Sandy Boy

Oh Sandy Boy, the beach, the beach is calling ...

Ok, I've got to stop that, or y'all are going to think I'm going to start all my posts with lame made-up verses to famous songs.

Right.

A few weeks ago, just after his first birthday, the Tominator landed on the Delaware coast, prepared for a sandy invasion.

I was pretty sure he would like the beach, since his sandbox is a source of endless amusement. What could be better than a giant sandbox? Especially a giant sandbox where you can fall flat on your face, get covered in sand, and get up and keep going? Oh, and in case you aren't sandy enough, I highly recommend a sand sandwich and a handful or two of sand chips. They are apparently delicious.



While my boy loved the beach, it took him a little while to warm up to the water. He wasn't too sure what to make of it at first, and figured ingesting handfuls of the beach in between chasing the seagulls was just more fun than anyone should have.

Pretty soon, though, he headed for the water. I had imagined that he might just play at the edge of the waves. You know, nice and quietly.




Ha ha.

The Tominator LOVES the ocean. He loves it so much that he repeatedly pulled out of my grasp and ran pell-mell directly into the breakers. The water would crash in his face and he would smack his lips and chortle. And try to run farther into the surf.

I knew if I called him "little dude" often enough as an infant he would grow up to be a surfer.

How Great Thou Art

So beautiful, when from your box you'd risen
to shine your light on blogging worlds again.
I saw the sun, I heard the angels singin'
Thy wide-screen: host to all that man has made.

Then sings my soul, my favorite Dell to thee,
How great thou art
How great thou art
Then sings my soul, my favorite Dell to thee,
How great thou art
How great thou art.

Meet Zoe. She is my new baby. She arrived on Monday, and although she is still keeping me up nights, I am one happy mama. One happy, blogging mama.

And, may I just say, I love Dell.

An Open Letter to the Tominator

Dear Tommy,

It's so hard to believe that just one year ago, you were such a tiny little guy, so angry at being evicted from your nice warm home under my heart. You were such a strong baby, and such a good sleeper (how I wish we could see that trait again!)



I didn't know how lucky I was the day you were born. I'd been in early labor for a week, and to be honest, I was just grateful to have you out.

Once I actually held you, I marveled at your tiny fingers and your squinched-up eyes. In fact, I was a little worried that you might not actually have eyes, since I didn't personally see them open until you were at least three days old.

Over the past year, you have grown and changed so much. My tiny boy who used to snuggle for hours in the sling now careens around the house, wreaking havoc wherever he goes. I have watched you study everything with careful precision, before learning exactly how to complete a task. The doctor used to comment on your serious expression, joking that you were figuring out a solution to bring world peace. She said you would probably be President some day.

I said you can be anything you want, as long as it's not a politician.

But you're not all thoughtful studiousness. Like your father before you, your smiles light up the room.



Your Aunt Sheryl sent you this ball pit for your birthday, and it is truly your favorite gift. The look on your face when you came downstairs was priceless.



Your MegaBlocks wagon was another favorite gift. Pops has spent hours pushing you around, while you grin and giggle like a madman.







But best of all, even though you are growing up, you still love to give bear hugs and snuggles. Sometimes you cling to me so tightly that I don't even have to hold on to you. I feel like the mother of a very strong chimpanzee when you do that, but it makes me very proud.



I love you so much. Happy birthday, my son.



Love,
Mama

Works for Me Wednesday: Chore Chart

I'm going to piggy back of another WFMW poster and tell you all about my chore chart. SuperHubby actually came up with the first draft of this after the Tominator was born. SuperHubby had volunteered to take over the household chores for a while so I could get used to being a mommy, and he made a weekly list that he could hang on the fridge. Whenever he completed a chore, he would cross it off so that I would know it had been completed.

I liked the idea so much that I took his list and tweaked it (and, much to his chagrin, added Clip Art) and now I have a great chore list on my fridge. I currently just print a new list out every week, but if I were smart, I'd laminate the sucker and just tic off the completed chores with a dry-erase marker.

Here's the list, and it works for me!

Clean Sweep

A few days ago, while shoveling a path through the junk piled up in front of my washing machine, I wished recklessly for the Clean Sweep team to come to my house and just help me get rid of everything. "I need someone to help me!" I thought desperately to myself.

On Friday, my help arrived - in the body of an 18 year old, who was supposed to be watching the Tominator so I could clean. The Tominator was, of course, asleep when my helper - let's call her "Maria" - arrived. She was eager to help. I was eager to let her, since I had company arriving on Saturday.

Now, to be clear, my house wasn't in that bad a shape. Sure, there were tufts of dog hair on the carpet, and a few things out of place, but it wasn't overrun by stacks of paper or anything. So maybe Tom's car was in the middle of the floor, and his set of Playschool Peek-a-Blocks were scattered around. His Waffle Blocks were piled in a corner in a fluorescent green milk crate that looked horrid with our decor. But really, it was nothing a quick dusting and vacuuming wouldn't fix.

Maria had other ideas.

"Goslyn," Maria said to me in her best drill-sergeant voice, "You really need to organize this stuff. You have too many things sitting out! I will get to work on it."

I can't complain about her work. She busted her behind and reorganized and condensed all of the Tominator's toys so they now fit neatly in the little baskets under my coffee table. She dusted and vacuumed and even did the baseboards.

Around dinner time I offered to take her home, but she insisted on staying because she hadn't yet cleaned my back porch, which was a complete disaster. Pretty soon, she had that looking like a new space as well. She had taken all the little bags of potting soil I was stashing behind the recliner and combined them, so that I could take that one larger bag to the garden shed. She cleaned out my collection of plastic grocery bags and frowned at the pile of paper recycling stored under the library table.

"Goslyn, I can't do anymore with this stuff here," she sighed. "I guess I'll have to quit until you get more organized."

What they don't show you on Clean Sweep is how completely embarrassed the people are when all their stuff is taken to the curb and gone through - with most of it ending up in the garbage can. They producers edit out the parts where the happy couple is frustrated and angry at all these people who come in and criticize the way the couple keeps house.

I know I should be thankful for the help, but how embarrassing to be taken down a notch in the cleanliness department by a teenager. So I guess the moral of that story is "be careful what you wish for ... you just might get it."

Technical Difficulties and a Hiatus

Remember me? Maybe not.

You may have noticed a certain lack of well, posting, as of late on this site.

Reason #1 is that we've been having some technical difficulties on our rapidly-aging computers. We have three computers in our household - and the newest one is more than six years old. It was a pretty good computer until its memory filled up. Now it is slower than molasses in January.

The laptop that has been designated "mine" (a 1998 Toshiba) was a very fine computer in 1998. Not so great in 2006. It is so old that I literally cannot connect my camera to download pictures. Thus, no pictures. And so much of what I have to say would be better with photo illustrations.

Anyhow, my blogging will be limited or maybe non-existent until we make a decision on a new laptop. We have been contemplating this maneuver for a while now, but very few things happen quickly in the SupperHubby universe. We are researchers. We are comparison shoppers. (Seriously. We have a paper and an online subscription to Consumer Report). We take a loooooonnnngggg time to do anything that involves spending reasonably good-sized chunks of money. So, it could be a while.

Reason #2 is that I find more and more that I have very little to say that doesn't involve my adorable offspring, and I am convinced that the Tominator cannot possibly be all that interesting to my 12 or so regular readers. So ... until I come up with something to say and a machine on which I can say it with reasonable speed ... I am going to take a break.

