Hearts and Handle Bars...

First off, thanks for the lovefest of comments. It comes as something of a shock that the smoke signals I'm sending off into the ether are actually reaching anyone. Even moreso, I'm still wrapping my brain around the idea that y'all might be enjoying what I have to say. Then again, it may be more along the lines of slowing down at a car accident -- you know we all do it -- give in to that irresistable urge to stare at disasters. And "Disaster" is so appropos a descriptive for this little redhead.

Oh, and speaking of disasters... here is my missive for this morning:

My husband has a cute little tradition. Every year, over the Christmas Holidays, he takes a break from shaving. This way, when he returns to work after the first of the year, he has a nice full beard.

Aside: T's heritage is mostly Swiss, but there's some Native American mixed in and the combination somehow came out looking vaguely Arab. His dark complexion and the copius nature of his facial growth have, on more than one occassion, caused him to get funny looks at the airport. And though it's supposed to be random, I swear he's been flagged for a "random check" 90% of the times he has been through airport security since 2001. At least I was finally able to convince him to get rid of his cargo pants with the urban camo print.

Anyway, typically the beard stays until sometime in March. This year, however, he decided to trim it up a little early. I filled up his travel mug with coffee and met him at the front door. He had been up in the bathroom finishing up with getting ready for work. For the life of me, I can't determine what he was thinking when he did THIS to himself:

I'm not sure if it's truly a handle-bar mustache, or more of a reverse-mohawk goatee... But as he walked out to the car, I couldn't help but call out (In my best imitation of an Anna Nicole Smith Texas Drawl)

"Ah Luv Yew, Cletis!"

I'm not sure what they'll think at his office... My best advice was to tell them he lost a bet.

The saving grace, however, is that he swore he would shave the rest off tomorrow morning. I think I would have a difficult time kissing him very often if I have to include the caterpillar.

Pudding the hurt on ya...

Using the leftover rice from dinner to make rice pudding seemed like the wise, frugal, Betty Crocker thing to do. After all, JT turned off the rice cooker half way through and what should have taken half an hour to become sticky white rice ended up taking about 2 hours. How could we not use every last hard-fought grain?

So, all of this seemed like a great idea. That is, up until about 3 minutes ago when I realized I just ate almost an entire cup of rice pudding. Suddenly, I'm having visions of the pidgeons they tell you about -- you know, the "don't throw uncooked rice at weddings because the pidgeons eat it and explode" variety.

You would think I would learn not to overeat. I mean,the leftover Gumbo we ate for dinner was spectacular (in spite of the cat puke incident, and the fact that I burned the bottom of the pot while reheating it.) The rice pudding wasn't even that good -- it always turns out better when T makes it, and he was already headed downstairs to his computer for a night of gaming.

So why oh why did I just turn myself into an overstuffed pidgeon? And how big a mess should I expect when I blow?

And most importantly, when I explode all over the walls of the house, do I have to clean myself up? Eh? EH?! That will keep you up tonight wondering, now, won't it?

My Truths For A Sunday.

1) T makes amazing, MIND-blowing, delicious Gumbo.

2) If you leave out an unfinished bowl of yummy gumbo the cats can and will help themselves to some, in spite of the fact that cats have no business anywhere near food made with old bay seasoning and tabasco sauce.

3) Cats will projectile vomit after eating Gumbo.

4) Stepping in cat puke of any kind is not pleasant, but Kitty Gumbo Vomit ( in my bare feet and before my first cup of coffee, none the less) really has to be the worst kind.

Camo Whamo...

What you would have overheard at our house this morning:

Me: Honey, those neon orange pants so don't match his green froggy tee shirt. Can you put Jack in something else?

Him: I think it looks fine.

Me: The pants are also a size too big. He's falling down every 3 steps.

Him: Nah, he's fine.

Me: Is there a reason you are so set on him wearing those godawful pants?

Him: I'm afraid if I take them off he'll get shot by Dick Cheney.

One, two, bring me a brew....

How cool is this?

So if Jack and Toby are going to someday rule the world, as Mama has intended, this means I should start brushing them up on some algebra before I send them off to play with the preschool set, right?

Okay, so actually maybe this just means I can get them to understand how many beers to bring Mama from the 'fridgerator... but anyway, it must be somehow significant... Babies! Math! Look and be amazed!

Hooray for VD!

VD for Valentines Day. At least that's the story I'm sticking to.

I've never been a fan of the holiday, myself -- too commercial, too corporate, too contrived. Yes, I may be a bit jaded, but something about seeing conversation hearts at Wal-Mart on January 2 really turns me off of the whole thing. Especially now that they say things like "Fax Me".
...
Jack woke up this morning with gusto. We met in the hallway at the top of the stairs, as is becoming a morning ritual. He waited patiently while I put on my raggedy flannel robe (over my new pink underpants, in case you were wondering).

"Mommy jammies?" he asked, pointing at the above-mentioned robe.

"Yes. Mommy's jammies."

"Jack have jammies!"

"Yes, you have jammies, too."

"Jack have Me-me," he indicated his faded and increasingly tattered security blanket. He named it before he had really learned to talk. Me-me goes everywhere with us; when we go for walks he wraps it around his head and shoulders like a pashmina. When he goes to bed, Jack settles it next to him and wraps his arms around it. Me-me is the first thing he looks for when he wakes up in the morning.

"Yes, that is Me-me," I agreed.

"Where Mommy Me-me??"

"Mommy doesn't have a Me-me."

He considered this for a moment, while I sat at the top of the stairs so he could climb on for a piggy-back ride down. I watched the gears turning in his head, then saw the lightbulb appear.

Chocolate and Flowers are nice. Diamonds? Sure, I wouldn't turn them down. At the end of the day, though, none of them can begin to compete with my 2 year-old son as he walked over to me and, very gently, wrapped Me-me, his most precious posession, around my shoulders.

"Here, Mommy."

And just like that, I became a convert. Happy Valentines Day.

Panty Raid

Hello Internet. Allow me to share some very exciting news with you. Today, for the first time in over 3 years, I purchased brand-spanking-new underpants. (no pun intended.)

Unfortunately for T, I did not buy enough pairs to permanently retire all of my maternity undies, which are still called into service from time to time. But hey, you can't win 'em all, baby.

Just wait till he sees what I saved for Valentine's day. You know the horrible, disposable, fishnet granny panties they give you at the hospital after you give birth? Oh yeah, baby. Somebody is getting SOOO lucky tomorrow night...

Snow Job

We got about 8 inches of snow, all told. We did some driving as it fell last night, and it wasn't pretty. We got trapped behind an SUV going 5mph down route 9. This means we were going attempting to go up the mountain without momentum. While usually I am of the "don't attempt to pass in a snow storm" mentality, the Complete Idiot in front of us was causing me to have to brake around hairpin turns on icy roads, so as soon as there was a wide road and no oncoming traffic we cranked it up to a beefy 9 mph and passed him. After that, we made it home without further incident.

I learned last night just how stressful it actually is to drive in bad conditions with your sleeping babies in the back of the car. I like to say that I am not a religious person, but I do think I am a spiritual person. Last night, I begged several deities AND the Buddha to see us safely home as I white-knuckled the steering wheel and tried not to look in the mirrors to check the kids "one more time".

When we got up at the crack of 10am, T borrowed the neighbor's snow blower and cleared the sidewalks and walkway. Then he dug his car out so he could get it off the street and into the driveway behind mine. He and Jack played out in the white stuff for about 5 minutes before the cold was too much for Jack. T finished their snowman by himself, then came back in for hot tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. (Hey, it's what my mom did and it's the perfect cure for the snow chills.)

We spent the remainder of the day enjoying the warmth of Indoors. I made a point to finish the second half of last week's episode of Grey's Anatomy. Before last week, I hadn't watched it in a while. This is the part where my paranoia kicks in, because I swear they wrote this story line simply to suck me back in. Somewhere, an ABC executive is rubbing his hands together in an evil way and cackling about the success of his dastardly plan.

For anyone who missed it, the 2-episode sudsfest included the following subplots: Resident and show regular Miranda Bailey goes into labor. Bailey's husband gets in an accident on the way to the hospital for the birth and ends up in surgery for a closed head injury. Meanwhile, some guy shoots himself in the chest with a homemade bazooka and is rushed to the hospital via ambulance before anyone realizes he has UNEXPLODED ammunition in his chest. He also has the hand of the delicious Christina Ricci in his chest, playing a paramedic who was innocently attempting to stop the bleeding. Once they realize the shell is in there, they evacuate half of the hospital - except for the operating room next to the bomb because (of course) Bailey's husband is in there with a skull flap open and blood being sucked off his brain. And of course, once Miranda Bailey hears this news, she goes into a panic and clamps those knees together, refusing to give birth while her husband is in peril.

I couldn't make this stuff up if I wanted to. So much emotional manipulation was packed into 2 hours of television, I may need a box of Godiva just to get me through the wreckage of the next few days.

Half of me is totally mortified that I actually stared, with baited breath, while all of this unfolded. I am ashamed to admit that I actually talked to my television set, pleading with the characters to make it all come out all right. This half of me bemoans the fact that I wasted 2 hours of my life on this melodramatic drivel.

The other half of me rolls her eyes and says "Shut the hell up, it's damn good T.V. and by the way isn't Patrick Dempsey dreamy?" And now that you mention it, Yes, he sure as hell is.

Projected Failure...

I just checked woot and realized we missed the opportunity to get a projector for $500. Not that we have $500 to blow on a projector, but..

Okay, at second glance it appears it was probably for the best that they sold out before I got there. After all, I have a new freezer that I need to fill with Stuff. It must justify its existance, just like the rest of us. But still.... Projection TV! $500! Neat. I so love woot.

It's snowing.

And even I have to admit that it is beautiful. Not much is sticking yet; there is just a silent cascade of delicate flakes drifting down over the world outside. It is cold, and gray, and lovely in a heartbreaking sort of way.

*Burp*

I just had a rendez-vous with a man named John... Papa John, to be exact. God, I love pizza.

I just heard it's supposed to snow through the weekend. This is not great news, as we have not one but TWO birthday parties to attend tomorrow. I'm keeping my fingers crossed the weather holds until Sunday. After that, it can snow as much as it likes. In fact, that would be great -- I'd love to have T working from home for a few days.

