get up?"

"I think you're going to have to."

On second thought... let's not talk about that either.  

Let's talk about you.  How are you doing?

Ground Control To Major Tom...

Where have I been, you say?
Well, nothing like interrupting the second week of Kindergarten for this:

"This" being a fractured left clavicle.  On the playground at school.

So there was that, which was obviously awesome.  We'll be spending one afternoon a week at the Orthopedic Surgeon for the next few weeks so the injury can be x-rayed and monitored.  The good news is it should heal up in about a month.  Or so they tell me.  

Then there's the contractions, which come frequently but without sufficient strength or regularity to actually count as "Labor".  They do, however, have enough strength and regularity to leave me exhausted.  Yesterday they also seemed to be indicative of labor, but after an hour or so on monitors at the hospital the nice nurse assured us that, no, this baby is not quite ready to make his appearance and all that uncomfortable squeezing? That's just baby warming my body up for the real thing. Which could be tomorrow! Or, you know, a month from now.  Because the baby wants Mama to lose her mind.

And then Toby, poor Toby, has suddenly forgot how to sleep through the night.  This morning found him climbing into our bed at 4am, and by 5 he and I were downstairs watching Oswald episodes off the DVR.

So pretty much that's where I've been.  Aren't you thrilled that you asked?

On Experience.

Good to know even Karl Rove agrees with me on the experience issue.

I'd like nothing better than to elect a woman (and, bonus, a mother!) to either of the high offices of this country. A qualified, reasoned, experienced woman. One who understands foreign policy, one with credentials of impact beyond "Raging Social Conservative", who doesn't claim to want to cut pork after securing over $20 million in federal earmarks for her town as mayor of Wasilla - a town of less than ten thousand people.

I look forward to the day I can vote for a woman - when the label "woman" is meaningless, because she will be simply the most qualified and well-suited person for the job. This is not that woman. To be fair, her social views would keep me from voting for the ticket regardless of her qualifications, but at least if she was suited for the position I could understand and support the desire for people I respect to see her in office. As it stands, I am at a loss.

And I think that's all I have to say on Sarah Palin.

Or "Words I Never Expected To Utter..."

Thank you, Bill O'Reilly.  

Thank you for the laugh. I really needed it today.

The Frump is Catching.

Redsy posted about feeling the frumps.  Apparently it's catching, or at least a symptom of Fall, because here is the view of your hostess this morning:

Pregnant, frumped to the gills, and also appearing to sport a lady combover? I swear that's just an illusion caused by flat hair.  

There's so much going on right now I could write about, that I should want to write about... I mean there's a hurricane run on the gulf coast, McCain picked a VP running mate, we just got through a bought of baby stomach bug (poor Toby. He's all better now, though!) and, hallo, Obama speech at the DNC!  

But the sad truth is that I am tired.  No, I am exhausted.  I am ready to have this baby and regain the ability to see my feet, let alone put on shoes without assistance.  I am ready to sleep on my stomach again, to stand up without the aid of a crane, and to go more than an hour without the necessity of stopping for a pee break. 

There's also a distinct possibility that I am slowly tipping down the other side of the peak and heading back into depressed territory.  I recognize it, I'm discussing it with my doctor, and I'm preparing to take appropriate measures to head off the meltdown.  

In the mean time, though, I'm trying to regroup.  I'm working on writing a few letters and touching base with a few friends before the baby gets here.  I'm trying to get the house in order and figure out the logistics of life between now and the holidays so that I don't get totally overwhelmed in the crush of it all.  We're trying to get a babysitter so the hubs and I can get a night out alone together before the baby gets here.  (We haven't had a real date since.. umm... hrm.  Yeah, it's been a while.)

So forgive me if I'm not on top of things for the next while.  Finding the Zen in our particular Zoo requires that immediate reality take precedence over reality of the virtual kind even more than usual. And if you wander away, just check back from time to time.  I promise I'll be back to form eventually.  

Welcome To Our Sitcom

So we're engaged in our usual Saturday-night pastime of channel surfing when we happen across the "Transformers" movie and a shot of the bod-licious Megan Fox.  We both spend a moment in quiet contemplation/appreciation of her hotness.

I casually mention to Big Daddy that I recently read an interview wherein Miss Fox admitted to being something of a nymphomaniac.

BD: "Huh? ...Really."

Me: "I wish you could see your face right now."

BD: "What?!  I mean. Um. That's just... uh.. interesting, that's all."

Me: "Mmm-hmm..."