I do have access to a nice, new, speedy computer at work. If, by some miracle, I have a moment or two to post from work, I will. I hope you all will come back to see me when I return.

Until then, I will just have to read up on all your lives.

Grand Canyon Haiku (Or, How I Spent My Summer Vacation)

Jagged rocks edging
clear blue sky, condors floating
high searching for food



Warning signs: drink water
Eat salty snacks, rest often
Don't feed the condors



Sizzling sun too
strong for sprayed-on sun screen
cool breeze soothes hot neck



Awesome rift, ten miles
from side to side. God has carved
limestone with water



Created with help
from a Great Flood, ranger says
Intelligent work



Of Creator's hands
Crimson rock slicing blue sky
breathless I wonder



People everywhere
Yet silence echos throughout
This canyon Grand



Sheer drops no
Railing and sheerer terror
Sister stays well back



Backpack baby sleeps
On foot and tram, at campfire
But not in the tent



Midnight snuggles in
Big black Chevy Surburban
Jim Weiss lulls to sleep



Six hours home with Robots,
Crocodile Hunter, Jonah
and SpongeBob; great trip

*Hat tip to Mopsy, from whom I stole this Haiku idea.

SuperHubby Forgot to Tell Me ...

That he is expecting. But apparently he remembered to tell the folks at Nestle Good Start.

Today, he received in the mail a very nice thick packet of formula coupons and helpful tips for dealing with newborns. Here's how the cover letter read:

"Dear Mr. SuperHubby,
We know that you've never been busier, so we've designed this package to help. Look inside to...
Save $12.00 on Nestle Good Start Supreme Infant Formula.

That's just the beginning of your savings!
Save 50% on the PLAYSKOOL TUMMY TIME TOGETHER GYM toy
Save 10% on the baby-size Snug Tub at RIGHT START stores

When you deliver, ask the nurse for your FREE very best baby BACKPACK!
An $89 value, it's the bag with features that experienced mom's prefer.

Apparently, the marketing people at Nestle think my husband is this guy. Although he has many child-rearing related superpowers, SuperHubby does not yet have the ability to give birth. Although, come to think of it, maybe I will delegate that responsibility the next time around ...

These folks at Nestle may be on to something.

Nah.

Jesus in My Enemy

This morning's post is about torture, ladies. I don't often attempt political posts - one, because I am never sure I am as well-versed in a subject as I need to be to open myself up to flaming - and two, because this is first and foremost a mommy blog. I welcome open and vigorous discussion on this topic, but flaming will be deleted.

But this morning I was listening to yet another segment on NPR about our current policy of torturing prisoners-of-war. NPR has done a fairly balanced job of presenting both sides of the argument, but it breaks my heart that my country has stooped to this. I understand the need for interrogation. I understand the need to take prisoners. But torturing them in the name of "greater good" is unconscionable. Torture is vengeance, and God is pretty clear on who has the right to exact vengeance.

Tip: it ain't us.

This is Romans 12:18-20:

18 If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. 19 Do not take revenge, my friends, but leave room for God's wrath, for it is written: "It is mine to avenge; I will repay," says the Lord. 20 On the contrary:
"If your enemy is hungry, feed him;
if he is thirsty, give him something to drink.
In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head."

Really, it doesn't get much clearer than that. The fact that the US government has kidnapped the small children (ages 7 and 9)of Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, the mastermind behind the Sept. 11 attacks, and is threatening to harm them as leverage to get their father to talk should stop us all in our tracks. This is wrong.

This is not how we, as Christians, are called to behave. And the fact that we ourselves are not actively torturing people does not excuse us. Our complacency has gotten us to this point. We have given the people in power carte blanche to do whatever they deem necessary to "protect" us. And they have taken that power and gone too far.

Just because our enemy does not believe in the same God that we believe in does not make him any less of a child of that God. If we believe, as most of us (Christians, that is) profess to, that God is the one creator, then that means He created Khalid Sheikh Mohammed and his cronies, too. That means that we are called to treat him with love, even though we despise his actions and his life.

Jesus addresses this in Matthew 25:

34 "Then the King will say to those on his right, 'Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. 35 For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, 36 I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.'

37 "Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? 38 When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? 39 When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?'

40 "The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.'

41 "Then he will say to those on his left, 'Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. 42 For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, 43 I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.'

44 "They also will answer, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?'

45 "He will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.'

46 "Then they will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life."

Look closely at those last three verses. Whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.

What are we doing in the name of justice for our Lord, and are you a part of it, by your complacency?

Wrangling Tupperware

In my first foray into the Works for Me Wednesday world, I offer my tip for keeping your "tupperware" drawer or shelf neat and organized.

I don't know about you, but I think my plastic storage containers breed when I'm not looking. To keep my them neat, I remove all the lids and store them in a gallon-sized freezer bag. Then I simply nest all of the "bottoms" in whatever way fits well into the drawer. It is always a snap to find a container and a lid, and by nesting them, the containers take up much less space. It works for me!

The First Clip

I am lazy. I have pictures upon pictures from my trip to Arizona, and I haven't posted any of them because I haven't had two minutes to come up with some quality posts. So instead of quality, I give you quantity! Lots of pictures, few words. Think of it as practicing for reading a picture book to a preschooler.

While I was in Arizona, I took Tom to have his first official haircut at the barber at on base. They did a great job, but Tom wasn't too sure what he thought about the whole thing.



The woman who cut his hair was really good - I guess she'd done a lot of kids before. She let him touch the clippers and explained the whole process to him.



We didn't have any tears, but I think he really didn't know what to think.



That's me, with my haircut, and wearing my DYM t-shirt. I know you can't see the front, but that's it, I tell you.



Clearly the best part of the experience was getting to suck on a wrapped up Tootsie Pop. I am trying to limit Tom's sugar intake, so my sister came up with the brilliant idea of letting him suck on a lollipop with the wrapper still on. Tom was happy and still, and mom was happy because he didn't get a mouthful of sugar.

Zipp-a-dee-do-dah ...

Happy happy happy happy. I woke up in a great mood today. I think it may have something to do with staying up ridiculously late just chilling and chatting with Super-Hubby last night. He is a fun guy, but we both get so busy sometimes I think we forget how much fun it is just to be together.

I guess I should start out by thanking my dear son, who has decided, finally, to sleep through the night. Last night I put him down around 8:15, and he slept until 5:30 this morning. I cannot complain about that. (Last night was the third night in a row he had performed this miraculous feat. I am hoping that I have not jinxed it by blogging about it. Fingers crossed. Say a prayer, please. Momma needs her grown up time.)

Then, I checked out America's Got Talent, which I fully expected to be completely stupid. But I really enjoyed it. I would watch that show every day if it was on. Terrible, pathetic, but true.

And after being throughly entertained for two hours, Super-Hubby and I snuggled up and chatted about life and family and so forth. Super-Hubby comes from a very large family (his father is one of 17 children) and I absolutely adore them all. We were having fun playing the "name the aunts and uncles game" which is sort of like trying to name all the states from memory - you always forget one, then spend 20 minutes trying to figure out which one. I think we got them all, eventually, but as it was nearing 2 am, I'm not really sure anymore.

We talked about our memories of visiting our grandparents, of the peculiar smell (which we decided was probably moth balls) that pervaded the homes of our respective maternal grandparents. Of the joys of visiting grandparents who lived in the country and getting to run and play and climb to our hearts' content. Remembering the exact way a grandmother had her kitchen and dining room arranged, and remembering how much she loved to look out the window and watch the cardinals and wild turkeys and deer crisscrossing the yard.