Thank Goodness It's Friday. At least we'll have a few days to enjoy each other's company, and torment the children. And What Not To Wear just started, so I'm going to go get my fix. I am totally addicted, in spite of the fact that I have The Fear that someone will nominate me for the show. Not that they would pick me, thank God. I've never even been picked for jury duty (*knock-on-wood*) let alone for something that involves the ability to spend someone else's five thousand bucks.

Binge By Proxy...

I've never really watched The King Of Queens, but it somehow made it onto our DVR this week.

Kirstie Alley was on, and there was a running gag that involved her sticking to her diet by having other people eat the things she wished she could have while she watched.

I sooo need to get me one of those. Who wants to volunteer to eat me a dozen Krispy Kremes???

You Are My Sunshine...

God Bless Children. Especially Mine.

After my emotionally draining morning, I went upstairs, got dressed, got the kids ready, and we headed out in search of Elsewhere. I just needed to get us out of the house for a few hours.

Last week at a playgroup, someone told me about Beans in the Belfry. It is my new definition of Nirvana.

BITB is a coffee shop inside a church from 1910. Seriously. High ceilings, overstuffed and mismatched chairs and sofas (and even a few church pews, used as benches), a coffee bar and AMAZING sandwiches. (I tried the Old Berlin, which is basically a panini-fied Reuben. FAN-TAS-TIC.) Jack and I shared a sandwich, Toby napped in his car seat, and I sipped a steamy caramel latte.

Spirits instantly lifted, we left there with renewed smiles on all our faces. Stopped at CVS to drop off 4 disposable cameras that have been kicking around since around since Jack was born. Dropped off a bunch of T's work laundry at the cleaners.

We're home now. Jack took his nilla wafers up to his clubhouse for a snack and a nap. Toby is blissfully snoozing in his bassinet.

I really should be napping, as well, but the babysitter will be here shortly so I can go for my walk/jog. I'll try to nap after we take her home.

Funny how a day can start out on such a down note, but the smallest thing can give you hope enough to get you through the day better than you started.

The kids were better than angelic, and Jack hugged me so long and so hard I wondered how much of my blues his 2-year-old brain had picked up on. Every night when he goes to bed, we sing him "You are my sunshine". Today, he reminded me that it's more than just a song -- I really mean it, every time. The 3 men in my life are the ray of sunshine that get me through my dark days.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are grey
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away.

To Whom It May Concern...

I couldn't really give a good reason why I started this blog, nor a good one as to why I continue it. Most days, it is a dumping ground for the silly thoughts that flit through my brain. Then today, I read JJD's entry over at empire, and I cried. For someone as emotional as I perceive myself to be, I really don't cry often. I couldn't figure out why I would cry .. after all, the emotinal events in the life of a distant friend, one connected to me only through T and very little even then, could hardly reasonably strike such a nerve.

After a few minutes, I realized it was the raw honesty of it all. Not something I allow myself very often, especially in a public forum. I decided that, maybe just this once, I would cast my thoughts out into the ether without censorship or grooming.

Because, maybe just this once.. in the cacaphonic whirlwind around me, I can find a brief circle of stillness in which I will have a voice.

So here are some truths about me.

I avoid making phone calls to strangers - be it the insurance company, the pizza place, whatever - at almost any cost. It terrifies me.

I'm terrified to open the door to a stranger.

I have never had a desire to hurt myself or anyone else. I am terrified of death - maybe even obsessed with the fear of it. I wish I could live forever, and make everyone I love live forever, too.

I go through up/down periods of energy. One day I will clean the entire house, top to bottom, do all the laundry, and take the car to the car wash. The next day I will spend entirely on the couch, in my pajamas, unable to do anything more than feed the kids and change diapers.

I would wrestle an angry tiger with my bare hands to protect my kids.

I am a compulsive eater, especially when I am sad or angry. As a teenager, on more than one occassion, I ate an entire can of frosting. With a spoon.

I am sometimes paralyzed under the weight of my own sadness. I don't know why, or what to do about it. I have gone through these periods of 'mourning' periodically for as far back as I can remember. They don't strike without warning, but in some ways that is worse -- feeling the slow cold of it creep over me as the days go by. Once it is in full force, it is crushing.. but not absolutely. I ride a roller coaster of good days and bad days - manic and depressive, though I don't really believe the medical classification is literally appropriate to me.

I can hide behind a smile better than anyone I've met. The only person who sees through me is T. I can't hide from him. Partly because he is so much a part of me, but not just that -- it's who he is. No one in his life has ever been able to hide from him. He looks out of those eyes - so brown they're almost black sometimes - and he sees it as it is, without pretext or disguise. So, he sees me. But he doesn't plumb the depths of what he sees. I think he's afraid to, because the hurt there is so raw and unmended, and because he can't fix it. He can't fix me, and so he carries my hurt like it was his own wound. And trust me, he has wounds enough of his own - adding to his burden is a constant spectre in my head. Knowing that he believes that if he could just love me enough, if he could just find the magic bullet he could make me happy and make me sparkle. Knowing that it just doesn't work that way. It rips at me, leaving a little bloody trail of regret behind. Because I want to be happy - if not for my own sake, then for his.

I don't want my little boys to grow up and remember a mom who always seemed sad, even when she was happy. I remember a mom who was that way - is still that way. You want to tear your own heart out and hand it to them and say "here, maybe this one will be a little stronger, a little less easily bruised".

There are days when I feel myself slipping away, drifting off into the fog. I want to scream - to shake myself awake. I tell myself what a terrible, self-consumed person I am. I want to slap myself silly, because there are people worrying about me and I don't want them to worry. I want to take myself off of their long list of worries.

I seem to spend my time walling off as much emotion as possible until the dam breaks and I am overwhelmed. Then I start the process over again. I guess today the dam broke. Just reading JJD. Because I remember how it all started, and that I was hurt. I don't think I ever admitted, even to myself, just how much it hurt.

I have not yet learned to grok old hurts, to consume them and make them a part of me, and to move on. I have learned to understand a lot of things, in retrospect. But it's not the same thing. Just understanding isn't enough -- I have to learn to accept that I am powerless to change the past. I have to learn to do it soon, before I completely miss out on the future.

Hit or Mrs.

My adorable 13 year old babysitter came over this afternoon to watch my kids while I went for my bi-weekly power walk. I'm really hoping to turn this into a bi-weekly run, but so far my knees have been uncooperative and so I have stuck to walking.

Anyway, this sweet little twig of a girl called me Mrs. I stared at her like she had suddenly grown a second head and said "wait, WHAT did you just call me?" *blink* .

"well.. umm... my dad insists on it."

"Okay. When I'm at your house, you can totally call me that. When you are here, though... Please, PLEASE call me Mel."

I can't decide if I broke some cardinal rule about undermining someone else's parenting, but FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, I can't bear to be called "Mrs" in my own house.

The whole episode was almost as upsetting as when the 20-year-old cable installer called me "ma'am". I will NEVER be old enough to be a "Ma'am". I didn't have the nerve to tell him so, though. I just died a little, on the inside.

Magic Hands.

Last night was a long night.

Toby has been exhibiting growing difficulty staying asleep at night. He's restless, he tosses and turns, and he often wakes up and has difficulty getting himself back to sleep.

After a few nights of misery and eventually putting him in bed with us, last night I moved the bassinet next to my side of the bed. Each time he woke up, I reached over and gave him my hand to hold.

And it worked. He grabbed it with both tiny hands, wriggled back into a comfortable position under his blanket, and drifted back to sleep. Then I drifted back to sleep with two tiny, warm hands gripping mine.

My hands. They are Magic.

Now, if only my hands, they were detachable... then maybe we could finally start putting him in his crib.

And Now For Something Completely Different...

I've added a new subsection in the right column.

See? -------------------------------------------> Over There--------------->

It will be a periodically updated list of things I lust after. Because I'm an Internet Window Shopper. It's incredibly difficult to get out to real shopping with the 2 boys, not the least because I live a minimum of 30 minutes away from any malls or decent stores. SO, instead of going out to window shop and see things in the "I wish I could but we would go broke" category, I window shop on the internet.

This is not in any way a forum for me to ask anyone to buy me things. Well, unless you are flush with lots of extra cash and you REALLY REALLY want to. In which case, how could I be so heartless as to deny you the joy of giving to someone less fortunate than yourself? But at the least, I will grant you the title of My Internet Sugar Daddy. See, that sounds like a fair trade, right???

Actual Actualization in Actuality...

Every morning Jack has a Pediasure shake for breakfast. He calls them his "milk shakes" and has a devotion to them akin to the worship some people bestow upon their various deities. The child would go without food or water if we let him, and consume nothing but these thick, vanilla-flavored beverages.

Personally, I don't get the appeal.. but to each his own.

This morning, I poured the shake into a sippy cup and handed it to him. Jack took it with a very polite "thank you"... then pondered a moment and said "Actually, Mommy, I want a cracker" as he pointed at the box of saltines on the counter.

He has never used the word "actually" before. More bizarre is the fact that he used it in the CORRECT WAY.

Added to the fact that we watched Serenity last night, and I'm starting to be convinced that my son is a secret goverment project. I'm just waiting for the subliminal messages in SpongeBob to trigger him into super ass-kicking mode. I can picture the other toddlers on the ground, nursing kicked shins, while he towers over the gruesome scene.

...

After re-reading the above paragraph, I can't decide if I'm just REALLY sleep deprived or if I should actually start worrying about my mental stability... But don't worry, the voices in my head will give me that answer soon enough. I just wish they wouldn't yell.. I'm not deaf, after all.

Step Into The Freezer...

Today we became the proud owners of 9 cubic feet of Icy Cold Freezer. This is fantastic, as I now have room to actually make use of the bulk frozen foods section at Costco.

Not to mention it's a handy place to store the bodies while we figure out where to bury them.

Which reminds me of a bumper sticker my friend Natalie had on the wall of her apartment at BYU..

"Friends help you move. True Friends help you move the bodies."

