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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The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants

Picture This

Ok, because I'm cheap, I decided to take Tom's "formal" 6 month shot myself. Here are the finalists, but I need you to help me decide which one to print to send to the grandparents.

Photo A: A serious Tom















Photo B: What's that, over there?

Photo C: Rubber Ducky, you're the one ...


Photo D: I've got my Ducks in a row


















Please leave your vote in comments if you have an opinion. Thanks for your help!

Beads

Until about two minutes ago, I was wearing a lovely, green, three-strand beaded necklace. It had a strand of green freshwater pearls, a strand of larger, mottled green stones, and a strand of tiny, jade-like beads. It was a much appreciated Christmas gift from my sister.

This necklace was strung on very thin steel cable, so I didn't mind if Tom wanted to shake the heck out of it while nursing. After all, it's not like he can bend steel, right?

SNAP. POP. Popopopopopop - ping! That's the sound of my big bruiser ripping the steel wire from its anchor and the soft patter of beads raining onto the floor.

Now there are about three bazillion little green beads on my office floor, and I need to find each and every one of them before Tom does. What makes this scavenger hunt even more fun is that my office is carpeted in that mulit-colored industrial carpeting designed to hide dirt, and, apparently, little green beads. The suckers are invisible.

ARRRGH.

Just Because

No, it's not my anniversary. I'm posting these just because I happen to have access to a scanner, and I feel like it.

This is me and my best bud, Jules.
















And my dress ... my big, fluffy, princess dress.
















And my daddy ...















And the kiss. I was impressed the photographer got this picture, as we had said NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY during the ceremony. He did a great job, even without a flash.















That's it. Thanks for stopping by.

Not at all what I expected

I had a flash this afternoon, as I was standing at the sink washing dishes and listening to Super-Hubby tickle Tommy in the living room. My son's laughter bounced around the room and ricocheted off the light fixtures and I thought, "This is not at all what I had expected."

I really have no idea what I expected parenthood to be, but I suspect that I expected it to be a fairly solitary adventure, just me and baby, with daddy being more or less in the background. Not because I thought Super-Hubby would be bad with the children, but because the only child-watching experience I have is as a babysitter and as a nanny - both occupations where you are alone with children. It didn't even occur to me that there would be times - like when I was up to my elbows in hot, soapy water - that Super-Hubby would take over the child rearing. Or maybe it did, in theory. Maybe I just didn't expect to get such a kick out of it.

There is something magical about working in tandem with my husband to raise our son, to build our family. I was doing chores, but I was completely at peace. I loved listening to Super-Hubby do his Elmo impression. I loved listening to Tom giggle and shriek. Lovely.

How to know when you've been on the Internet too long

You know how some message boards have a little tracker next to your name that says "this is your 374th post to this board"?

I think I need a little ticker that says "You have just changed your 500th poopy diaper this year. Hoorah!"

Yeah, my life is just that exciting.

But wait - really, I have about 30 posts started, including one about Otto Titslinger and his famous invention. You really don't wanna miss that one, do you?

If not, click your heels together three times and say "there's no peace like when a baby is sleeping, there's no peace like when a baby is sleeping, there's no peace ..." and so on.

Maybe it will work. Maybe I will post.

And the truth is ...

#1. I really went to Oxford. I got good marks, but it kicked my butt.

The others are various shade of the truth.

#2. I don't particularly like calamari, but I don't hate it either.

#3. Nope, not model material, but thanks to those of you who thought so ;)

#4. Nope, love snakes. I think they are really cool. I used to have a "pet" blacksnake when I was a child. Her name was Charlie, and she was about six feet long.

#5. Really, really didn't like Venice at all. It was dirty and creepy. But Rome is great.

Thanks for playing!

Lies and Lying Liars

Whoo hoo, I've been tagged! (Sort of). Thanks Kathryn, for thinking of me. I will lie my heart out now.

Here's the game. Four of these statements are false, one is true. Can you spot the truth when confronted with lies? Leave me a note in my comments with your guess. I will post the truth tomorrow. Or possibly this evening. We'll see.