Remembering how exciting it was to have a young aunt - only maybe a dozen years your senior - encourage your imaginative play, when you decided to be the Most Powerful Man in the Universe.

Ah. Life is, and has been, good to us.

Just call him Harry Potter

The boy does love his broom. My sister kept this outside the tent so we could sweep the mat and keep things a little cleaner. The only problem was that Tom held on to the broom tighter than Charlton Heston holds on to his rifle. Sweeping, by anyone other than him was out of the question.

I hope this love of cleaning equipment lasts well into his teenage years.

Memorial Day Pirates

It has been so long since I updated on what I have been doing, that I have to start way back at the beginning, over Memorial Day weekend.

We spent the weekend at the home of our friends, Samantha and Matt. They were expecting their first child (he was born June 3) and I had agreed to paint a mural in his room. We decided on a pirate theme, to go with the verse from Matthew 6:19-21.

I still have to go back and do some other mini-murals with fish and coral and other sea life, but here's what I've done so far.





















I wish I could figure out a way to do this professionally, but I don't even know where to start. It sure was fun painting again, though.

ARRRGH

Ok, for some reason blogger is not publishing my entire blog. So I hope it is not all lost forever! My links and other sidebar items have all disappeared. I'll keep working on getting them back.

Arrgh!

Absent

I haven't spent a weekend in my own home in more than a month. Which can be a good thing, and in part, has been, but I'm ready to go home.

The past couple of weeks have been so busy, I haven't even had a minute to sit at the computer and compose my thoughts. I am ok, though. Not to worry.

I'll be heading home from Arizona tomorrow, and I hope to have some time to update you all on my fantastic adventures (they are LEGION) on Sunday. Fingers crossed, I'll have time.

Now I have to call the peditrician and see what I can give Tommy for our flight home. He has a nasty cold. Yippee.

Drumroll Please

Super-Hubby indeed lived up to his reputation with the birthday gifts this year. Inside huge box number one was a whole lot of peanuts and tissue paper. Buried at the very bottom of the box was a teeny, weeny Swiss Army knife, the kind that can be attached to a keychain. It was a gift I had asked for, since my old Swiss Army knife bit it just before Easter. In that box he also included a new sharpening steel to help me keep my kitchen knives in good condition. Since I love to cook, sharp knives are a must. These two gifts alone would have been more than enough.

But wait, there's more! What was in box number two, you ask?

A five-disc CD changer. Our old one started eating CDs nearly a year ago; we'd been putting up with it and uttering magic chants and prayers whenever we wanted to extract our CDs from its insides. Finally we realized that all the holy water in the world wouldn't fix the darn thing, so we got rid of it. And I missed it sorely.

So it was a big surprise when I got a new one for my birthday!

I hope you all have a great weekend. We are off to celebrate the ordination of a friend, so I will see you Monday or thereabouts!

Happy Birthday To Me ...

Well, it was unavoidable, so I guess I'm officially 26. So far the day has gotten off to a pretty good start; we'll see how it ends. I have two HUGE presents on the dining room table that Super-Hubby wrapped last night. The gleam in his eye tells me he's up to something, but I'll have to wait until tonight to find out.

I was lucky to have received many well-wishes over email this morning from friends and relatives. I am a blessed girl.

I am, however, having A LOT of trouble with aging past 25. This is a feeling I never expected. I wrote an essay about it here. Check it out if you have a minute.

A comment or two would make a lovely birthday gift. I'm shameless, but it's allowed. It's my birthday after all.

A Rose by Any Other Name ...

Would still smell like a flippin' flower.

Ok, I know it's Tuesday, but I just wasn't on the ball yesterday. Here's this weeks:



My parents named me ..... because ....

My name is Stacey Morgan, and I'm told my sister - 10 years my elder - picked out my name. Which I think is cool. I have no idea why she picked that name, except that Stacey (or Stacy or Staci) was a fairly popular name when I was born.

My mom likes to say that I was named for Stacey Keech (the actor) but I'm not sure why that is a good thing. Not that he's not a great actor, he may be, but WHY would you name your daughter for a man?

Anyhow, now I am pretty ambivalent about my name. It suits me, but I do not think it is some paragon of amazing name-i-tude. It used to drive me crazy that nobody spelled it right, but now I really don't care.

What really gets me is that my driver's license is wrong. When I married, I decided to drop my middle name, so that my official name would be Stacey (maiden name)(married name). Which is how it appeared on my Maryland license. When we moved to Pennsylvania, the clerk at the DMV refused to honor that and instead hyphenated my name. So now my license lists me as Stacey (maiden name-married name). Drives me batty. My name is not hyphenated!!!

Anyhow, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

The Rest of the Story

So last Monday, you read about how I met my spouse, stalked him like prey, and finally got him to date me, right?

Wanna read his side of the story about why it took him three days to call me after he had my phone number?

Check out his piece here.

Be sure to scroll to the bottom of the page, because the article is loading incorrectly. It's there, but at the bottom.

Nine Months and Counting

My amazing friend Roxi took these great nine-month shots of the Tominator yesterday. Isn't she the best?

My Life Monday: How I Met My Husband

I was 16 when I met my husband, and from the first time I saw him, I knew there was something very special about him.

I had recently been through a painful break-up with my very first serious boyfriend. There are people who don't believe that a teenage relationship can be serious, but mine was. We dated for two years, and I loved that boy with all my heart. When he dumped me for a cute redhead, I stopped eating. I couldn't sleep. My mother, who thankfully understood, likened it to going through a divorce.

I threw myself into my studies, working harder than I ever had at school. I joined almost every club offered, but nothing could lift the melancholy that had settled over me.

Until I went to my friend J-Tron's 17th birthday party in January.

I walked down the stairs to his basement, and immediately a feeling of peace washed over me. There was this guy with a ponytail sitting in the corner of the room, talking to some other people. The sense of peace was radiating from him. I don't mean to sound sacrilegious, but it was like walking into the presence of Christ. Just instantaneous, complete peace.

I came home and told my mom about this guy I'd met, who played the guitar and was full of such incredible peace. I showed her a picture, and she said Guitar Guy looked like he had a big nose. (He doesn't, but it wasn't a very good picture.)

I knew that I really wanted to get to know Guitar Guy better, but it was another eight months before I even saw him again. We went to different high schools, different churches, and lived in different towns, so I didn't have a chance to get to know him at all. But he was never far from my mind. When I saw him at an outdoor concert in August, I hastened over to say hello. He had no idea who I was.

I decided that I needed to get serious about getting to know Guitar Guy, so I enlisted J-Tron's help. By the time J-Tron's 18th birthday rolled around, I had a battle plan to get Guitar Guy's attention.

I spent the evening hanging on his every word. I listened to tales of his childhood obsession with He-Man. I heard stories about his battles with his high school principal over freedom of the presses for the school newspaper.

At the end of the evening, J-Tron gave Guitar Guy my phone number, because he clearly was not picking up on the idea that I was interested in dating him.

So home I went, and I waited.

He didn't call. Three days later I had just about given up when the phone rang. We set up our first date, and the rest is history.

From Soap to Nuts

I was enjoying a nice, hot shower this morning, while Tommy played with the shower curtain and tried to climb in the tub. This is our usual morning routine, so I wasn't too concerned, until I heard him coughing like he had something stuck in his throat. "Ack, ack" he hacked, "Ack ack ack."

I stuck my head out of the shower to find my son foaming at the mouth, mad-dog style. His breath held the clean promise of an Irish Spring.