Which is neither here nor there, really, but just thinking of it makes me miss Nat and some of those wild nights at clubs in Salt Lake City. (Yes, there were clubs in Salt Lake City - even before the olympics.) In fact, I have to confess that I once made out with a complete stranger on one of those excursions. It was a one-time foible on my part - so much so, in fact, that I still remember the details -- his name was Nathan and he was in the navy. And I was wearing a little black dress and a pair of super sweet knee-high black boots.

Funny the things a person remembers. I couldn't tell you any of the classes I took my freshman year of college, or who any of my professors were (except for Frank Fox, who was really cool and had a totally awesome son named Dave who I adored and wish I had kept in touch with. He was a great friend.)

So apparently getting the freezer has led to me pulling a few frozen memories out of my brain and thawing them out for inspection. It all feels like a lifetime ago, and in many ways it was. The really funny thing is, things that happened almost a decade ago feel like they happened in another lifetime - but I met Allie when I was 12 and it feels like yesterday. And here we are: both married, I have 2 kids, she will soon be Dr. Allie, and we have no more algebra homework to do.

Time is a bizarre and baffling thing.

The Case of the Mystery Poo

The other night I was up in the nursery changing Toby's diaper. I heard the doorbell ring, and heard Jack shouting "Daddy! Daddy!" I fastened up the velcro tabs, snapped on Toby's jammies, and headed downstairs. This was all of about.. oh.. 20 seconds.

I arrived at the door to find Jack looking curiously out the window, the door still locked, and no T in sight. Looked out the window - no car in the driveway. Curious, indeed.

I opened the front door and looked out. Nobody in sight at all. Dusk was settling, and the neighborhood had settled into the half-light of 6pm on a January day. I shrugged my shoulders, closed the door, and went to get a drink of water. I paused at the sink, the water running unnoticed down the drain.

Something was niggling at the back of my brain. What had I seen? Something out of place... there was something... something on the porch?

I walked back to the door. Opened it. Looked out the storm door and down onto the brick porch.

And there... in the purple light of evening, were 2 white tissues. Strange. But wait.. what's that? Under the tissues? Why.. it's a pile of poo. Not just any poo, mind you, but exceedingly Fresh poo of the Very Large Dog variety.

My mind quickly runs through the list of neighbors... have I unwittingly offended someone? Did the new neighbors next door find the poo in their yard and assume it was from us? But we don't own a dog... and I can't see the people with the Missouri license plates putting poo on the doorstep of someone they just moved in next to. They don't engage in that sort of behavior in Missouri. Neighborhood juveniles engaged in a random act of delinquency? But why target our house?

And so the mystery of the poo. I examined the poo from a safe distance. Pondered it. Took note of its characteristics in my best rendition of a CSI. (The hot Marg Helgenberger kind from TV, not the actual CSI guys who are in way worse shape and don't even get to slap around witnesses.)

The Poo was well-formed, still in its natural extruded form, and fresh enough that - had it been carried from another location and placed on the porch - one would think it would have been somewhat mooshed in the transporting.

And so I come to the conclusion that someone actually allowed their very large dog to poo on my front porch. They placed tissues on it for some unknown reason, then rang the bell and beat a hasty retreat.

My brain begins to throb from the detailed observation of The Poo. I become less concerned with its origins than with where it is headed next. The idea that I might have to actually have any sort of contact with The Poo beyond my piercing visual observation is inconceivable. I feel my pulse beginning to race, and the opening symptoms of a mild panic attack begin to creep up on me...l

Just then, I knight in full plate armor rides up on his steed. The white stallions muscles ripple in a sudden beam of sun which illuminates the sky behind him. He raises his sword high into the sky, denouncing the heinous besmirchment of my maidenly honor. The stallion rears up with a mighty scream and the knight charges forward, tabard streaming behind him like a ribbon in the wind...

That is to say: Just then, T pulled up in his shiny blue car and came up the walkway towards the door. He saw The Poo, heard my Incredibly Brilliant deductions on its origins, grabbed a handfull of paper towels and, in a matter of secoonds, had removed The Poo to an undisclosed location. (also known as the dumpster.)

My Hero.

The Mystery of The Poo remains unsolved. If you or anyone you know has any information on the perpetrator of this Heinous Crime, please call our tip line. A reward of Our Undying Gratitude has been offered for any information leading to the apprehension of this dangerous (and very inconsiderate) fugitive.

State of Disorder...

I didn't watch the State of the Union address last night. My mom would be horrified... but really, I couldn't bring myself to witness the train wreck. If I hear him say it "nuke-you-lar" one more time, I may claw my own eyes out.

Sorry, Mom. But if it helps, I can give you something else to obsess about... I'm a registered Democrat.

But I still wouldn't vote for Hillary.

Today was a bit of a washout, though I did manage to keep Jack from tearing the house apart completely, so it should still be presentable for the playgroup here tomorrow. It's the first time I've hosted an official Mom's Club activity. I can't decide if I should pull out the only turtleneck sweater I own and go all conservative suburbanite, or throw caution to the wind and rock my new "Who wants a Sugar Daddy?" T-shirt.

The only thing I know for sure is that Mommies at playgroups expect snacks. On that note, I'm heading to 7-11 in search of Coffee Mate and pastries. As I am going totally alone, this is the Mommy equivalent of what a night out at the clubs used to be. Except now, instead of body glitter, I'm wearing baby spit-up. (For the uninitiated, "spit-up" is what you call baby's puke. It's supposed to sound cuter, I think - but really it just allows me to be in denial that my life has actually come to the point where I voluntarily leave the house wearing someone else's vomit.)

Bedtime for Bonzo...

I really wish I could say that something of note happened today. I could tell you that I finally finished the Next Great American Novel (tm). I could say that I did 100 sit-ups and leg lifts until my thighs turned to jelly... or that I suddenly found the answer to unlocking the unified field theory...

But then I'd be a big fat liar.

I did manage to get my walk in... I only did a mile because it was FREAKIN' FREEZING outside, and my knees persist in aching and my hip popped again. I vacuumed the house. I straightened up the main rooms in preparation for the playgroup I'm having here on Thursday. I put away the toys and changed about 15 diapers. I went grocery shopping and made Hamburger Helper for dinner. I drank a Diet Coke.

I think I need an upgrade. Isn't there some sort of chip that can be installed to my brain to help me look at life in a different way -- so I can find fun where there is none? My friend Renae told me about a friend of hers who, when stuck on a 5 hour layover at the airport with her two kids, made up a scavenger hunt to keep the kids entertained. Me? I'm more of the curl up into a ball and curse the fates kinda girl...

And it's midnight. And I'm still awake. Even though I was up at 3am with a screaming 3 month old infant.

Something is fundamentally out of balance with the universe when I'm feeling this much in a rut and it's only Tuesday.

POMEGRANATE.

The 30 Year Old Virginian...

Okay, so he doesn't live in VA anymore, but congrats to my Big Brother, Andy, on getting hitched yesterday. And also congrats to him on the fact that I am certain that, at this very moment, he is enjoying the hell out of his hot new wife.

A moment of silence for the end of his life of celibacy.

Okay, now we can start taking bets on whether or not she comes back from the honeymoon pregnant...

Tag, I'm It!

Okay, so nobody tagged me but it seemed like a good way to kill 15 minutes...

Four jobs I've had:
1. Nanny
2. Tele-survey phone girl for the "Beef - it's what's for dinner!" people
3. Towel Girl at a gym
4. Medical Secretary

Four movies I can watch over and over:
1. Princess Bride
2. Gun Shy
3. Zero Effect
4. Groundhog Day

Four places I've lived:
1. Vienna, VA
2. Provo, UT
3. Walnut Creek, CA
4. Plano, TX

Four TV shows I love:
1. Scrubs
2. Good Eats
3. Deadwood
4. The Daily Show

Five highly regarded and recommended TV shows that I've never watched a single minute of:
1. The Sopranos
2. Arrested Development
3. Six Feet Under
4. The Bachelor
5. The Wire

Four places I've vacationed:
1. Disneyland, Anaheim, CA
2. Maui, HI
3. New Orleans, LA
4. Cozumel, Mexico

Four of my favorite dishes:
1. Pizza
2. Gumbo
3. Chocolate
4. Steak

I'm a girl of simple tastes, I guess.

Four sites I visit daily:
1. google.com
2. dooce.com
3. woot.com
4. cnn.com

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. Asleep in bed
2. On a cruise
3. Anywhere in western Europe
4. San Francisco

Who am I gonna tag with this?
Just Empire. And only because I think he'll have to admit he doesn't watch Desperate Houswives religiously, which totally damages his homo cred.

Permanent Ink...

It may come as a surprise that I have a tattoo. It certainly surprises me from time to time.
I feel that I have told the story of how this came to pass so many times, it might help to record it somewhere. For posterity, at the least, but also because it's a good reminder for me.

I won't go into all the details of how I came to the following conclusions -- I'll likely be working that out in therapy in the near future. Instead, I'll skip to the crux of the matter.

I am not the most graceful person. And anyone who remotely knows me will recognize that sentence for the gross misunderstatement that it is. Due to my propensity to injure myself making the smallest and most inane of gestures I have collected various scars, including 2 on my face. I didn't have control over getting these scars. I did not choose to receive them, yet they changed my appearance in small but irreversible ways.

Likewise, I carry a mixed bag of emotional scars from past events that were beyond my control. I guess I'm referring to what most people call "emotional baggage" - the stuff that seems to follow you and color the way you approach every new situation you come across. Like the physical ones, I did not choose the emotional scars.

Over the years, the emotional wounds began to give me a perspective on life that I didn't enjoy. I spent some years depressed - cover the window with a blanket, go days without eating, stay in bed for 18 hours a day depressed. Slowly but surely, following an incredible series of events that included a move across the country and the biggest life decisions I have faced yet, I crept out of that hole and began to live my life again.

And so to the tattoo. A tattoo is a sort of scar, but a scar received by choice - which serves as a metaphor for me taking control of my life and learning to own my decisions. The symbol in the center is a kanji - a japanese symbol. No, I have no connection to Japanese culture whatsoever (except an enduring love for anime) but the symbol itself inspired me. It has a broader meaning than a simple word, but basically embodies happiness - Joy.

And so, I made the conscious decision to be scarred with Joy. To me, this means that every day I wake up and, whether it's a good day or a bad day, I take every opportunity I can to remind myself that I want my life to be marked by Joy - by the things I choose, and not the negative things that happen to me by chance or because of someone else.