(a moment passes)

Me: "Are you sweating?!"

BD: "Uh. No! I mean.. no." (wipes a hand across his brow)

Jack: "Daddy, are you pouring your drink on your head?"

BD: (pause) "Yes, Son.  Yes I am."

Yep, just another typical Saturday night in the Casa De Aum.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go hose down my husband.  I believe he may have spontaneously caught fire in the next room.

Friday Foto Feature

Hello, internets.  

This week has been one of those weeks.  Jack went off to college Kindergarten.

I do not recall giving him permission to grow up.

Toby was understandably confused by this whole idea.  His brother? Going somewhere? WITHOUT him?!  He apparently missed that memo, and posed for one good photo before the whole situation started to dawn on him and he became increasingly nonplussed by the whole deal.

2 illegally cute children and one empty can.

It's somebody else's can. I didn't notice it until after I took the photo.

Then, I VERY RESPONSIBLY kicked it to the side and took 2 more photos.

Tobin refused to smile in either of them.  Hence? Great photo which includes random litter.

It is probably coincidence that Toby woke up the next morning with a fever and proceeded to puke his way through the day.  The fever is finally controlled, and the puking appears to have ceased - and thank the Buddha for that, because I don't think I could have handled being puked on at 2am two nights in a row.  I mean, it's no picnic on a regular night, but in case you somehow missed it - I am incredibly freaking pregnant.  HOW pregnant, you ask?

WELL. Since you asked.

I was reading Amalah today, who happens to be one of my favorite reads and who also happens to be pregnant.  She posted her 33 weeks belly photos, lamenting her hugeness.

I laughed until I cried.... and then? Then I just cried.

Allow me to introduce to you the Belly of Aum at 35 weeks plus some days.

Actual unretouched photo.  

Because obviously if I was going to doctor it, I would have first removed all those Freddy Kreuger-esque stretch mark scars.

Clearly this baby is intent on setting some sort of weight record and perhaps getting his own reality show.  Me? I'm just hoping he can be pushed out without the aid of a backhoe.

Enjoy the Silence.

This face? This is the face of a 5-year-old.  One who will start Kindergarten tomorrow.  And, not to get all sappy on y'all, but I'm not exactly sure how I'm feeling about that.  At least tomorrow is "Orientation Day" and we'll just be popping in for half an hour to meet his teacher.

Wednesday, though, he gets on the big yellow school bus bright and early... and doesn't come home until just before dinner.  

Adding to my general sense of malaise today is the fact that I got up about 8 times to pee last night - after Tobin finally went to sleep at 11.  And then? And then there's the fact that I have 5 weeks left in this pregnancy and I am sooo ready for this baby to vacate my premises.  

SO let's just say I'm having a petite blue period.  Let's leave it at that.

Really Good Excuses...

Here are two of the very good reasons why, even when the internet decided to work (thanks dude whose spotty but entirely unsecured wireless allowed a few quick interludes with the internets) I didn't manage to communicate with the outside world from the beach.

Tobin ponders life's imponderables.  

Like is it really gross to pee in the ocean? I mean, the fish do it...

Jack... providing a very clear example of why I find myself frequently replying

"No, he's not of mixed race.  Unless you count German and Scots as mixed..."

I did manage to participate in 2 rousing games of scrabulous online.  I was tired and needed a distraction besides the 5 awesomely trashy romance novels someone kindly left behind at the beach house.  Yes, 5.  My brain is so full of a jumble of slutty lifeguards and sexily earnest cowboys it's a wonder I haven't made Big Daddy do some dress-up role play with me.  I call dibs on the role of jaded-but-secretly-romantic executive with the hots for his secretary.  Honey, prepare to take some dictation -- if you know what I mean.  And you know you do.

Pants: Still Flaming.

I know! I didn't post anything! For days!  Not even photos! Because I am a big liar.

In reality, we had spotty internet (at best) at the beach house and I was actually quite busy... what with all the lounging in chairs on the beach, eating a metric ton of seafood, and trying not to have a panic attack watching my husband walk out into the roaring surf with mah preyshus baybeez.  I was sure a rogue wave would snatch Toby out of his arms to be lost forever at sea.

If you've ever been to the Outer Banks, you know the waves there are relatively calm.  Also, if you've ever met my Mother you know my crippling and irrational Fear of Horrible Things That Will Never Actually Come To Pass is purely genetic and not in any way my own fault.  