"You didn't eat the soap!" I cried, as I did a quick finger-sweep to make sure there were no lingering pieces. He just grinned through the bubbles.

Having recently read Heth's expose on cooking with dish soap, I wasn't too worried about Tom's health. Until I put in my contacts and examined the bar of soap he'd been munching on.

A large hunk had been gnawed off the end, maybe an inch long by half-an-inch thick. There were clear bite marks on the soap where his little teeth had done their work.

And so I made my first call to poison control, where a lovely lady with (ironically) an Irish accent told me that soap is not poisonous, but might irritate his digestive tract. A little diaper cream would be all the first aid required.

Phew. Now if I could just get him to bathe with the stuff instead of eating it ...

Now, the finale. Tom just found a chocolate-covered nut on the floor and devoured it. (Horrors, nuts and chocolate eaten by a nine-month-old!) I think I win the bad mommy award today.

Just in time for Mother's Day

The ceiling of my guest room is falling in. My in-laws are arriving in approximately four hours, and the plaster over their bed has 12-inch cracks radiating out from around the ceiling fan. Some are hairline cracks, but one is so deep that the latex ceiling paint is stretched over it as though the paint is trying with all its might to hold the plaster up, despite the the overwhelming odds in favor of gravity.

On further inspection, I found that the fan is indeed falling and trying to take the ceiling with it, thanks to the brilliant former owners who decided to mount the fan to the 90-year-old plaster instead of properly installing it with box attached to the joists to support the fan.

When Super-Hubby and I were using the room as the master bedroom, I said to him, "Super-Hubby, I think the fan is going to fall out of the ceiling." But he disagreed, telling me that there had always been a two-inch gap between the base of the fan and the ceiling. It would be fine. That was two years ago.

I think the poor plaster has had all it can take.

Of course, I didn't notice the huge cracks in the ceiling until after I had gotten the room all cleaned up - the bed changed, the furniture dusted, the windows open to let in the fresh breeze, a vase of fresh flowers from the garden on the dresser.

This strikes me as especially serious because my aunt and uncle once had the plaster ceiling of thier bedroom fall in. They were lucky not to be in bed at the time - a huge chunk of plaster landed on the bed and broke the frame. Had they been asleep, it probably would have killed them. I am rather afraid of that happening to my in-laws.
Because I really don't want my inlaws to die in my guest bedroom (heck, I don't want them to die at all!) I decided it would be wise to take down the fan before they arrived.

I shut off the power the the fan. I dragged the ladder to the room, and started to take apart the fan... only to realize that this is definitely not a one-person job. Unfortunately Super-Hubby is at work, and while the Tominator is good at destruction, he is no help in this situation. So I will have to wait for my Father-in-law to arrive, then beg his assistance to take the blasted thing down.

Arrgh.

I don't know if I'm more frustrated that I wasn't able to complete the project on my own, or that now the guest room is a mess with ladders and tools and pieces of ceiling fan scattered every which way.

Hair today ...

Gone tomorrow. Well, in my case, gone two days ago. I really wish I had pictures for this post, but truth be told, I've just been too busy to get to them.

But the short (and long) of it is - I donated 10 inches of my hair to Locks of Love on Tuesday. Heth did this a while back, and I've been turning the idea over in my head ever since.

Monday night, I was tossing and turning in bed. My hair was making my back itch. It was getting caught up on my pillow, and I had to actually braid it to keep it out of my way just to get some shut-eye. I was tired of the Tominator ripping out big fistfuls of hair from the nape of my neck. I knew it was time. I just couldn't stand it any longer.

On Tuesdays, my mother's helper comes to watch Tommy so I can ostensibly have some time to myself (which I usually use to clean the house or mow the lawn, but still.) As soon as she arrived I said "I'm getting a haircut!" And off I went.

I was a bit nervous, because I went to an unfamiliar salon. They offered free haircuts and styles to anyone donating at least 10 inches of hair. I figured I'd save a buck. And miracle of miracles, it worked out. I got a GREAT cut. It is almost wash-and-wear - takes me about 3 minutes to blow dry it. I look stylish.

It looks sort of like this.

I look fashionable! This is new and unfamiliar territory for me. I have always been what you might call "classic" or "traditional" - never "trendy" or "cute."

And Super-Hubby says it makes me look younger, which is always a good thing.

Coming Soon to a Store Near You

It's Troll-Doll Tommy!

This was just too good to pass up.





And yes, that is the ugliest bathroom tile on the planet. And it's mine, all mine. I know you're jealous.

Cadbury Creme Egg Breakfast

It has been one of those weeks where I find myself eating chocolate for breakfast just to get through. Does a Cadbury Creme Egg count as an egg? Surely there's some protein somewhere in all that gooey goodness.

The Tominator has finally kicked his fever, I think. He was mostly fever free all afternoon yesterday, but it spiked back up a little in the middle of the night. He seems to be ok now, though. This is good.

What will be better is eventually getting more than two hours of sleep at a stretch. Ha ha.

Unfortunately, I think the antibiotics that the doctor gave the Tominator for his mild ear infection have given him the di-rah-REEEE-rah (pronunciation thanks to Mopsy). It was my first exposure to this problem in a diaper, and while the nasty poo oozing down the front of the Tominator's pajama bottoms didn't seem to bother him, it sure bothered me. Yucky, yucky, yucky.

I looked in the What to Expect the First Year bible, and it suggested that the antibiotics might be to blame, and giving yogurt to the Tominator might fix the problem. "Great!" I thought to myself. "The Tominator LOVES yogurt. You can get him to eat anything by coating it in yogurt. Perfect."

So this morning, I cleaned him up and plopped him in his high chair. I broke out the super-yummy organic,live-active-culture yogurt and hoisted a spoonful to his lips. He took it, looked at me, went "Blah blah" and promptly spit it back at me.

So I added some blueberries. Surely he would like that. He loves him some blueberries. Nope. I just got blueberry yogurt spit at me.

Which brings me to the most depressing happening of my morning. My most prized t-shirt, sent to me by Daring Young Mom, is clearly a stain magnet. It calls like a siren to all kinds of staining foods: blueberries, tomato sauce, chocolate. This morning, it was my iced tea. A few drops splashed onto the shirt just before I headed out the door to work. I took a few minutes and tried to spot them out, which worked pretty well. Unfortunately, on the way to work, my cup leaked all over my right breast, leaving a giant brown spot on my lovely pink shirt.

I need another piece of chocolate.

May Day!

Happy May Day, everyone? Does everybody have their flower crowns? We are gathering by the maypole ...

Every May Day, I think of my mother's story about how she got to be the May Queen of her kindergarten class. Apparently, my sweet, tiny mother threatened to beat up all the other kids in class unless they voted her May Queen. She won the election by a landslide, but was dethroned when the teacher found out about Mom's political strategy.

What are you doing this fine May 1st?

On another note, we are back! The wedding was gorgeous, Texas was lovely and warm, and one of these days I'll have some fantastic pictures to show off. I did take Jessica's recommendation and check out San Antonio's Riverwalk, and as promised, it was absolutely lovely.

Lots of fun stories, but so little time.

The Tominator has a fever and is feeling super fussy, so I must go play mommy.

I'm Leavin' on a Jet Plane...

And goin' to the chapel, 'cause my brother-in-law's gettin' mar-ar-ar-ied...

I probably won't be checking in much over this next week, but I will catch up with everyone when I get back!