And there you have it. It wasn't an act of whim, or youthful rebellion. I won't be turning 40 and deciding to have it lasered off my back - just like I won't ask a plastic surgeon to remove the little scar next to my eyebrow from where I passed out in the park and bonked my head when I was 17. It's a part of my face. It gives me character. Kinda like the little wrinkle that shows where my smile lines are.

And it totally freaks out the Soccer Moms. :)

Mending Wall...

Something about this time of year makes me yearn to reach for a book of Robert Frost poems, a steaming cup of tea with cream, and a big comfy chair to curl up in.

Unfortunately for me, there are two very large (and yet very small) obstacles to this aim -- named Jack and Tobin. Yesterday, however, there was a zen moment where the moon was right and all the chakkras came into alignment, and both boys actually slept AT THE SAME TIME for about an hour - During which time I got a hot soak in the tub, managed to hilight my hair, and made use of the French Seaweed Mud Mask (because apparently French seaweed and mud is superior to all other kinds of seaweed and mud) that I got in my stocking for Christmas. And my skin feels fantastic today, thankyouverymuch.

I felt absolutely decadent. I mean, a BATH. In the middle of the day. And quiet time to contemplate the condition of my pores. And more quiet time to contemplate the wrinkle that has formed on my left cheek, right along the smile line. (It's a badge of honor, that one wrinkle. Perish the thought of ever botoxing proof that I really do smile more often than I frown - in spite of rumors to the contrary.)

Of course, the moment of zen was later pulverized when Toby decided that sleeping was a secondary concern to crying for no apparent reason in 2 minute bursts every 10 minutes through the night.

I parried with a "fine, sleep with me in the bed".

He returned with a 4am feeding demand.

This back and forth continued until he fell soundly and silently asleep. I celebrated my victory, vindicated by his little baby snoring. Then, I realized it was 7:30 and T was shaking me awake to see to Jack so he could leave for work. All the while, my little ninja slept soundly in his crib, secure in the knowledge that he had ruined Mommy's chances of making it through the day without a nervous breakdown.

Something there is that doesn't love a sleeping Mother. That wants her awake. That sends the sobbing infant to rouse her, and topple her sanity in the sun... (shameless murdering of Frost there, by the way. It's really a lovely poem.)

It's 9:25am. Can I go back to bed yet???

Good slumbers make good Mommies.

I Need A Shrink To Help Me Call A Shrink.

One need not be a chamber to be haunted;
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.
~Emily Dickinson, "Time and Eternity"

In which I share "Too Much Personal Information..."

As T and I discussed blogs and various other topics last night (and I changed the heading to include a reference to sex which he thinks is totally unjustified since, as he put it, I have never discussed our sex life on here in any reasonable amount of detail) -- I was recalled to a conversation with a coworker of his.

We were at a poker game with several of the guys from his office. I was there (pregnant with Toby) to socialize with my friend Paige, who is married to one of T's coworkers. Anyway! Point of story:

T made one of his typical smarty-pants remarks over his shoulder as he walked out of the room... His coworker turned to me and said, sotto-voice, "uh.. YOU married him."

And, sweet, innocent-looking pregnant mommy that I was, I smiled, shrugged, and said, "yeah... well... I was drunk. And he's hung like a rhino."

Dentist, Schmentist...

Over the years, I have been in several serious relationships. Some of these have ended on good terms, some of them have ended horribly, and all have involved hours on my back, lots of tears and the exchange of large amounts of money.

I am referring, of course, to the many dentists who have come and gone through my adult life. One was fantastic, but when it took me 2 years to get the money to pay for a series of treatments I was too embarrassed to go back. One was horrid, screwed up a root canal, and tried to drain what he thought was an abscess (which is probably actually a very small cyst) by puncturing it without first providing me the benefit of local anesthetic.

My latest dentist is actually a practice where I have now seen 3 of the dental docs - all of whom have been so far stellar. The hygienists and various assistants are 99% female, and they all know me by sight and name and always remember to ask about my kids. They all knew when I had to go in for an emergency root canal the day I left the hospital with Toby, and remembered to ask at my cleaning today how he is. They also demanded to see photos, and (geek that I am) I had my digital camera at the ready with a plethora of recently shot photos and quicktime videos.

When Trip asked me to marry him, I told him (in no uncertain terms) that he first had to be aware of a few things. Some of those things are none of your business, but one I will share. I told him point blank that, over the course of our marriage, he should expect to invest the price of a very nice cadillac into the care and repair of my teeth. At the time, he thought I was kidding. He has since learned how deadly serious I was...

For the first time in my adult life, however, my dentist has worked with me to put together a treatment plan, and they have perfect awareness that I won't be able to pay them for all of the work up front. They have no problem letting us make monthly payments, and in the mean time they have been seeing me every 4 months for a thorough cleaning and to monitor the status of my problems. (Which are too numerous to list here. My teeth have all the stamina of a large brick of chalk..)

If you want to understand how I feel about my dental life at present, you must imagine my life before. Picture a draconian chamber of torture, complete with dull, rusted blades and a wart-nosed receptionist named Elga who has more hair in her eyebrows than on her head. Now picture stepping from that room into a state-of-the-art surgery theater, where a doctor with the bedside manner of Patrick Dempsey on Grey's Anatomy waits for me past a receptionist with the face and charm of Reese Witherspoon. And, thanks to extra-frequent total cleanings and good advice, I can state - for the first time I can remember - that my teeth have not developed any NEW problems in the last six months.

As I ponder my situation, I can't help but wonder... who would have thought a person not into S&M could ever feel so kindly disposed toward a place where you fork over buckets of money in exchange for intense pain?

Down the Rabbit Hole....

Or, more accurately, the cat hole. You see, we have this little hole cut in the basement door to provide the cats with unmitigated access to their litter box, while keeping our adventurous toddler at bay. The basement stairs, they are unfinished you see. They are the builder's stairs, hard and wooden with but a bit of carpet rolled down the center.

As Jack is unable to access the basement area without assistance, he has discovered that he can still explore the basement by living vicariously through the toys that he shoves through the cat hole. Onto the Stairs.

Today, one such toy - a truck to be exact - was hiding in the shade of one of the steps near the top. With Toby tucked into my arms, I stepped blithely onto the Staircase of Doom, unaware of the fate that was about to befall me.

Surely as a bear relieves himself in the woods, my foot found that tiny toy truck... and down I went. Feet flying comically (and yet not at all comical) out from under me, I landed flat on my back on the stairs.

Maternal Instincts combined with Superhuman Speed and I managed to cling for dear life to the precious bundle in my arms.

Apparently my superpowers do not extend to a resiliently bouncy body, though. With several loud cracks and a few muffled thumps, various parts of my anatomy were bruised and battered. One wooden stair cracked me upside the head. I'm fairly certain my backside is currently a mottled shade of purple and blue. I need a jumbo sized bottle of Ibuprofen.

But Toby is okay, angry red scratch on his cheek notwithstanding.

And Jack and I had a little talk about putting toys down the cat hole. He listened with rapt attention, then pointed out to me that, whilst I was engaged in my losing battle with gravity, he had opened the new air filter I purchased yesterday and turned it into Pop Art. That will teach me to pay extra for the nicer filter.

Anyone know of a nice band of wandering gypsies interested in purchasing a gently-used toddler?

Tom Waits for No Man...

This afternoon Jack and I sat at the kitchen table, eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and sharing a banana. It's one of those dreary, rainy January days, and we turned together to watch the fat raindrops landing in puddles on the deck outside. I sipped at a cup of coffee (a spiced blend which, when combined with french vanilla creamer, becomes a dangerously addictive substance. *insert contemplative sigh here*) and realized that Tom Waits was still in the CD player.

For anyone who doesn't already know, Innocent When You Dream is a Tom Waits reference.
It feels so vulgar to type that out loud. If you didn't already know that, you should be taken out back and flogged vigorously with a wet noodle.

It was an odd moment - so perfect in its wistfulness, so beautifully dreary. The sound of the rain echoing off of the gravelly sound of Tom's wail.

It was then that I realized, half way through my PB&J, that I really wasn't hungry anymore. I think the frozen moment had put me in a strange mood, and I sat there realizing that I was going to leave food unfinished on my plate. The last time I can vividly remember doing this was when I was maybe 6 or 7 years old. I was a picky eater back then - and by picky, I mean I would literally pick at my plate for a half hour or so and then call it quits. Anyway, I had food on my plate in front of me, and I had no appetite... So I sat at the table until bedtime, because I wasn't allowed to leave the table until I had eaten. I wonder if that marked the beginning of my issues with food - which has become a lifelong obsession. Looking at it objectively, there's nothing at all wrong with not finishing every bite on your plate -- in fact, it seems obvious that when a person is full, said person should STOP eating. Amazing how the obvious can get so lost in the shuffle of obsessive-compulsive behaviors.

So, I stopped eating. I threw away half a PB&J sandwich (I can hear my mother thinking, at this very moment, "Sacrelige! Wasted Food!") And you know what? I feel fantastic. I may have just turned a corner in this battle with my butt. I wonder if it's appropriate to send Tom Waits a thank you card...

The Best Laid Plans...

I have to be careful what I say, because I believe in Murphy and his stupid law. And I'm waiting to find out what the third torture in our trifecta of evil happenings will be.

1) Trip dropped his car off for an oil change and tire rotation the week after Christmas. We didn't hear from the dealer for a few days -- no big deal, right? I mean, it's the week after Christmas, they're probably just short-handed from the holidays, right? Nyet, my friend. Here to follow is a lot of car talk that I can parrot, but don't actually understand: On the "test drive" (which I believe is code for "trip to the race track up the road") the engine blew a cylinder - which had to be repaired, and which also vented metal bits into the turbo, which then required all new bits and pieces. Got the car back after a week and a half. Still broken.... leaking coolant so the engine tries to overheat, and the turbo isn't working at all. Dropped car back off at dealership on Saturday. Reading between the lines, you may have figured out that this means T is driving MY car, leaving me stranded at home with the baby and a very cabin-fevered 2 year old. The only bright spot? (If you can call it that). Because the whooping West Virginia mechanics are the ones who blew up the car in the first place, so far we haven't been tagged for any of the repairs. Let's hope it stays that way as we go forward...