The beach over all, though, was soothing, relaxing and pretty much exactly what we needed after an unprecedentedly hectic summer.  Also, the break from the computer made me realize that I am overdue for a slowdown on internet time.  So I'm going to be doing less of that for a while - at least until Milo arrives and I'm a slave to the house and the schedule of a small mewling infant who wakes at all hours.  Which isn't to say I won't be blogging - I'll just be putting a lot less pressure on myself to do so.  And probably posting a lot more photos and a lot fewer words.  Photos that may or may not have anything to do with... well, anything.

And, on that note, I will leave you with this.

Jack's R2D2 Birthday Cake.

Pants: On FIre.

It's a rough Sea Lion life.  Eat, sleep, lounge. Repeat.

Fisherman's Warf; Pier 39, San Francisco

So I didn't get enough questions yet to justify the random things post.  So I'm a big liar, and I'm not going to post anything clever here for the next week or so.  

And I'm here on the Outer Banks.  And it's raining.  And yet still beautiful and relaxing.

And I'm lazy, and I'm on vay-cay-shun, people, so in lieu of posting actual stuffs while I am here for the next 7 days... I will be attempting to post a daily photo.  Some will be of the scene here on the Outer Banks.... some will be from BlogHer... and yet still others may just be random photos from the recent-past that will fill up the space.  

Enjoy.  

Public Nudity. Only, Not Really.

In spite of the fact that I have chosen to chronicle some of my more intimate life details and personality quirks on the internet, I really am quite mum about personal matters.  In person, anyway.

I've realized recently, as the comments have begun to pick up around here a bit (and THANK YOU! I want to snog each and every one of you, but my husband is afraid I might enjoy it a wee bit too much and abandon him.  Probably to live on an all-girl-blogger commune with the Redneck Mommy, who I smooched full on the lips at BlogHer.  I regret nothing, and I would do it again this instant if the opportunity arose.  This time with tongue. Hi, Tanis! Heh.) 

*cough*

So, um, yeah.  Like I was saying, I'm kinda shy.  (Seriously. I swear.) so when you lovely kind people leave comments I DO think about responding to them, but then I realize that makes this internet-conversation-with-myself more like a real conversation with Other People.  And then I start to sweat and twitch and generally retreat under the covers with a novel and a bag of gummy bears.  

I'm trying to overcome this particular quirk.  

In that spirit, I volunteered to be interviewed by Pete at Fiddley for his Blogger Love on Wednesdays podcast a while back.  Now I'm going to do something even more revolutionary. (After all, even though people would be listening to that interview later, I only had to really focus on talking to Pete... and he happens to be one of the nicest people in the state of Utah, so that was much less scary than anticipated.)

I'm going to ask you, dear readers, to ask me some questions.  Really.  You can either post your questions in the comments or, if you prefer, you may email them to melkist (at) gmail (dot) com.  And then, before I leave for the beach next week, I will post the answers to your inquiries.

So if there's something you have been dying to know about me, or if you're just idly curious and happen to have some extra time this week, go ahead and fire off a question or two.  I may filter through them (if you're one of the people who keeps stumbling upon this site by googling for "Mom Panty" or "Sexy Spanking" I completely reserve the right to ignore you.  Or send you a referral for my shrink.)  Oddball questions will earn extra points, and to kick things off I will now answer three questions that absolutely nobody asked.  

Q) Are you a natural redhead?

A) I don't remember.  It's been so long since I let my natural color grow in, I'd be hard pressed to figure this one out.  But the carpet doesn't match the drapes, so if that's any indication I'd have to say no.  My (currently blond) sister has the "natural redhead" claim to fame, and the requisite second hairdo to prove it.  Just don't ask her if you can check for yourself because she is secretly a total bad-ass and she will cut you, you perv.

Q) What is your husband's real name?

A) Big Daddy T is a moniker I adopted because some of his coworker friends have/do read this blog.  I would hate for the wrong person at his office to stumble across the site and perhaps make me the unwitting cause of any awkwardness at work.  I will reveal that his actual first [name begins with the letter "J", which adds a whole new layer of confusion, now, doesn't it? You may now stew on that for a while.

Q) Why "Aum" Mom? Do you do Yoga? Meditation?

A) First because "Aum" rhymes with "Home" and I thought it was clever.  Second because I have done yoga in the past, as well as Pilates.  I preferred pilates, for the record, but they both gave me a sense of calm which I strive to translate into everyday living with varying levels of success.  I am also a semi-casual student of Buddhism, and it felt like a nice triangulation all around.  When I do manage to go to the bathroom and finish without interruption I tend to consider that my meditation for the day; otherwise I try to find a few minutes to sit quietly in a chair and ponder the nature of existence.  More often than not the "sitting in the chair" method results in an impromptu nap, which is okay because it helps me find a teeny bit of zen in my day.