Right. So I hope everyone had a blessed Easter. We had a wonderful time celebrating the Resurrection at my in-law's amazing, alive church. The entire service was wonderful, and the Tominator was surprisingly cooperative and mostly quiet (after the mass, the bishop came over and said "you were the QUIET baby!") So it was good.

Unfortunately, the little black rain cloud still lingers. So I'm going to accept Bobita's challenge, and tease myself out of it with a meme.

Six weird things about me:

1. I always eat macaroni and cheese with a glass of chocolate milk. I like anything salty/cheesy with chocolate milk. Like ham and cheese hot pockets - better with chocolate milk! Super-Hubby disagrees. He thinks mac-and-cheese goes best with tuna salad. Go figure.

2. I also really like sweet peas. I can eat an entire bowl of just peas. Like a cereal bowl. I eat my peas with chocolate milk, too.

3. My husband used to be afraid to get into bed if I was already asleep, because when we were first married, I would wake up when he came to bed and start "sleep yelling" at him about whatever was on my mind at the time. Sometimes it made sense (why do you have to leave dishes in the sink??) sometimes it was complete nonsense (I told you not to throw the cat in the garbage disposal!)By the way, we don't have a cat, nor have we ever. No animals were harmed in the writing of this post.

4. I have grown to love my husband's nerdy hobbies - StarTrek and superheroes. I even impressed him while watching an episode of Justice League by coming up with a random bit of trivia about Wonder Woman of my own accord. Heaven help me.

5. I can cook a lot of things well, but it took me forever to master rice and Jell-o. That's right. Beef Wellington, no problem. Food that ONLY requires me to boil water? Super challenging.

6. I am a complete television addict, which is why we no longer have cable. We get 5 channels, and only 3 of them are particularly clear. Going on vacation to a place that has cable TV is like sending an alcoholic to a bar with an open tab. I do love me some Jon Stewart.

Ok, I tag:
J-Tron at The Propaganda Box
JKimbro at As told by me.
Stephanie at Creature Bug
Jill at Amphigoria
Judy at Anybody Home
Mopsy at Lifenut

My Own Personal Rain Cloud

"Oh, I'm just a little black rain cloud, hovering under the honeytree ..."

Would someone puh-leeze make this bad mood go away? I have been a grumpy grump for the last three days, and I'm so sick of it I'm ready to run away from myself. I have no idea why this is happening to me.

The weather is gorgeous. Spring has finally arrived. I am going on vacation next week!

And I am exhausted, I don't feel well, and I can actually FEEL the hormone surges in my body. Chocolate isn't helping - isn't even that appealing (shocking, really)- and I just want to have a good long cry and then sleep for, oh, maybe a week. But I have NO idea why I feel like I need this. Life is good! I am blessed! I truly have nothing to cry about.

Ok, sorry for the rant.

Grr.

Just a Medium

Ugh. I thought Medium would be back on tonight, but instead there were two episodes of The Apprentice: This Show Will Never Be Cancelled. Double ugh.

My stomach feels gucky, I am exhausted beyond exhausted, and I just wanted to zone out with Patricia Arquette and her character's creepy dreams for an hour. Boo on The Donald and NBC for not airing my show. Boo.

Monday Morning Confessions

What do you do badly? Everyone has a tale of a project gone wrong, a word misspoken, a Tae-Bo tape that you just couldn't follow without tripping over the coffee table and bashing face-first into the curio cabinet filled with grandma's precious ceramic figurines ...

But before I tell you about my favorite misstep, there are a few things you should know:

1. I am an excellent cook. I learned from my mother, who is also an exceptional cook. I am not being immodest, although I hate to toot my own horn.

2. On my 18th birthday, my Aunt Carol taught me how to make tender, flaky pie crust from scratch. It was probably the best birthday gift I have ever been given. Super-Hubby likes my pies so much that he pretty much refuses to eat store-bought or restaurant-made.

3. This means I should be able to make just about anything, right? I mean I can cook. I can bake. So something easy, such as homemade pasta, should be no problem, right?

Ha ha ha ha ha ha!

Wrong. To read about my lesson in humility, featuring a plate of pasta that looked like this, click here.

Then come back and tell me about what you do badly.

The Boy Who Would be a Vampire

Contrary to popular legend, vampires are born, not made.

I know this because I birthed one.

The Tominator has learned how to give wonderful hugs. He makes this pathetic "eh-eh" sound and reaches one hand out to me until I scoop him up off the floor. Then he wraps his chubby arms around my neck and squeezes, a big grin on his face.

Crafty little vampire that he is, he uses his close proximity to my neck to his best advantage: just as I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy from his loving snuggles, he digs his six, sharp, pointy little teeth into my neck.

We have been over the "no biting" thing time and again. He has learned not to bite the toothbrush when I brush his teeth. He has learned not to bite Mommy's er, feeding apparatuses, at mealtime.

But my neck, oh my neck, it is irresistible.

To be fair, my friend calls Tom "Sunny Baudelaire" from Lemony Snicket, because he is the child who likes to bite things. He bites the dog. He bites the dog's bone. He gnaws the rail of the pack-n-play I keep in the office. He chews paper.

At just shy of eight months, he can climb the stairs to the second floor. He does this by pushing to a stand, leaning waaaay forward and biting the stair above the one he would like to get to, then pulling himself up using his arms, feet, and teeth. I kid you not.

I can't wait until he's old enough to learn to say "I vant to suck your blood!" with a creepy accent.

Spring is Falling Down Like Snow

Today is the 5th of April, is it not? I should be seeing cherry trees bursting into bloom. I should be sneezing my head off and finding a fine coating of yellow pollen on my car. I should be basking in warm spring sunshine.

But do you know what I see?

Snow. And sleet. Blowing and sticking to everything.

Blah.

An Easter Story and Some Totally Unrelated Photos

There's a photo album that has a place of honor on my bookshelf. It's my sister's very first scrapbook. I doubt she even knows I have it.

She made it for me when she was 10. It doesn't have the fancy paper cutouts and designs that she does now in her gorgeous books, but it is an impressive collage of pictures of my babyhood, carefully selected and stuck on those old "self-stick" photo album pages.

This is the inscription in the front:

I was flipping through this book last night, and I started thinking about the year that Sheryl saved Easter.

I was seven, and we had gone to Cape Cod for the holiday. The parents had rented a townhouse that was pretty unremarkable except for the lighted closet in the second floor hallway. It was kind of like Harry Potter's room under the stair at Privet Drive, only not under the stairs. But it had a slanted ceiling and a bare lightbulb. I spent a lot of time holed up there reading Black Beauty during that vacation.

That year had been a rough one for my family. My mom had been diagnosed with terminal breast cancer and given six months to live. She fought it, and won, but a year of chemotherapy, a radical mastectomy, and the stress of going through all that while raising two spirited daughters was hard on my folks. They fought a lot. They probably made up a lot too, but I don't remember that part, so much.

Not to say the whole vacation was a bust. That trip was the first time I ever rode in a plane: my parents booked us a whale-watching flight in a little private plane, and I got to play "co-pilot." That was way cool.

But during the week when the shouting got loud and I retreated to my closet, Sheryl came and found me. She would drag me outside in the spring sunshine to go hunting daffodils, or she'd grab her ten-speed and set me on her old banana-seat bike and take me for a ride along the coast.

We hunted sea shells together. We played tag. She made me laugh, a lot.

When Easter morning came I ran downstairs to wake Mom and Dad. I couldn't wait to go hunting for eggs and check out my Easter basket.