2) Trip's computer drank the purple kool-aid, people. And THEN it ate the pudding. And then it blew up the motherboard. The motherboard, which is a few years old, had to be replaced.. but the really fun part is that the new motherboards available don't work with a good deal of the current hardware we had... SO... Saturday also involved a trip to Best Buy to get an off-the-shelf emachine which, all things considered, wasn't so bad except that it blew the sum total of the expendable cash we had.

I think I just realized that #3 in the trifecta already occurred. You see, the above badness means that we had to cancel our plans to go to NYC for the Chemlab show. Which means I didn't get to lick any part of Jared Louche, and Trip had to miss the show and the chance to meet up with the TSC folks. Instead, we spent our weekend watching football and Signing Time DVD's. Not a horrible way to spend a weekend, mind you, but a considerable let down after the big adventure we had planned.

At least the weather is improving. Is it Spring yet!?

The Longest Yard

I remember my parents having some shindig or other when I was a little tyke. I was sent up to bed, and relegated to listening covertly from the top of the stairs to the tinkle of glasses and low buzz of conversation below. It was gut-wrenching, really, the desire to go down and share in the festivities.

I was reminded of that feeling today, as we made plans for the weekend. Turns out Chemlab will be performing on Saturday at Albion Club. We're planning to drive up Saturday morning and spend the night in the cheapest non-sketchy hotel room we can find. Trip will hit the show while I entertain the boys in the hotel room (Thank God "Madagascar" should be on the pay-per-view menu). I would sell any of several favorite appendages to get to that show, but at least I'll be just down the way. And we'll get to meet up with some of the weird and wonderful (?) guys from TSC. No, there's no link for it and yes, that's intentional. If you were supposed to be there, you'd already know the URL.

SO! I'll be mere yards from the show, and the illustrious Jared Louche (nee Jared Hendrickson) who is quite possibly one of the most charming and gifted individuals I have come across in my lifetime. At the very least, the man tells a damn fine story, and if you missed the Jared Louche GlamRock hour when it used to be on TotalRock.com then you should slap yourself silly right this minute. It was sheer bliss. We lived in our tiny matchbox of an apartment in Herndon. It had one bedroom and not much else, but it did have a fireplace and vaulted ceilings, so we could pretend it was a penthouse haven. Friday nights, 2 bottles of red wine, a fire in the grate, and Jared's buttery gravel voice walking us through our Friday evening.

Those were the days before marriage, before kids, and before a mortgage. It was brilliant, really, and one of those things you wish you had appreciated more at the time. It's also one of those things nobody else can ever really appreciate, which pisses me off because I won't ever forget it. "I'm a Damn Genius." God, that man can tell a story.

Skeletons in the closet... Junk in the trunk....

My mood today is somewhat maudlin - in this case, referring to webster's second definition: 2 : weakly and effusively sentimental, rather than the first : 1 :drunk enough to be emotionally silly.
I'm sure I would fit definition 1 if I could, but I haven't been "drunk" since... oh, before I found out I was pregnant with Tobin... which is to say at least a year. (Holy Dry Heaves, Batman! Has it BEEN that long??)

Adding to the general gloom is the fact that my email client apparently gorged itself today on all of my email from the past 3 years, digesting it right out of existence. This means that I am starting over from scratch. There are currently 3 emails in my inbox, and one of them is from Papa John's confirming my order from earlier tonight. That's just sad on many many levels. Oh, and my address book? Also gone. Somebody hold me, I've lost my connections to the outside world...

Add to this the fact that Trip's car sniffed some glue, his computer drank the purple kool-aid, and my car registration is now officially expired and can't be renewed till we pay the property tax (which comes out to enough money to feed a small third-world nation for the winter.)

This is not a promising start for a new year.

It doesn't help that I have given up sweets until I can lose the bulk of this baby weight. (pun intended.)

I am officially tracking my progress towards my goal weight. If I make it public, at least I will feel there is someone to hold me accountable for doing something stupid like, say, oh... gorging myself on a large pizza.

*Burp*

And why am I craving butterscotch ripple?? I ASK YOU!!!

Current Weight: 200 pounds
Target Weight: 160 pounds
Ideal Weight: 145 pounds

Current Size: 18 .... Dear Heaven, that's frightening.

I think it's time for a little John Stuart injection to boost my humor.

The Overcash Prophecy

Apparently, according to my friend Robin, the chinese will be taking over the planet in the next 20 to 30 years, and we should all be educating ourselves in the mother tongue now so as to have a leg up when The Appocalypse comes.

I am now recording this for the future. Consider it my own little time capsule, so in 2026 I can look back and say "gee, he was right" Actually, I guess I'll be saying the chinese equivalent, but I am but an egg. I need a good decade to begin to master another language, and I'm still working on ASL.

There ya go Robin. Now get your butt on a train and come visit your honorary nephews. Who else is going to teach them about The Doctrine of Carl Sagan??

He lets me keep him humble....

What you would have overheard as we practiced sign language with our 2 year old today:

"This is the sign for choo-choo train."

"Wow. Cool. Cuz when you rub your fingers together like that, it actually sounds like a train."

"Uh..no.. because it is the motion of a train moving over tracks."

"No, it sounds like a train"

"Dear, this is SIGN LANGUAGE. Created for the DEAF."

*Blank Stare*

"Oh. Yeah... Shut up."

Hit and Run...

I know I've been sporradic with my posting of late, and I can only plead Holiday-itis. Between playgroups, christmas parties, cookie swaps (2 so far), more playgroups, and shopping and wrapping and decorating.. I'm amazed I still find time to pee and brush my teeth between bouts of laugh/sobbing and emoting on my hair. Speaking of emoting on my hair, yesterday it again paid the price for my emotional outbursts... I cut off 6 inches or so and it is now in a short layered bob around my head. This is good because it is what I refer to as "wash'n wear hair" - meaning I can wash it, squoosh a little mousse or gel in it, scrunch it up and go. This is not so good because when they say a "bob" they don't tell you it means you will end up actually looking like your name might be "bob".

Which reminds me, I used to use the name "Bob Oswald" to register all my software. That's neither here nor there, really, but is somehow humorous to me now....

Any road, I now have short, fabulous soccer-mom hair and I may have to put some streaks of purple just so I can still freak everyone out at the Mommy and Me playdates. Note to self: now might be a good time to buy combat boots. You know, before I give in to the brainwashing and become TOTALLY establishment. (I still refuse to buy a membership to Wee Gym, so at least I still have a few hold-outs.) And when I get invited to Gymboree again, I can always flash my tattoo and shake up the cultist mini-van set a little.

Oh, and Mom if you ever read this... thank you for never forcing us to sit on the lap of some guy's husband dressed as Santa. Jack went willingly, but I was astonished at the number of moms who were content with photos of their precious little darling sobbing uncontrollably in the lap of a complete stranger. Seriously. My therapy would be a lot more expensive if you had forced me to sit on some guy's lap against my will every year.

Oh..and if the real Santa is reading this... I was only kidding about the soccer moms being in a mini-van cult. Please bring me a mini-van. I need something that will haul all the toilet paper I'll be buying at Costco. And we'll leave you the good cookies this year, not the ones that I burned because I was wrapping presents and forgot I had put that last batch in the oven. And I'll forgive you for never bringing me a radio controlled car "because they were for boys". K, Thanks.

Archive Asylum

I copied the entries from the LJ I had started for our little family over to here, for posterity, since when the new site is up and running the Blog links will undoubtedly be pointed here. I marked the subjects with a none-too-subtle [ARCHIVE] in them to avoid confusion since this is the "new" Blog.

Then again, the term "confusion" would imply that anyone actually reads this drivel. And if you do... well, you have my sympathies. Have a coke and a smile, and try not to poke yourself with sharp things.

Love,
MeL

Reasons to love Jack...

He bites his sandwiches into shapes, and then plays with them. Today, his grilled cheese sandwich was a pirate ship (which he sailed around his tray, saying "Pirate, ARRRHHHG!") and then a Telephone (which he put to his ear and spoke into, which was adorable despite the toast crumbs and cheese grease he got in his hair).

Lately I've been giving him Zerberts on his belly. (You know, when you press your lips against the skin and blow, making a "PHHHHBBBBBTTTTT" sound...yeah, that one.) He loves these, in the way that one loves and hates being tickled. That's the part that's nothing extraordinary. The part that makes me want to grab him and squeeze him till he pops is that he calls them "Zoo-burps". I gave him ZooBurps for half an hour today, just to watch him lift up his shirt and say over and over "Zoo Burp, Mommy! ZOO BURP!"

Now if I can just keep his dad from teaching him other bodily-related games, all will be well. (IF he starts making fart sounds with his arm pit, heads will roll.)

December already?

November, what happened to you? And how did you escape me so fast? I suppose the answer is that amidst the Thanksgiving hub-bub, settling in with the new baby, and trying to get a leg up on Christmas shopping... November quietly slunk away into the corner and sulked until December came to the rescue and he could punch his card and disappear until next year.

The Christmas shopping is nearly complete, the house is decorated, the tree trimmed... nothing to do now but bake until my arms fall off and then eat until I explode. Ah, this truly is the season of joy....

Goodbye, Grandpa.

My grandfather passed away last weekend, leaving my Gram to continue on alone. I suppose, technically, she has been on her own for a while now... Grandpa finally succumbed to the Alzheimer's Disease that took him from us in any communicative way a few years ago. His obituary can be read here I posted a letter to him on http://www.celebratinglife-ut.com, but I am re-posting it here so it can be preserved once the guest book on that site is gone.

Grandpa, I could not have asked for a better grandfather. I have never, not once in my life, questioned that you love me. You have been ever patient, ever kind. You treated me, from earliest childhood, with patience and respect. It is my greatest wish that when I am gone, I will be remembered as you are - as one who loved learning, loved life, and loved others without condition or exception. I miss you with all my heart.

Delaying the Giving of the Thanks...

My six week check-up has been scheduled for the week after Thanksgiving. Unfortunately for Trip, that means he will have to wait a little while to have something to be thankful for...