So there you are.  It's the internet equivalent of Public Nudity as I blog (metaphorically) naked for you.  Feel free to be creative or to ask silly questions (I think toilet paper should roll forward off the top, for the record).  I'll even throw in a prize of some sort for the best question, with the winner to be chosen by Big Daddy.  I'm not sure what the prize will be, but does it really matter WHAT you win as long as you win?  Something to ponder while you're sitting there thinking up fascinating questions for a semi-fascinating woman, now, isn't it?

Nothing Doing

I woke up this morning, ate breakfast with Big Daddy and the boys, got Big Daddy out the door and on the road in his shiny new silver car (no sign of mining gnomes yet, but I'm keeping a vigilant eye), and then I sat down in one of our wing chairs with the most recent Entertainment Weekly while the boys settled into their play for the morning.

Two hours later I woke from a sound sleep to find two angelic children playing quietly at my feet.  I think they might have been mine, but since my boys are not famous for quiet play I can't be entirely sure I didn't hallucinate the whole thing in that semi-comatose state between awake and asleep.  

But really that's neither here nor there, except to explain that I lost 2 hours today and got a much later start than anticipated on the grocery shopping and house chores.  And I still can't seem to find the cable for my camera, so I have no photos for you.  I'm so far behind the power curve that I might officially be upside-down by now.  Which would explain the hair, y'all, because today I resemble a horrifically pregnant Lyle Lovett.  

Which is all really getting at the point that I probably have nothing to say today.  I know! One of "those posts" where the writer is all "I'm just posting to say I have nothing to post".  Did you know those posts can be quiet helpful for the writer if they are, say, extraordinarily worn out and looking for a good excuse to procrastinate the starting of dinner?  

I am a champion procrastinator.  I also happen to have a ridiculous case of ADD, which helps because it's quite easy to delay doing things if you can't remember exactly what you set out to do in the first place because - ohh! Lookit that, I really need to redo my pedicure, don't I?  

I'm sorry, what were we saying?  Something about me being an exhausted procrastinator with the attention span of a coked-up ferret?  Yeah, that might have been it.

So strictly for your entertainment, here is a list things that distracted me today- which will also serve as the perfectly reasonable list of excuses why I didn't accomplish 90% of my "To-Do List" today.

-"What's that smell?" (in order: the dog, Toby's diaper, something still unidentified in the fridge)

- "Oh, look! I haven't seen this episode of Blue's Clues..."

- "What was that crash?" (Toby tipping over the heavy table in his room, Toby flipping the laundry basket over in an attempt to ride it down the stairs, Toby knocking the step-stool over while trying to wash his hands for the 54326 time today)

- Things I noticed that completely derailed me en route to something else: 

- the 4 dead flies we have trapped on the fly paper in the kitchen

- my empty coffee mug

- 3 empty packets of fruit snacks

- the entire section of fake Crocs at Walmart

- a forgotten package of unopened bacon in the crisper, discovered while searching out the aforementioned mystery smell, which I have been fantasizing about all afternoon

- Things I need to get done but were NOT on my to-do list for today, which didn't stop me from spending precious hours obsessing over them while accomplishing exactly nothing this afternoon:

- packing my suitcase for the Birthing Inn

- packing for our trip to the beach next week

- finding Big Daddy's swim trunks for the beach trip

- shopping for new school clothes for Jack

- bringing up the box of "newborn to 3 months" boys' clothes from basement storage to wash and put away for Milo

- installing the infant car seat into the van

- cleaning the van out for the beach trip

In fact, the only serious task I accomplished today was scheduling the dog for a visit with The Vet From Hell for this weekend so he can get up-to-date on all his vaccines before we deposit him at the boarding kennel next week.  So acute is my fear of this horribly nasty man, I got off the phone with his very pleasant receptionist and almost wept with relief that the only available appointment was Saturday morning.  This means that Big Daddy gets the honor of dealing with the whole thing, and I am saved from being lectured on: the evils of Any Pet Food That Is Not Science Diet, being a horrid mean dog parent who refuses to get my dog vaccinated for anything that isn't a documented risk in our area (no, I don't want the lyme disease vaccine for an extra $50, thanks), and allowing the nice vet at our boarding kennel to administer a rabies vaccine because it was more convenient for us at the time.  