1. I am the only student from my college to ever have been accepted to Oxford University. I studied there for seven months. While there I encountered the crown prince of Bahrain and Chelesa Clinton. (Not together.)

2. My favorite food is calamari.

3. When I was 15 I was offered a modeling job that involved travel to Florida, but I declined it because I didn't want to go without my parents.

4. I am deathly afriad of snakes.

5. Venice, Italy is my favorite city in the whole world. I just love all the carnival masks and mystery of the city of canals.

I am not much for tagging people with these things, but here are some people I'd love to read lies about:

J-Tron
Jess
Stephanie

Back in the saddle again

My sister called yesterday, and said "Post something on the damn blog already!" I guess I've been away too long. I have a lot of things to write about, but I've been a little gun shy lately. One of my biggest faults is my inability to handle criticism well. Time and again I've let someone's unkind or thoughtless words destroy my artistic ambitions, instead of just brushing the comments off and going on my own way. I am trying very hard not to do that here. So, that said, I guess it's time to get back on the old proverbial horse (to mix my metaphors.)

A friend of ours is getting married on the 18th, and I recently received a wonderful email from her. Super-Hubby and I were the first of our friends to get married. In fact, the ink on our college diplomas was practically still wet. Now, three-and-a-half years later, our friends are finally catching up to us. A couple have already gotten married, a few more are planning weddings in 2006. It is really fun to watch everyone walking down the aisle, but it makes me feel old.

Jenn's email, though, made me feel ever so much better. It's nice that in a culture where "starter" marriages are de rigueur, Super-Hubby and I trying very hard to redefine what marriage means. It is more than just two people living together and sharing groceries together. It is a daily commitment to love, to honor, to cherish and to support your partner in all things. We do this for ourselves, not for our friends, but it surprised and pleased me that at least one of our friends has noticed.

Jenn wrote:

Watching and hearing about your relationship in college was truly a joy. What you both have is so real, it's palpable to those around you, and that is what I would like my marriage to do and be--the kind of love that makes those around it also feel loved and loving, one of those oasises in the world where the world makes a bit more sense, feels more right and safe and accepting and understanding. A little window to a world where people accept each other as they are and love and celebrate each other for exactly who they are. I have no illusions that marriage isn't work, I know it is, but it helps enormously if you can radiate that pure joy of love and dedication that I think you and Mike do. So, thank you for that.

We are so excited to dance at your wedding, Jenn. Many blessings to you and yours.

Bruce

His name was Bruce, and he was wearing a dress.

Well, not a dress, per se. It was more of an ivory chiffon skirt-and-woman's blouse ensemble, complete with stockings and a lovely turquoise necklace and matching earrings. Picture Tim Curry, with long scraggly hair, lipstick, blue eyeshadow and a dress, and you have a pretty accurate picture of Bruce. Only Bruce is about 6' 4". I don't know how tall Tim Curry is.

Bruce was my partner at a local contra dance that my friend Jen and I went to on Saturday. If you've never heard of contra dancing it's sort of square-dancing meets old-fashioned formal line dances, such as the Viennese Waltz. (Think of the ball room scene from The Sound of Music, but put everyone in really ugly/weird-looking clothes.) The dances generally feature live musicians and a caller. You don't need to know anyone there to enjoy yourself, and you switch partners after every dance.

Anyhow, Jen and I showed up to the dance, and as I was taking off my coat I noticed Bruce. "Is he wearing a ... dress?" I whispered to her. She responded that he was, indeed wearing women's clothing. She had danced with men in kilts before, but the chiffon skirt was new to her. "Unusual," she said.

We discussed the finer points of Bruce's apparel, then got down to the business of dancing. At one point, I ended up briefly partnering with Bruce during a dance. It was long enough for him to ask me for the next dance ... and really, how was I supposed to refuse? The thing about contra dancing is that you really don't dance all that much with your partner, because you are constantly moving up and down a line of people via various dance moves.