I just spent the second night in a row sleeping with Toby on the recliner. These chairs, hand me downs from Trip's folks (Thanks again!) are incredibly comfy.. but somehow, now that I can actually sleep in a bed in semi-comfort (and without a nest of pillows to support the individual swollen bits of a pregnant body) it's lonely to be down in the basement. Luckily, though, since this is the second kid... I know that this is all just temporary. I remember being up at 3am with Jack and bawling because I honestly didn't believe I would ever get to go to sleep EVER again. The best part of the second baby so far is that I know that all the rough bits of this first few weeks are very short-term, and I can relax and just go with the flow. In a few weeks, this will all be a memory and I'll be wistfully thinking back to when Toby was tiny and new. .. of course, it's easier to look back wistfully after a good night's sleep...

Jack & Me & Baby Makes 3

The weather today was amazing. Incredible. It was one of those days where you say to yourself, "Self... it is now officially November, and it is 70 degrees outside". It was SO nice, in fact, that I actually got myself dressed, got Jack dressed, got Toby into the snuggly carrier, and hauled the three of us out to the mailbox. (This may not sound too impressive, but our mailbox is part of a cluster of boxes and therefore several blocks away... so checking the mail is no stroll to the end of the driveway for us...)

Jack held tightly to my hand and together we walked, naming colors of the grass and sky, counting to 10, and reciting our ABC's. Toby slept soundly, all warm and snuggled on my chest, and a breeze ruffled through the trees and made the wind chimes tinkle as though it were a spring day.

At that instant, I thought to myself.. "THIS is Motherhood." And for a shining moment, I was entirely, serenely at peace.

A "Beary" Happy Halloween...

The fear, it builds...

Okay, so I'm beginning to get afraid. Only a few more days with Trip home with me, and then he's back to work and I'm on my own with the 2 boys. So far I have been spared any serious baby blues, but I have a feeling if depression is going to strike it will be once I'm alone with the two small ones.

Toby is growing like a weed, and beginning to chunk out nicely. I did a mini photo shoot with him today and got the photos I will be using for his birth announcements... which hopefully will be going out next week. (that might be a tad optimistic, but I'll do my best.)

Jack is cutting molars. 2 of the 4 are now through, but he is waking up in the wee hours of the morning every day, and won't settle back down unless Trip lays down with him. This means I end up alone in the bed, so I've been bringing Toby in to bed with me when he wakes up to nurse again, thus giving me easy access to nurse him again the next time without having to haul my butt out of bed.

I'm wiped out, and Toby is ready to eat again, so it's time to nurse my boo and head to bed. We head to the doctor on Friday, so I'll have more Toby news then...

They say "it" happens....

But they don't tell you it will happen when you least expect it. They also don't tell you it's a bad idea, in general, to attempt to change a diaper in your lap... especially with the business end of the baby pointed squarely at one's person. You might think this would be self-evident, but cut me some slack -- I just had a baby. :)

I also just found out that my new son has the ability to projectile poo. This, in combination with the newly-learned lessons above resulted in baby poop all over my shirt, hands, lap... not to mention a little in my hair and on my glasses. Who said motherhood isn't glamorous???

Cinnamon Ice Cream

Must randomly share that Cinnamon Ice Cream (care of Blue Bunny) is really, really good. You know when you eat apple pie a la mode, and you get to the end and there's just vanilla ice cream with all that apple-cinnamony goodness in it? Yeah, it tastes a lot like that. YUM.

We had Toby's first check-up today. He is well on his way to re-achieving his birth weight (he's at 9 lbs 4 oz as of this morning). He is nursing like a champ, and all his bits and pieces are in perfect order. They'll see him again in about a week, at which time Jack will also get a quick exam and a flu shot. Trip and I will also be getting the flu shot in the next week or so, as Toby is highly vulnerable at this stage and can't be vaccinated himself for it.

It is WAY too late for me to still be awake, so I'm heading to bed to get an hour's rest before the next feeding. This little boy is a bottomless pit.. and I suddenly have a whole new empathy for dairy cows....

He's Here!

Tobin Michael
Born: 10/15/2005 at 5:46pm EST
Weight: 9 lbs 7 oz
Length: 20.5 inches
15 inch head circumference. (yes, ouch.)

Here's the quick and dirty rundown of events...

Friday 10/14:

1:30pm: Went to the doctor for a check. As I arrived, he was leaving for the hospital where he'd been called in to do a delivery. He said to make sure I was still there when he got back, as he definitely wanted to check on me. I had left Jack with my friend Paige, so I grabbed some sandwiches and headed back to her house, just down the road, and left numbers to reach me with the receptionist.

An hour or two later, they called and I headed back in. A quick internal exam revealed I was dilated 1cm, and we were a GO for induction.

5:30pm: Dropped Jack off with my brother and sister-in-law and headed out to grab a dinner alone on the way to the hospital. Domani Ristoranti in Ashburn has a great tortellini with prosciutto (sp?) in cream sauce. It tasted all the better as it was to be my last meal for 24 hours. The calamari wasn' t bad, either.

7:30pm: Checked into the hospital for Cervidil.

Saturday 10/15:

8:00am: began pitocin drip.

11:00am: got the epidural. My left leg went numb, but my right side took convincing to be numbed at all. Got adjusted, and was suddenly pain free... which was a very good thing. Dilation: about 3cm

2:00pm: Anesthesiologist came to adjust the epidural to control break-through pain. It took a little while, but I finally felt better and Trip went to nurse the broken bones in the hand he used to hold mine. Dilation: 4-5cm

5:25pm: Excrutiating pain in my pubic bones. When I say excrutiating, I mean "Holy Hell there is NO WAY I can do this!" pain. In fact, I actually said repeatedly "I can't do this!"... Trip and Christie the Wonder Nurse (she was completely amazing) assured me that I could, in fact, do it... and also reminded me I didn't have much choice as the baby was already well on his way. A quick check revealed that the pain was probably due to the fact that I was dilated to 1/4cm less than the full 10cm and the baby's head was pushing insistently on my pelvis to get out.

5:30pm: We're pushing, baby.

5:46pm: Tobin Michael takes his first breath and lets out a very impressive squeal of indignation at being removed from his comfy uterine home and pushed out into a very cold and very bright world.

That's the blow-by-blow. The rest was pretty standard stuff... started nursing, changing diapers, re-learning to use the potty and whatnot. Everything was going according to plan until Sunday night...

I was exhausted, and Trip made me promise that I would let Toby go to the nursery while I got some sleep. The nurse came and wheeled my baby away, and I reluctantly laid the bed back to get some rest. Within about 2 minutes, the side of my head felt like it had been blown off and my sinuses erupted in what I can only describe as The Pain Second Only to the Above Mentioned Pain of Childbirth. There was no escaping the pain, and it grew rapidly worse with each passing minute.

After Tylenol 3 had no effect, the nurse called and got orders for Percocet. 2 Percocets every three hours got me through the night in a drug-addled semi-coma, but at least it was something akin to rest. By morning, I was exhausted and nauseated... and had already seen my doctor and promised to call the dentist ASAP.

The end of this little saga is that I left the hospital and went directly to the dentist chair for a root canal. Yes, apparently giving birth just wasn't tough enough for me.. I had to add the root canal.

SO... all of the drama is over, and we are on to learning to live the day-to-day. Thank God I have Trip for another week... the man is a wonder. The laundry is done, the sink is empty of dirty dishes, the Jack is fed and washed and asleep, and my sport bottle is full of icy-cold watery goodness. If they have Most Awesomely Awesome Husband awards, I hereby nominate him for a super-platinum recognition. Seriously... I'm just waiting to find out he has some deep dark secret, like a serious foot fetish or a collection of nude photos of Margaret Thatcher... Then again, as long as the laundry is done, I suspect I could find it in my heart to find even Margaret rather fetching...

Toby is still figuring out how to sleep in his crib, but he's getting there. Jack has developed a bad habit of wanting one of us to lay with him until he falls asleep. When we don't give in right away, he lays on the floor sobbing his little heart out and saying "Please, Daddy... Please Please Please Please....". Needless to say (especially in my current emotionally fragile state) this results in him getting exactly what he wants because, really, what mother could stand to hear her baby crying and pleading like that for very long?

SO.. to make a VERY long story short... Toby is here, we're good, and I'm beat. Thank you for all the well-wishes, and to Trip's office for the beautiful flowers. It's good to feel loved.

Not Counting Unhatched Chickens...

Heading for another check-up this morning... without expectation that there will be significant changes. Pessimistic? Realistic? Let's just say "preserving sanity". I'm desperately refraining from getting my hopes up.

Then again... (*Damn you Murphy and your Stupid Law!*) as Jack has suddenly decided that "bedtime" is a filthy, sailor word... it would be typical irony to bring home a mewling newborn in the midst of this new night time chaos...

More News As It Becomes Available. I Promise.

Deja - Oh to hell with it.

You can basically just cut and paste last week's baby update here. No change... none at all. My body has frozen in time at about 6 weeks ago, and is steadfastly refusing to prepare for labor.

Next check-up: Friday morning. If there is any change, we'll induce Saturday.... but at this point, I'm gonna say... there's not gonna be any change. And we'll be doing this well into next week. And it will be allowed to continue as long as the following Friday, so let's just say this baby is gonna show up around the 21st, and forget for now that there IS a baby, okay? It's too depressing. And I'm too pregnant.

The one good thing I can report is that my doc gave me the OK to take sudafed in the morning and benadryl before bed until my cold is cleared up. The benadryl last night knocked me O-U-T .. OUT! and I got 6 uninterrupted hours of sleep. Of course, by the time I woke up I nearly wet the bed, but hey... SLEEP!! Neat! I took a half dose tonight, and hopefully I will be able to breathe through my nose well enough to wake up tomorrow sans sore throat (which appears to be a result of mouth-breathing the incredibly dry air in our house)...

More updates as they become available. Which means.. I'll probably have more to say in about 10 days, and until then DON'T ASK ME IF I HAVE HAD THAT BABY YET... I know you mean well, but really... I promise, we would let you know... k, thx. Love, MeL

Deja V- Wait A Second!

Over the weekend I realized that, in a past life, I must have done something horrible enough to warrant the thorough karmic ass-kicking I am now receiving.