But my usually early-rising parents were still in bed. The drapes were drawn tightly against the morning light. I asked about Easter. My mom snapped and said there would be no Easter baskets this year. "Easter is not about CANDY!" she said. "It's about Jesus dying for our sins. We're not doing Easter baskets anymore." And she rolled over and pulled the blankets up.

I was shocked. I'd been to Sunday School. I knew about Easter and Jesus. But baskets were tradition. It was a tough lesson to learn.

Once again, Sheryl came to the rescue. She got me dressed, and wiped away my confused tears. Together we rode down the street to a little market, where she bought me a Cadbury Cream Egg with her own money to make me feel better. Nothing soothes a wounded spirit like a Cadbury Cream Egg.

I was going to put up some cute pics from the album, but Blogger is being dumb. I'll keep trying, though.

Pictures, finally

Ok, the pictures finally loaded.

Here's one of Sheryl holding me when I first came home from the hospital.












And this is Sheryl rocking with me and my crazy stick-up hair.












This was taken at my grandparents' house in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I was almost one, and Sheryl was almost 11.

Hollywood Smile

In spite of my apprehensions, the appointment went fine. He complimented my "beautiful" teeth. He lamented the silver fillings my childhood dentist put in a few of my molars. "They're just not cosmetic," he said. "With such pretty teeth, they should look virginal."

He told me I had a Hollywood Smile. But best of all, I have no cavities. So it was just a scrape and polish and a compliment on my good brushing habits.

Phew.

No axe-murdering, drill-wielding dentists here, in spite of the gloomy weather.

Drilling for Spring

It feels like spring in England here; I imagine it's what the Pacific Northwest feels like a lot of the time, but I don't know, I've never been there.

The thermometer is hovering somewhere around 50 degrees, and the sky is dark and gloomy, dropping random drops of rain on pedestrians like spitballs. The daffodils are up and blooming, but their sunny faces don't do much to override the quiet dampness that has settled on the valley.

It's the perfect day to go to the dentist. I mean, really, it's like the scene in a horror movie where everything, the weather, the desolation, the creepy music - everything is some kind of forshadowing, the kind that makes the viewer scream to the main character - DON'T GO IN THERE! THERE'S AN AXE MURDERER BEHIND THE DOOR OF THAT CREEPY HOUSE!

So today the universe screams at me - DON'T GO IN THERE! THERE'S A CREEPY GUY WITH A DRILL WAITING TO ATTACK YOUR TEETH! KEEP YOUR MOUTH CLOSED!

I have not been to the dentist in a little over two years, as the result of the spectacularly bad dental coverage offered by my husband's work. Actually, it's great dental coverage - 100% on routine cleanings, 80% for almost everything else. The only problem is that it will only let you go to the dentist the company assigns you to. And the one they assigned us to doesn't speak English. I'm sure he's a very good dentist. He's a nice Vietnamese man, and his office is within walking distance of my house. But I like to be able to understand what the guy with the drill is saying to me before he begins working on my teeth.

Thus, no dental visits. We finally decided just to pay out-of-pocket to go to another dentist in town who we do like.

Today, at 3 p.m., I will once again sit in the scary dental chair to be poked and prodded and scraped. Super-Hubby assures me that this dentist is nice, and very gentle. I hope he is telling the truth. I am praying that I won't have any cavities.

But maybe I should listen to the universe and skip the whole thing altogether.

---

In other news, I have another piece up on Crunchable. Check out The Night of Snow and Vomit.

Falling Down, and Getting Up Again

These are the scary basement steps that our dog, Coltrane, refuses to go down. Nothing, not even a raw steak, will get him down these steps.

These are the scary basement steps that freaked my sister out when she came to visit last June, and she begged me not to carry the laundry up and down them while I was pregnant.

These are the scary basement steps that my son rolled down, barrel-style, on St. Patrick's Day.


I was cooking dinner. Super-Hubby had gone downstairs to get some tools for home improvement. Somehow, the ancient door didn't latch all the way. Our house is 90 years old, and we still have most of the original hardware on our interior doors. It looks cool, but it's not so great for keeping things closed.

Tommy, with his insatiable 7-month-old curiosity, decided to check out the box of corn starch on the bottom shelf of the "pantry." And then I heard ca-thunck, ca-thunck, ca-thunck, followed by some loud, panicked screaming.

I'm not entirely sure the screaming wasn't mine.

We did the broken bones check, the blood check, the bruises check. Nothing. He calmed down within minutes, but I called the pediatrician, just to make sure Tommy was ok. My regular, laid-back, I've-seen-it-all pediatrician wasn't on call, so I was referred to another doctor.

"How, exactly, did a 7-month-old fall down the stairs?" he asked incredulously, in a tone of voice that suggested he thought I might have thrown my son down the stairs.

"He's very mobile, and the door was left ajar by accident."

"It is very unusual for a 7-month-old to be that mobile," he said. "Are you sure that's what happened?"

Because of Tom's age, the doctor said we should take him to the ER for an exam. So we bundled up our perfectly happy, healthy baby and headed out. I was terrified the
ER doctors were going to call Child Protective Services on us after my conversation with the pediatrician, but to the ER we went anyway.

The nice resident at the ER gave my laughing, raspberry-blowing baby a quick once over and said nothing looked amiss. She said we could take him home and monitor him, or she could give him a CAT scan, if we wanted. We opted to take him home.

I have never been one to make a big deal out of routine falls and bumps. When Tommy falls down from a stand and startles himself into a fuss, I clap and cheer. Pretty soon, he is smiling and going about his business - and learning that the little bumps in life aren't really so bad. But I really wasn't prepared for these bigger bumps.

That weekend, we put up baby gates like maniacs. We were extra careful to make sure the basement door was shut. For the first time in my life as a parent, I began to act like all those paranoid mothers I always make fun of, in my head.

And that weekend, Tommy started pulling up.

Enter exhibit 2: The crib that Tommy climbed/fell out of on Wednesday.



I was downstairs folding laundry, and Tommy was napping. I heard him wake up, heard his happy babble as he conversed with his new friends, Kanga and Roo.

Then I heard a THUNK and a scream.

I picked him up, he quieted. My heart raced and my arms trembled. He laughed and pulled my hair, tried to stick his fingers up my nose. My knees trembled.

Somehow Tommy had managed to pull up far enough on his crib rail to flip himself over. It was my fault, because the mattress wasn't in the lowest position. I didn't think he could get out, yet. I was wrong.

My son was fine, but on Thursday, I was still trembling. It's Friday, and I can still feel a quiver of fear sliding up my spine as I write this.

I was reading The Girlfriend's Guide to Surviving the First Year and she writes about how mothers are the ones in society who keep superstitions going. We are the ones that say "God bless you" when you sneeze. We knock wood. We wait, expectantly, for the other shoe to drop.

And so, I find myself waiting for the third fall.

I know it's coming, I just don't know when, or where. And I pray that it won't do anything to seriously injure my precious, precious boy.

Pulling Teeth

I have an article coming out in the lastest edition of Crunchable tomorrow about my abject terror of trains; writing it was a killer.

Believe it or not, I used to be a professional writer. Maybe I wasn't next in line for the Pulitzer, but I was pretty good. At least I could string two sentences together without sounding like Ernest Flippin' Hemmingway.

But now?

It's all short, choppy sentences. No transitions.

The man stood on the beach. He saw a big fish. Then he went skiing and outran some bulls.

Maybe I should just move to Key West and drink myself into oblivion.

Oh wait. I hate Florida, and I don't drink.