But Bruce was very nice. He had a very deep, masculine voice, and a five o'clock shadow. Broad shoulders and not much body fat. And pearly pink fingernail polish.

It was quite a night.

Fresh Bread

Just a quick note to say: I baked my very first loaf of yeast bread yesterday. And it actually turned out!

Thanks to The Fresh Loaf for tips and the recipe.

It came out somewhere between an Italian and French loaf - nice, crispy crust, but thick and chewy inside. And it was fun! Anyhow, enough about bread. It's boring. I have a much more interesting post about a guy in a dress I should be working on.

Reason #672

Why I love my husband.

The rain was pouring down in a cold, miserable torrent when I dragged myself out of bed this morning, and started in on my third day of becoming the Queen of Grouch. Between the nasty mood that has hovered around me like a cloak lately, and the lack of sleep due to Mr. Serious' sincere desire to awaken screaming every two or three hours, I was not feeling very optimistic about how my day would turn out.

Super-Hubby had the day off today, so he came by my office just to bring me some Oreos, hoping to lighten my mood. (This man knows me well. Chocolate fixes almost anything.) When that didn't help, he tried making me laugh, but that didn't stick either.

So, when I came home from a mad dash to the grocery store, I found a vase full of beautiful yellow roses waiting for me on the hall table. My favorite flower.

Can't beat that with a stick.

Pack your lunches ...

It's a Wishful Thinking field trip! I know, you are just too excited. For a change of scenery, I decided to post today's entry over here.

It's called Mom Against the Machines. Go read it. It will only take a second.

While you're over there, check out the new issue of Cruchable. Super-Hubby has some good writing up this week. You can read about making movies about rubber rats and pretending to be in prison.

When you get back from your field trip, if it's not too much to ask, leave me a comment to let me know your thoughts.

Thanks!

That's right, I'm tagging myself

I have so much going on in my head right now, events and thoughts I'd love to write in a lengthy, touching, funny post, like the ones that can be found at Wonder Woman Meets Grizzly Adams. I would love to, but I can't. I can't because this is my third sleepless night, and I am too tired to think. (When I say sleepless, I mean I had maybe 3 hours of non-consecutive sleep last night.) Something is up with my sweet boy, who seems otherwise fine, just completely uninterested in sleep. Of any kind. Including naps.

So, instead, I am tagging myself with the 4 things meme.

Four Jobs You've Had:
1. Florist's assistant
2. Receptionist for a computer security firm.
3. Full-time nanny.
4. Reporter.

Four Places You've Lived:
1. Yellowstone National Park
2. Oxford, England
3. West Central Boondocks, Maryland
4. Christmas City, USA

Four Vacations You've Taken:
1. European tour, including England, Scotland, France, Italy, Austria and Spain
2. Grenada, on my honeymoon.
3. Arizona and New Mexico, at Christmas.
4. Ireland.

Four Vehicles You've Owned:
(Perfect, I am currently on my fourth vehicle)
1. A faded, mustard-yellow 1984 Subaru Station Wagon, stick shift, no power ANYTHING. How I loved that car. Her name was Molly.
2. A big, white, 1991 Chevy Lumnia, lovingly called "The Boat." It did 0 to 60 in about 6 minutes.
3. A blue 1999 Nissan Altima. I loved this car. It bit it when my sweet husband crashed it into an ambulance.
4. A red 2005 Toyota Sienna. That's right, I drive a minivan. A red one. Ha.

If you do this meme, leave me a note in the comments, and I'll come visit!

Sleep Tight

He's sleeping now, sort of, snuggled under a blanket next to his bunny. He rubs the backs of his hands across his eyes, his chubby fingers splayed like starfish.

Getting comfortable is always the most difficult part of falling to sleep, so he tosses and turns, searching for the perfect spot on the mattress. He smacks his lips, searching for me, but settles for sucking his lower lip instead.

And then he rests, his breathing deep and even. I don't know what he dreams of, but I see a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and I am content.