The sore throat I had last week turned, over the weekend, into a full blown nasty fall cold. Swollen glands? Check. Clogged sinuses and MASSIVE sinus headaches? Check. Body Aches? Check.

Today has been a bit better, but we called the OB to give him a heads up. Basically, he said I can take Sudafed in the morning, Benadryl before bed.. and hey, if my cervix is still not favorable tomorrow, we'll just postpone inducing until the weekend so I have time to recover from my cold...

SO... yeah. I'm drinking water by the gallon, herbal tea, SoBe (with echinacea, zinc, and vitamin C) and using saline spray to clear out my sinuses. I am waging all-out holistic war on this cold. I am willing every cell in my body to be conscripted to the fight, so that by tomorrow morning I can feel GREAT.

I have also given my cervix an ultimatum... DILATE or face the consequences. There really aren't any consequences, but don't mention that to my cervix....

Mental health. Hanging by thread. This calls for drastic measures.... time for a bagel and a vitamin C...

Here comes the rain again....

Blessed rain.. which halteth construction. Praise be to you. Even if you did wake me up at 4am, pelting against my window... I had to pee anyway, and your soothing lullaby rocked me back to sleep until a blissful 7am. Thank you... even if this means our outing to the Renn Fest tomorrow is cancelled due to Mass Quantities of Mud. After all, my sore throat is gone but has been replaced by some sinus junk... so my nose probably thanks you for keeping it indoors anyway.

In other news, Trip will be working from Home on Monday, so I won't have to endure my morning anxiety attack as I watch him drive away and think "but if I go into labor today I'll have to DRIVE MYSELF TO THE HOSPITAL!" Never mind that chances of me going into labor on my own are up there with a cure for cancer before Tuesday or winning the lottery without buying a ticket... but I dare anyone to tell a pregnant woman to think rationally at this point. Plus, I'm sick... and having him here to keep half an eye on Jack will give me a much needed cat-nap here and there...

Speaking of naps... there is a very large recliner calling my name. No, really... I can hear it now, and the voice sounds just like James Earl Jones. Irrational? Please see above....

Don't Wanna Start Any Blasphemous Rumors...

But somebody up there definitely has a sick sense of humor... Allow me to demonstrate...

5:30am: The construction crew building a subdivision behind us apparently decideshat this is a reasonable hour to begin using their JACKHAMMER. It woke Trip up at 5:30. It woke me up at 6. By 6:30, Jack was also awake... so it was a party at our house in the early pre-dawn hours...

6:00am: My throat, which was a little dry and scratchy at bedtime last night, is now fully red, raw, and sore. My head is pounding. My body aches in bizarre places.

10:00am: All of the above symptoms continue, and now I am dozing in and out of consciousness while Jack blissfully plays at my feet in front of Dora the Explorer. We can now add the chills and some monster sweats to my list of symptoms.

1:00pm: After a morning of intermittent napping, returning phone calls that came in while I was dying of the hoo-doo virus in my recliner, and a snack with Jack of apples and wheat thins, I put Jack down (he's still up there singing to himself) and told him to play if he must, but Mama had to visit the puter and then get more nap.

All of the above adds up to the fact that I now feel slightly less dead than the raccoon that was smeared on route 9 yesterday, and STILL none of this leads up to any indications of Labor beginning. SO, I am still pregnant... and feel wrung out enough that I am imagining a kinship with barely recognizable road kill. I wonder if delusions are ever a sign of impending childbirth??? Anyone... anyone... Bueller?

Medically Speaking....

Trip and I came to the conclusion the other day that the naming of male and female reproductive parts must have resulted in a spirit of competition gone horribly wrong.

Allow me to elucidate..... We imagined events something along the lines of a male doctor named all the female parts as distastefully as possible (Cervix? Labia? Are you kidding me?).

The female doctor, who had just about finished naming the male parts with fairly reasonable syntax (Prostate? sounds like a car insurance company..) played the ultimate trump card by inventing the mother-of-all, shudder-inducing nomenclature.

Say it with me, now... and I dare you not to flinch...

Scrotum.

See? Told ya.

Deja Vu All Over Again...

We went to the OB today and, in spite of our best hopes, there has been no activity in the baby department. No dilation, no effacement, and the baby has not engaged or even really moved down to a satisfactory degree. The doctor, who was very sympathetic to our disappointment, basically said that he is confident I will still be able to deliver the baby if we let it grow another week, and if we tried to induce now (even with Cervidil) he's worried we may cause unnecessary complications and end up with a c-section that could have been avoided...

SO... long story short... after a few tears (me) and some reshuffling of work schedules (Trip) we rescheduled the induction for next Wednesday, October 12. We also went ahead and scheduled the Cervidil treatment, which means I will plan to check in to the hospital next Tuesday evening. We'll have one more check at the doctor's office on Tuesday afternoon, just to see if things have progressed at all... but at this point, I'm not optimistic that this baby has any plans to arrive on his own or help the process along at all....

All in all, a bit of a disappointing day... but, as Trip keeps reminding me, the baby is healthy, and even if we have to wait one more LOOOOOONG week before he makes his appearance, our son will have 10 fingers and 10 toes and everything in its place... so for that, I am grateful. I'm sure I'll be even more grateful once my pity party has run its course... and once I've consumed my body weight in chocolate...

Notes from the Edge...

Well, it is Monday night and tomorrow morning we head to the doctor to get the verdict on whether we go to the hospital tomorrow night or Wednesday morning.... (we won't consider any other possible outcome at this point.... just cross everything on your body that crosses for us, and hope that we are not cervix challenged come noon tomorrow....)

Jack and I spent our last day alone together doing nothing in particular. Chris the Wonder Plumber managed to dislodge the shave gel lid that has been stuck in our master bathroom toilet for the last 2 months. Yes, for 2 months we have been using the hallway guest bathroom toilet. This is because Jack figured out that if he gets caught doing something naughty, it's more fun to finish up your dirty deed fast and watch momy and daddy freak out when they can't stop you in time... and damned if the kid isn't speedy like a ferret on meth when he wants to be... you've never seen a lid flushed so fast in your life...

Jack pretended to be a puppy for a few hours, and chased me around the house on all-fours trying to lick my shins. He woke up from his nap after just an hour or so crying for a drink of water, which I brought him. He obligingly took it, said "thank you, mommy" and climbed back into bed... at which point I realized I was exhausted, and climbed in with him. We napped together in blissful quiet for nearly an hour, and then he got up and very quietly played while I dozed off and on for another half hour or so. Have I mentioned that I have the most awesome kid in the history of the world? Because... Yeah.. I do.

Here's the tally of "things we normally do, but which took on special significance because it was our last day together before we get this baby-birthing started":
# of diapers changed: 4
# of times we read "Colors with Oswald": 6
# of hugs: a lot, but never enough
# of episodes of SpongeBob watched: 2
# of zerberts: 20 or so
# of times Jack wrote on something he shouldn't have: 3. (once on the little TV with permanent marker, once on the dust jacket to a book with the same marker, and once all over his legs with a ball point pen.)

For all the jangle of nerves I am feeling with the uncertainty ahead (and the certainty of pain to follow...) at this moment in time, I am feeling incredibly lucky to be a Mama. I'll feel even luckier if I manage to sleep 3 consecutive hours tonight without having to get up to pee... but hey, at least tonight I can go in my own potty... it's the little things....

Hurry Up and Wait....

4 days and counting. I have been attempting to keep my days as full as possible in order to keep my ferret-like attention span occupied... so as not to actually FEEL the impatience bubbling just under my calm exterior.

Okay, so the exterior is not so calm, but compared to the interior it's a calm day on a Cayman Beach.

Today we are attempting to polish off any remaining chores, so as to have the house as close to "company condition" as possible. This way, when reinforcements arrive (in the form of Trip's Mama) in a week or so, we will be in need of some sprucing without requiring a full-on Extreme Makeover-style overhaul.

So far, many loads of laundry have been washed, folded, and mostly put away. Dishes have been done, counters have been wiped. I will be doing another vacuum once-over this afternoon (with 2 cats, you can never vacuum too much).

Jack's bedding has been washed and his bed made. Hopefully he manages to keep the party in his diaper between now and Tuesday... he's been swimming in his blankets a few times a week the last month or so. (We moved to the next size of diaper, to no avail.)

The hospital bag is gathered, and this afternoon I will pile my survival kit into the small travel suitcase. It was highly disappointing to find out the hospital doesn't allow Italian Ices during labor.. just plain old ice chips. I've been pondering whether they would allow me to use my ice shaver, so at least I don't chip my teeth while I'm wasting away with low blood sugar on the delivery table. (And hey... if the machine is used to make the odd margarita without my knowledge or consent... I can hardly be held responsible)

SO... the wait continues. All I can say is... Tuesday, you better hurry up and get here... and bring Wednesday with you, huh?? Let's get this show on the road....

Paraphrasing For Fun and Profit....

AIM conversation regarding the previous post:

Man: I don't ever want to hear about your cervix or its changes... not ever ever again...

Me: Do you know what a cervix is?

Man: uh.. actually.. no.

Yes, I am paraphrasing, but that's the general idea. Curly, I love you. :)

Target Sighted.

The end is near. Seriously.

Okay, first off, here are the boring stats:
Total weight gained: 45 pounds
Blood Pressure: 129/78
(not bad, but a good bit higher than my non-pregnant bp of about 90/60)
Total Babies Hiding out in there: 1
cm Dilated: 0
Percent effaced: 0

NOW, on to the important stuff.

My cervix is changing, even though it has not yet dilated or effaced... It is getting softer, which is a good sign that things are at least moving forward, if not as fast as one might hope.

We scheduled an induction for next Wednesday, October 5, at 8:30am.

I go back into my OB's office next Tuesday to do a cervix check. If my cervix has begun to dilate and progress, EXCELLENT, we will move forward as planned. If I have not progressed as well as we had hoped, I will most likely be heading into the hospital on Tuesday evening for a Cervidil treatment which will hopefully encourage things along and begin dilation. Once I am dilated 2cm or so, whether by nature or by Cervidil, we can start a pitocin drip on Wednesday morning at 8:30, break the water sometime fairly soon thereafter, and... with any luck.... 12 hours or less later we will be greeting our new baby boy.