Darn it, foiled again.

The Dream Weaver

I feel a bit like Pharaoh asking Joseph "What does this all mean?" as I write this post.

A couple of weeks ago, Kathryn from Daring Young Mom showed up in my dreams. She had invited me to a mommy gift-exchange at her house. She was wearing a teal blue sweater and was very nice to me, offering me refreshments and gifts, even though I was a complete stranger. Her friends were also very nice to me, even though I was a complete stranger to them. Still, I felt like an outsider.

When I woke up, I told Super-Hubby about the dream and he laughed and told me that I absolutely HAD to blog about it. But I didn't, because I thought it would be weird. I mean, I've never met the woman. Doesn't having her appear in my dream make me some sort of weird stalker? (I'm not, I promise.)

So I tried to put DYM and her gift-exchange party behind me. I didn't give it another thought.

Until last night.

Because last night, she drove clear across the country to come to a conference I was hosting, in my dream, that is. She arrived in a black Acura that looks just like the one belonging to my across-the-street neighbor. She had left the kiddos with DYD and was extolling the virtues of sleeping on pool tables. (I have NO idea where that came from.)

Once again, she was friendly, funny, captivating - in short, the life of the party, er ... conference. Crazy.

So, Joseph, what does this all mean?

Photographic Evidence

Ok, so I've been moaning and groaning about those teeth (5!) - and now I have some evidence. Here you go.

I can't help myself. I am supposed to be working, but it is to much fun to crawl around on the floor with Tom, and have him grin at me with his four big teeth in a wide-open smile. I wish I had a camera with me so you could see it, too.

This afternoon he has been investigating the palate and digestibility of common office paper. He has carefully examined all of the legs of the furniture for moving parts.

He is testing his vocal abilities, yelling ba-ma-bam-pa over and over as he scoots around the floor. He pauses, and slurps his hand, alternately blowing rasberries and sucking up his own spit.

He pulls himself around the floor Ursula-style, dragging his feet behind him. He hasn't quite figured out the mechanics of hand-and-knee crawling. But man, he's efficient. And fast.

This morning, he attacked the dishwasher while it was open, pulling up on the door and trying to crawl in to the dish rack. When I opened the refrigerator, he was right there, ready to pull as many items out of the door as possible before I shut it again.

He views the dog as Mount Everest, and makes several attempts to scale him each day, usually employing teeth and sharp little fingers. To Coltrane's credit, he just lays there and rolls his eyes while "the puppy" climbs all over him.

I'm sure every mother feels this way, but he is so perfect he takes my breath away.

Filed Under: Ewww, Gross

This afternoon I stopped at the grocery to pick up some sugar. I grabbed a cart from the cart return, and just as I was putting Tom in the seat, a well-dressed man walked up and said "Wait, I'll get that piece of cheese out of the cart for you!" He then pulled a half-eaten slice of American cheese out of the main portion of the cart. I hadn't seen the cheese, but assumed he was gathering up this trash as a kindness. I thanked him.

He turned around and a moment later I noticed him chewing something. I looked for evidence that he was still holding the cheese, but his hands were empty.

I think he ate the cheese.

Eww, gross.

Hunger Force

I am starving. I have been starving for about the past 14 months, more or less consistantly. But this is getting ridiculous.

I finished my lunch (ham sandwich and grapes) and my snack (low-fat string cheese)and have now resorted to digging out the emergency snack I keep in my diaper bag (a package of peanutbutter crackers.) The only problem is that somehow, they got stored right next to a bar of soap - so now they are Cucumber and Green Tea flavored peanutbutter crackers. Nasty.

I'm eating them anyway.

Spring and Other Random Thoughts

I let Coltrane out in the backyard this morning, and there were tiny little snowflakes floating through the air. So much for the first day of Spring.

Luckily, the flurries were short lived. Now it's just cold and windy, but at least it's clear. Spring is just being a tease. Two weeks ago, it was sunny and 70 degrees. My daffodils popped up above the ground sporting big, fat, buds. My crocuses, poor things, bloomed. Now we've reverted to cold, 30 degree weather and my poor flowers are all a-shiver.

Or maybe I'm just all a-shiver.

It is hard to believe that Spring is here. The past seven months have just flown by, and I can't help but wonder if the rest of my life will follow suit. Will I wake up one morning and realize that I am 80 and that my life has rushed by so quickly that I hardly had a chance to enjoy it?

My best childhood friend lived two houses away, and the path to her house lay through a neighbor's yard. I remember one spring when I was maybe 6 or 7, calling her house and asking if she could play. Her mother told me to come over in five minutes.

I ran out in the yard, unable to wait in the house. And there I stood, dancing around, peeking at my digital watch every three seconds, willing the minutes to hurry up and move, already! Five whole minutes was a long time to wait to see my best friend.

But now five minutes passes in a blink of an eye. Winter rushed by so quickly I barely made my hot chocolate quota. Spring has arrived and Tom is blooming and growing so fast it makes my head spin. Every day I wake up and he is less of my baby and more of a big boy. This weekend, his Grammy taught him how to hold on to the furniture and cruise around. He is so good at it!

I don't know whether to applaud or to fear the onset of spring, when the world grows and changes at a crazy pace. Some days I wish I could slow time down. Maybe I just need that old digital watch with the cheap plastic band.

Ow Ow Help!

Disclaimer: This is a post about breastfeeding. It may get detailed. If you think it would weird you out to read about it, then skip this post. Please.

Oh, what to do? Tommy is pretty much refusing to eat any baby food. He enjoys trying to eat finger food, but his four teeth can only chomp so much. And by that I mean that last night for dinner he had one rotini noodle and two green beans and a slice of strawberry. That was it.

This means that Tommy and his four teeth are pretty much relying on my girls for their sole nourishment. And oh, the torture.

I love nursing. I have loved nursing since he was born, despite the frequent pain and difficulty of our early nursing experience. But this, oh my. LLL books say that nursing should never be painful, even when babies have teeth, so we must be doing something wrong. But it's like I've got two little razors biting the top of my nips, and he's somhow increased his suction power to super Hoover. I don't know, but it is torture to feed him. When we finish nursing parts of my nips are frequently white because he's sucked so hard.

Despite my poor, abused girls, I am absolutely not interested in weaning. So what can I do to ease the pain in the mean time?

I am slathering on the Lansinoh, but it doesn't seem to be doing much. Does anyone have any suggestions? All ye other mothers, does this happen to you? What do I need to do to fix it??

Holy Swimmers, Batman

I just found out that another friend (still not me) is pregnant! Whoo hoo! It's raining babies, apparently.

In case you're wondering, the Great Carnac says this baby is a boy.

This just in

I just learned that a friend (no, it's not me) is pregnant, and I have this very strong hunch that it is a girl. I am writing it down here so I don't forget. I forget everything if I don't write it down in a safe place. I want to see how accurate I am when the baby is born!

Good News/Bad News Wednesday

Good News: I am once again wearing my size 8 boot-cut Levis.
Bad News: They look like they were painted on.

Good News: I didn't even have to lay down to zip them!
Bad News: The only reason I'm wearing them is because everything else I own is covered in baby spit up.

Good News: These are jeans that have not seen the light of day for more than a year!
Bad News: I personify the line in Trace Adkins' Honkey Tonk Badonkadonk:
"Lord have mercy how'd she even get them britches on?"

Thank goodness I have a long sweater to cover my bum.