All things considered... well, I mean, the whole vet thing? It's pretty traumatic.  So when you put that into perspective AND realize that I am also incredibly busy with the growing of a small human being, I really accomplished quite an impressive lot today, didn't I?

Thanks, I'm glad we had this talk.  I feel much better now.  Was it good for you?

Ch-ch-ch-changes...

Tonight we drive to the dealership to pick up the new car.  Yes, I said "new".   I know, I'm quelling the panic at the thought of the car payment... but aside from the fact that it appears John Q. Everybody is busy trading in their horrific gas-guzzling SUV's for every compact and sub-compact car in the used market  (Even our beloved Carmax came up with a pitifully sad selection of vehicles to fit the bill in replacing the dearly departed Aquaman) Big Daddy is in critical need of a vehicle with things like.. you know... air conditioning and working windows and locks.  Also a vehicle that doesn't require me to crawl out of bed and come rescue him from a breakdown off the side of some godforsaken stretch of highway between here and civilization in the wee hours of the morning would be lovely.

Rest in peace, AquaMan.

And so it is that Big Daddy will soon be the proud owner of a brand-spanking new Saturn Astra. Because the availability is limited in our area he found that to get the options he wanted his only color choice was... silver.  Like the minivan.  He mentioned that he fully expects to wake up tomorrow to find a troop of gnomes with pickaxes making a muck of the front lawn.  Don't mind him, though, he's just bitter because he has a thing for blue ("da-ba-dee-da-ba-doo").

So that's changing, then.  New car.  That's different, right?

So then we leave in about a week for our family vacation to the Outer Banks.  Sand, surf and, hopefully, quiet hours in the sunshine with a good book.  And then back home just in time to get Jack ready for Kindergarten.  Now, normally this would involve copious quantities of wine and weeping. For me, I mean.  Being pregnant limits my mental health options, though, so I may have to make due with tabloid magazines and frozen limeade.

Once we get into the swingin' routine of regular school (did I mention it's all day kindergarten? ALL. DAY. *sniffle*) I'll have a few hectic weeks to prepare for the arrival of the small being currently percolating in my lady regions.  And by "small" I mean "freakishly huge, just like my previous spawn".  I was hoping to land somewhere in the eight pound range this time but if the size of my exponentially growing belly is any indication this baby will weigh approximately 86 pounds.  So at least there's the fame and free diaper sponsorships to look forward to.

But basically what I'm getting at here (not that you expected a coherent point at this stage in our narrative, did you?) is that my life 8 weeks from now will be unrecognizable as the same life I am currently leading and I'm really not sure exactly how I feel about that.  I'm sure it will all end up just peachy keen, but it's the not knowing that is driving me a little bonkers.

So I guess what I'm getting at is... Hold me? And maybe send cookies.

  

Blog The Recession

Kristin over at Motherhood Uncensored noticed that July has been a pretty craptastic month across the board.  Oh, sure, there were some fantastic highlights - BlogHer, pretty fireworks, and (for me) my kid turning 5. 

But there was also the wrecking of Big Daddy's car and, oh, did I mention my kid turning 5?

It's hard out there for a pimp blogger, y'all, so let's all do something a little kinder and gentler in August and Blog The Recession.  Basically, that means if you're using a feed reader and normally don't click through... just this once, go ahead and click.  And once you arrive on the site, maybe go ahead and click a few of those sponsor ads.  

Christmas will be here before you know it, and who couldn't use a few extra bucks in pocket right now?  Even if they (like me) don't have any ads, the added eye t

raffic will send a little internet love (the good kind) their way.  

Spread the love, my peoples.  Haven't you heard? There's a recession on.  It could end up like 1977 around here, and nobody wants that, now do they? 

The effects of the recession echoed all the way into 1981.

Or, maybe this is just a gratuitous photo of my second birthday.

Et Tu, Tuesday?

Officially, Monday is the Day Of Doom at our house.  Mondays have been known to attack without warning. You need an example?

Yesterday (which was Monday, for those keeping score at home) Toby got an inexplicable bout of digestive badness resulting in explosive diarrhea.  I discovered this when he walked into the family room with a stream of brown running down one leg.  It was lovely.

Even MORE lovely, though, was hearing the dog lapping at something in the next room.  "Something" turned out to be a puddle of diarrhea that had collected on the floor after escaping the diaper.