Mark your calendars, people.... October 5, we are looking for an induction.

There is the slight chance that I will not dilate on my own, and that the Cervidil will not work..... in which case, I would go back home and wait until there is another opening and I have progressed, or until I go into labor spontaneously. In case of this scenario becoming reality, please send flowers care of Northern Virginia Maximum Security Mental Health Clinic, as I will most certainly need to be institutionalized for a seriously long time..... My hopes are UP, people... everyone cross fingers, toes, elbows, and knees for us, because we are going all in that this baby will make his appearance sometime next Wednesday!!

And yes, that was a shameless poker reference... because yesterday I managed to make it to 70th place out of 245 on my computer poker tournament. Hey, Mama can make a baby and Mama... she knows how to gamble. (And really, isn't that redundant?)

He loves me.

Yesterday, I had a breakdown. I cried like a silly fool because, for anyone who didn't yet receive the memo, I AM DONE BEING PREGNANT... even though all physiological signs would say otherwise. (ergo, the baby is still in my uterus.) My throat was also a little sore, as was my back, and I had one big fat self-pity party for about 3 minutes. Then, I went to Wal-Mart and bought travel size toiletries so that THIS time I won't have to wash my hair with the hospital hand soap. I also got 2 sets of pajamas so that I can wear something besides a hospital gown.. because, regardless of what Trip might say to the contrary, nobody but NOBODY wants to see my lily white bum.

I came home feeling somewhat better, as I also managed to get the car washed and vacuumed so I could install the infant car seat (which was necessary and good, since we would otherwise not be allowed to take the baby home from the hospital...) I got Jack into the house and up for his nap, and found a note on the fridge from the most spectacular husband in the history of the world. It made me cry, again... but this time it was happy tears.

SO, I'm going to take one very mushy moment to say.... Thanks, Baby. We will indeed get through this last mile together... just as we have the last 99 (999999999999999). I sometimes forget that, even though I'm the one with all the physical symptoms... you're "expecting", too. Thank you for seeing me through, and telling me I'm beautiful... even when my nose runs, or when you've heard about the state of my cervix for the thousandth time.

3 things that you didn't need to know...

1. Sometimes, when a girl is exhausted and overwhelmed, a bologna and cheese sandwich and an individual-sized box of raisins can somehow make it all seem a little easier.

2. Last night, in the midst of my painfully restless pseudo-slumber, I managed to have a dream. Not your average, run-of-the-mill, vivid pregnant dream; No, this was one of the dreaded "vivid and so disturbing I'm not sure I'll sleep for a week" variety. In it, my distended, pregnant belly had a face. Somehow, the baby's face was ON my belly... so I could see what he looked like, but he was also somehow still inside my belly.... and I kept saying "yes, it's great to see what he looks like but he needs to hurry up and get BORN already!". Somehow, the me in the dream remained undisturbed by the fact that her belly had EYES with lashes, lids, and brows... a nose... a mouth with lips that opened and closed silently... as though this were the most normal thing in the world.

I woke up vowing never to drink gatorade before bed again. I think all those electrolytes did something to my brain.

3. Tuesday is exactly 2 days away. Is it wrong that I am tempted to do jumping jacks for a while, to encourage the kid to start making his downward descent? Don't answer that. YOU haven't been pregnant for so long that you can't remember what it feels like to wear pants without the big stretchy-cotton "smile" on them... and your legs probably don't resemble the whiteness and roundness of the Michelin man's with the added squishyness of the Stay-Puft marshmallow man. Mmmm... marshmallows.

I am so finished being pregnant. So, to my unborn son... please to be getting the hell out of me now. K, thanx.

NOTICE OF EVICTION.

Borrowed (and bastardized..) from one of the girls over at the BabyFit.com message boards.

THIS NOTICE is to inform my unborn child that he has 14 days (give or take a few) to pack his things and remove them from the premises of my womb. As the landlord, I take full responsibility for helping him to adjust to his new surroundings once he has vacated the womb. He will be loved and cherished as a member of this family; however, he (tenant) shall be held liable for any and all damages incurred to the womb during the last 9 months of kicking, rolling, punching, and otherwise abusing the internal organs of my body. Additionally, he shall be liable for any additional damages incurred during the move-out process. I (the landlord) reserve the right to remind him (the tenant) of all the pain he caused me during pregnancy and undoubtedly will cause during labor. This right is reserved for the first 18 years of his life and may be recalled to use at anytime deemed necessary. Additionally, he (the tenant) will share liability with his male parent (the co-signer), who may also be held culpable for the aforementioned occupancy and any damages, especially at Christmas, Birthdays, Anniversaries, or any other time fine jewelry and Spa gift certificates may be under negotitation.
Dated: Thursday, 22 September, 2005

Today Jack started pretending to be a dog. He gets down on all fours, pants, says "ruf ruf" and licks anyone with the misfortune to get close enough. It's really quite adorable, but I'm flummoxed as to why the child combines this with hopping about like a frog. I mean this literally.... he HOPS like he's playing leap frog, and says "ruf ruf". What kind of freaky mutant dogs has the kid been watching??!! Someone remind me to record this in his baby book. I can't wait to torture his future girlfriends with these kind of stories....

Next Tuesday we will schedule a tentative date for induction, since it looks like our new baby boy will be the same size as his older brother. (that's 10 pounds for anyone who has been living under a rock for the last 2 years and has been spared hearing all about my harrowing adventures in previous childbirth...) I keep holding on to the slim hope that my body will magically go into labor on its own, but that would be breaking with family tradition to a degree possibly more shocking than my morning cup of coffee.

SO, I am killing time any way I can think of, which includes an all night Scrapbooking party a week from tomorrow.... and hopefully I can get all of Jack's first year photos down in his book before the new kid gets here and I am swamped in a whole new set of pictures... I don't know that I was cut out for this whole scrapbooking craze... but at least it means I get cool pens and stickers. (Have I mentioned I have the *tiniest* addiction to office supplies, especially anything brightly colored that allows me to doodle things like stars and flowers??) Yet another reason I need therapy.

As if I needed further proof of mental instability -- so apparently distraught was I over the fact that I don't have any better idea than I did a week ago of when this child will make his appearance, I spent Tuesday night crying uncontrollably for about 30 minutes. Hormones make you do funny things. Oh, and then I dyed my hair a radioactive shade of red. We're talking fire engine, Little Mermaid, no-possibility-that-&*#@- is-natural Red. My son is going to enter the world wondering why it hurts his eyes to look directly AT Mommy's hair. The funny thing is... I don't think it bothers me - not really. After all, Jack hardly seemed to notice the change - and as I'm about to become the mother of TWO, this is probably my last chance for open rebellion against the preconceived notions people have about stay-at-home-Moms. Shoot, I may even get a pair of combat boots. Just cuz, ya know... hormones make you do funny things.

Hold 'Em If Ya Got 'Em....

Last night, after a few weeks of learning some basics on a computer simulator (Yes, I just said that. I know I'm a dork, and I've come to terms with it, so nyah..) anyway, last night I played my first game of Texas Hold'Em Poker with live humans. Thanks to the men for letting the big, sweaty pregnant lady in on their manly fun... I hope I wasn't too much of a wet blanket. I did manage to make a decent showing, outlasting both my indomitable spouse and his freakishly-doppelganger-esque friend. (I'm serious. Sometimes I think I should ask for DNA testing.) SO, I didn't go out first and when I did get creamed it was because my full house got beat by a BETTER full house. All in all, nothing to be ashamed of.

Oh, also.... there is something incredibly charming about that fact that as my 2 year old son is learning new words, completely innocent words sometimes transmogrify into much more entertaining conversation...

Today's case in point... I was trying to figure out where Jack would have learned the word "Queer" and wondering if perhaps he's been secretly watching the Fab 5 on Bravo... when I realized he was pointing out that the pretzel in his Chex mix was, in fact, a SQAURE.

Chalk one up for the kid.

F is for Fabulous.....at least for the moment.

Saturday morning I was scheduled for a pedicure with my good friend Renae. I went to meet her at her house, only to find a table full of kick ass food and a room full of even more kick ass friends. I was taken completely unawares by a Surprise Baby Shower. Now, those who know me well may have noticed I am somewhat prone to bouts of depression ranging from moderate to "oh shit, head for the hills". Of late, due to the combination of raging gestational hormones and 9 month lack of alcohol, I have been in what is commonly referred to as "a funk". Saturday morning did for my funk what that first ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds does for a dark and rainy day.

SO, to the awesome and incredible women who surprised me and let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I can never tell myself "nobody notices that I'm around".... Thank you.. from the bottom of my soggy heart. You made me cry in front of people other than my husband and son, something extremely rare. Even more special, they were tears of joy and gratitude. You guys Rock the Casbah.

I *Heart* John Stewart....

Regarding this comment by Homeland Security Chief Michael Chertoff to Tim Russert:

Russert: If you knew a hurricane 3 storm was coming why wasn't weren't buses, trains, planes, cruise ships, trucks provided on Fri, Sat, Sun to evacuate people before the storm

Chertoff: Tim, the way that emergency operations act under the law is the responsibility, the power, the authority to order an evacuation rests with state and local officials.

.....

Jon: They can't just rush in there, the federal government can't just usurp the power of the states... unless New Orleans is in some type of persistent vegetative state...

In the beginning....

Somebody insane created the blog, and now I have this unholy forum in which to express myself. Ain't life grand? Well, according to Barbara Bush, our president's mummy, it's apparently working out very well for... THE HURRICANE EVACUEES. I'm not going to wax philisophical on this one... the incredible lack of comprehension speaks for itself.

The downstairs is now 99% painted (a few touch ups needed, and the trim will eventually get a fresh coat of white semi-gloss). Is it truly nesting if I am preparing the house with such reluctance? I thought nesting was supposed to be accompanied by this burst of energy???

Oh, and it has been established that Jack has The Fear of a small stuffed owl that was made for Trip by a thoughtful (if bizarre) navy wife when he was born. He actually climbed out of his bed, plucked it off the floor, tossed it out his bedroom door and closed the door firmly behind it... before climbing back into his bed and settling down for his nap. I have to admit, though... the owl kinda scares me, too.