All this leads up to a post begging you other young mothers to tell me what you wear and where you shop. My wardrobe is in very, very sad shape. It mostly consists of jeans that are either too tight, too loose, too short or too long, ugly, shapeless long-sleeved t-shirts and some hip-length sweaters. That's it.

I tried to go shopping over the weekend, but let me tell you, there was nothing that was even remotely attractive. I would love to wear some clothing that is cute and stylish, but does not make me look like a big plaid pumpkin or is so low cut as to ride down when I am carrying my son. (Had this problem with a shirt I thought was ok, but clearly wasn't.)

Oh, also, it needs to be nursing accessible and look good on a slightly-shorter-than-average (5'4") very curvaceous woman who is still pear-shaped, despite her big nursing bazoombas. And comfortable. And preferably machine wash- and dry-able. Right. I'm not too picky.

I think I'll just declare the mu-mu my official clothing option. Would make life much easier.

A weekend that cut the mustard

Super-Hubby, Tommy and I headed north on Friday, and spent the weekend in the Poconos. We stayed in this tiny, one-horse town right on a lake. Our condo had a gorgeous view and a jacuzzi. Need I say more?

But the best part of my mini-vacation was the local IGA. This town literally has four churches, two banks, a diner and an IGA. THAT'S IT. So I really wasn't expecting that much when I stopped in to pick up some supplies for our hike on Saturday. I grabbed some ham and some yummy rolls, then strolled over to the condiment aisle to pick up some mustard. And there, folks, I was met by an amazing sight. The mustard fairy had apparently descended on this tiny grocery store, for there were an amazing 70(!!!) different kinds of mustard on display. We're talking honey mustard, stone ground raspberry mustard, horseradish mustard, Dijon mustard, mustard that will do your math homework.

Even my local Wegmans, the mecca of gourmand grocery shoppers, does not stock 70 different mustards.

So there you have it. Weekend in the country + mustard = happiness.

That's my boy!

My son has recently made great strides in new things he can demolish do. For instance, he can completely disassemble an entertainment unit in less than two minutes.

He can locate any and all electric cords or receptacles in less than 90 seconds, even in a room where he has never been before.

He can crack floor safes. He can also open and close kitchen drawers, the door to the dogs kennel and anything else that will swing when pushed.

He can take his pants off. I have no idea how he does this, as I have only seen the evidence, but not the act. It is possible he enlists the dog to help.

He can topple trashcans and remove their lids. He can devour half a Parents magazine faster than you can say "Holy gerbils, Batman."

He can vomit repeatedly on anything and everything, yet still gain weight at an incredible rate. Sometimes I think he actually puts lead weights in his diaper when I am not looking.

And last, but not least, he can bite mommy with his four (4!!) brand-new teeth. That's my boy. He does nothing half way. He has one upper and one lower through the gums, and two more almost through. Ouch.

And now ... we wait.

There is still a little bit of dirt under my fingernails from playing in the dirt yesterday. I have been feeling really off-kilter for a couple of weeks now. Nothing I can put my finger on, really. Actually, Stephanie said it best here. What I need is a little "guk."

And I guess, for me, a little "guk" is some potting soil, some seed trays, and a whole lot of seeds.

While my mother's helper played with Tom, I put together my upside down tomato planter, which I hope will give me a little more room for my tomatoes. Then I carefully and lovingly planted two trays of snapdragons, some alyssum and some basil. For the past three springs, I have started at least some of the plants in my garden from seed. I don't have a whole lot of space to work with, but I make the most of my sunny back porch.

Seeds are hope in a tiny package. As I plant them each spring, I marvel at the power of life contained in such a tiny little seed. I anxiously await the moment when they pop their little green heads above the dirt, straining for the sun. I know it will be a week or two before anything happens, but I will check every day, sometimes two or three times, just so I don't miss that first awakening, the growth of something from what seems like nothing.

For me, there is no better entertainment than watching my seeds grow and imagining how beautiful they will be when they bloom or bear fruit.

Oh, Otto.

A few weeks ago I was browsing the lingerie section of my local Tar-jay, looking for something to go under a sparkly black top I had purchased to wear to a wedding. It was the week after Valentine’s Day, so there were plenty of gorgeous lace demi-bras to be had for those whose cups do not runneth over.

There were delicate, sheer, containment units for fried eggs (barely A), apples (barely B), and oranges (barely C). For the ladies with grapefruits, there was a smattering of heavy-duty white cotton numbers more suited to a German grandmother than to a 25-year-old nursing mom trying to look nice for a special event.

“Achtung! Zees undervear vill lift and support, ya, and scare away zee men!”

Seriously, these bras practically started at the neck and covered most of the ribcage and the straps were at least four inches wide. The matching panties to these things came in sizes L, XL, and 1 X. You could sail a pirate ship with a pair or two.

But for me, there was nothing.

I am well past the grapefruit stage. My ladies are more like big momma Holsteins. While pregnant with Tommy I discovered the cup on my bra is large enough for me to wear like a hat. On my Very. Large. Head.

Oh, Otto Titsling, purported inventor of the “over the shoulder boulder holder,” why did you stop your attractive designs when they will only support pebbles, gravel, maybe a river rock or two? Are us boulder ladies resigned to only using special orthopedic-style supports and trusses? Should I just have a flying buttress installed and call it quits?

So here’s my little secret: Apart from one of the very first bras I owned, (at age 13, a lovely pink lacy number) I have never owned a pretty piece of everyday lingerie. I have never, ever, owned a bra with matching panties.

I have tried stores for larger ladies, but the problem is, the rest of me isn’t that large. I am an average weight for my height. I am not large, except, well, you know. So stores for the “plus-sized” do me no good at all.

We won’t even talk about Victoria and her secret. Her secret is that women with actual breasts can’t shop at her store. Oh, how I hate Victoria and her stick-thin models. Have you seen the new Ipex commercials? The “wireless” wonder bra is supposed to be ultra-supportive, but the commercial makes it very clear that the model doesn’t actually have anything to support! So how would she know?

I have a vile hatred of the lingerie industry. I am jealous of all those fried egg ladies out there, who buy bras that pad and lift and push and inflate, supposedly to look more like me, while I’m out here with my girls hanging low, wondering how much sailcloth it will take to hoist them aloft. And all I want is a little lace to dress it up.

Barbeque Ice Cream

Oh my goodness, someone actually did it. Took Mopsy's suggestion and Googled Barbeque Ice Cream, and it turns out a guy in Deleware actually makes the stuff. Gross. Double gross.

The Blog that can't be Googled

Ha ha! I have foiled that impressive master site-cataloguer, that invisible library of the funny, the stupid and the profane (as well as the interesting, informed and ignoble.)

Yep, it's nearly impossible to Google me. Try it. I dare you. See if you can find me other than through my blogger profile. 10 points to anyone who can.

Thirteen Things (The Ice Cream Edition)

Thirteen Things that should never be made into flavors of ice cream I love ice cream. I love most of the following items. I just don't love the idea of the two together. 1. Barbeque. Nothin' says summer like that finger-lickin' barbeque ice cream. 2. Broccolli. Yum. 3. Salsa. (But you could put it in a Tostitos cone.) 4. Cheese. 5. Roasted corn. 6. BLTs. 7. Lettuce. 8. Spinach salads. Especially not spinach salads with egg, goat cheese, tomatoes and hot bacon dressing. 9. Popcorn. 10. Asparagus with or without hollandaise sauce. 11. Grilled salmon. 12. Mushrooms. 13. Ranch Dressing. Thanks to Jen for some help with this list!

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