That dog has kissed me on the mouth, people.  Not that I allow him to do that willingly, but he's 60 pounds of conniving lap-dog and sometimes you just can't dodge fast enough.

So I figured, once all the poopy chaos was cleaned up, we were clear for the rest of the week.

Not so, dear friends.

This morning, on his way to work, Big Daddy got into a car accident.  Fortunately, he walked away without injury.  Not so fortunate was his trusty jalopy, the 1990 Honda Civic, our beloved "Aqua Man Car".  (Jack named the car when Big Daddy first drove its teal gloriousness into the driveway.)

Rest in Peace, Aqua Man.

So if any marketing people from a major auto manufacturer happen by and want to give us a free car for his hour-long commute each way, I'm open to changing our middle name pick to "Chevy" or "Honda".  Okay, maybe not really, but I'll put an ad up for you and generally be your corporate love-muffin.  Totally a win-win, right?

So, yeah, back in reality-type-land, if anyone needs me I'll be busy perusing the local used car dealerships, crunching some numbers, and possibly stuffing my face with leftover birthday cake.  Also possibly calculating the relative street value of my prenatal vitamins.  They won't get you high but your hair and nails will be fabulously healthy! 

As for you, Tuesday... I'll deal with you later.  Maybe you can make it up to me: from now on, any calories consumed on Tuesdays don't count.  That would be a good start.  I mean, there's an awful lot of cake left.

Of Birth Days and Birthdays.

The internets, they have stolen a week of my life. 

More specifically, BabyZone's newsletter cheerfully informed me this morning that I am 32 weeks pregnant.  

The problem with this?  I had written on my little calendar (a paper and ink sort, because to keep track of anything concrete in my life requires me to rock it like it's 1987.  At least I don't refer to it as a "file-0-fax") that I was 31 weeks pregnant.  

I checked and double checked and asked my OB at my appointment this moning and, um, it appears BabyZone is correct and I am 32 weeks pregnant.

Well, Crap.

I had PLANS for that week, people!  I was excusing myself from stressing about kindergarten supply lists and back-to-school nights, about packing for the beach and perhaps packing my hospital bag.  I was giving myself a free pass because, after all, I wasn't in that final 2-month window of this pregnancy yet.

DAMN YOU, BABYZONE!

Big Daddy mentioned the other night that he thought I should go ahead and pack an emergency hospital bag.  Given that I have never gone into early labor - that, in fact, I have been twice successfully induced, I found his request silly in the extreme.  I asked him why I would want to do something so obviously unnecessary.  His reply? "I'm craving pickles.  It's a sign."  Yeah, it's a sign of something, all right.  *cough*

It is also possible I may be taking my sudden panic-and-hormone-induced mood swings out on my husband.  Just sayin', it's possible.  

It doesn't help one iota that Jack is now officially 5 years old.

FIVE. EFFING. YEARS. OLD.

How did I become the mother of a five-year-old?!  I mean, I know - technically - how it happened. (Several cocktails and a french maid costume for Halloween will tend to make that happen.) But how did five years go by? Where did this articulate little person with more skill for video games than his parents come from?  He even wipes his own behind now.  It's like having a very small adult in the house - albeit one who can still throw the occasional tantrum to make the earth tremble.

We celebrated the Birthday milestone in the usual way: there was cake, ice cream, the odd party game, and there were gifts.  I have photos of all of these things (especially the R2D2 cake, of which I am especially proud) but I've somehow misplaced the camera cable and you can hardly blame me because holy crap five years old!  

The weirdness just keeps getting weirder.  I realized today how horrified the teenagers at Hot Topic looked when the pregnant lady with the two kids came wandering in from the mall corridor to purchase new body jewelry.  What? I needed a new nose stud, and a new ring for my left ear.  But I could see it in their blankly-horrified expressions: This woman is way too old to be shopping at the Hot Topic.  But, hey, in five more years I can go in to buy purple hair dye for my skate-punk son.  The one who picked out a trucker hat that says "chairman of the board" at Old Navy today.  Also the one who told me that high tops were "so not cool, Mom".

And if his growing steadily into a pool of angsty no-longer-baby wasn't proof enough that time is passing me by at an alarming rate, the internet pregnancy calendar had to come along and steal another week of my life away.

I want that week back.  Also, I would like a 2-hour deep-tissue massage, a mini-van that gets 40 miles to the gallon, and one dappled pony.  And if anyone has seen my ability to form coherent thoughts, I'd appreciate the return of that as well.

Thanks.