The Practical Rut

I have friends who think deep thoughts. They wrestle with weighty issues about society and politics and religion and the nature of humanity on a regular basis. They write poetry, and music, and creative non-fiction. Some of them write fiction, too.

My husband is one of these people. And once upon a time, so was I.

Last week I stopped over at my friend J-tron's blog and saw this post, and decided that I am entirely too stupid to continue reading his blog. Seriously, I cannot wrap my mind around half of what he writes about. This disturbs me.

I used to more or less hold my own with him, when we used to stay out late at coffee houses discussing this or that, or even better, when we would stay up all night talking on the phone. I believe I actually fell asleep on the phone with him at least once.

We had so much to talk about, so much to think about, so many ideas to explore.

Those ideas are still out there, but I have begun letting them whiz right by without stopping to take a turn in my brain. My brain is full of boring details like menus and grocery lists and feeding/sleeping/playing schedules and trying to figure out when I last watered my houseplants. (Answer: Not recently enough, since the one on top of the bookshelf is wilted and turning brown.)

But this is not a new phenomenon. [Completely off-topic side note: Phenomenon was the last movie I saw in the theater with my very first boyfriend. He loved movies. We went to see this one, and the theater was full of teenage girls who all ohh'ed and ahh'ed when John Travolta came on the screen, like he was some kind of heart throb. I myself was a teenage girl, at the time. It repulsed me. Travolta is old enough to have fathered most of those girls.]

I would love to chalk the decline of my brain cells to my new status as mother, but in truth it began long before that. It began back in college, where suddenly I felt ridiculous spending hours discussing philosophical theories or the lives and motivations of literary characters. I mean really. Who cares about Lilly Bart or why she can't get her act together and get a man? She's a fictional character. Discussion her motivations won't change anything. I promise. Edith Wharton will not rewrite the novel from the great beyond just because I think Lilly is an idiot.

Such was the choice I made. Practical over philosophical. The only problem is that now, I can't seem to go back. And I'm stuck in a very practical rut.

January Update

It is just as I had suspected it would be. The pajama-clad crazy snow dance made no difference at all, except that my dog looked at me like I had gone insane. Which is entirely possible.

Instead of five fluffy, sparkly inches of powder, we have half an inch of snow, covered by half and inch of sleet, and it is currently raining. A cold, nasty rain. The kind that settles into your bones and leaves you chilled no matter how many cups of hot tea you down. Except for the snow, it reminds me of England, actually.

Sigh. At least I'm tucked in my cozy office today. Pastor keeps the church very warm, and for once, I'm thankful.

January

It is supposed to snow tonight, and I can already feel the chill seeping into our home. This morning it was sunny and clear, and nearly 60, but we are supposed to wake up under a blanket of fluffy white snow. (More likely, because we are in a valley, we will wake up sodden, coated with cold, wet, icy rain, little gravel slushies in the streets and on the sidewalks.)

I remember when I was a child, my music teacher, Ms. Eyler, used to tell us all to go home and put our pjs on and dance and sing "Let it Snow" the night before a big snowstorm was supposed to hit the area. I wonder if children still do that?

Where I grew up, it seldom snowed a measurable amount. My best friend, Jen, and I would dance and dance, but it never made any difference. We were always disappointed to see just an inch or two of snow on the ground the next morning, barely enough to scrape into a snowman. We might get one or two 3 inch snowstorms a year, but that is really not much, compared to what we have gotten since we moved here. In the beginning of December we had about a foot on the ground at one time, and it lasted most of the month. January, though, has been warm and mild up to this point.

It's about time for a cold snap, and a visit from the north wind, who bites your cheeks and knocks the wind out of you.

I'll keep you posted.

Thirteen Things You Should Know Before Injuring Yourself

Thirteen Things you should know before you smash your right hand in a door 1. Even left-handed people use their right hand a lot. 2. I figured this out only after I had smashed it and it became unusable. 3. Brushing your teeth with the opposite hand you are used to using is very, very difficult. 4. Brushing your hair is also very difficult. See #3. 5. Picking up an 18-pound baby with a bum hand is nearly impossible. 6. Buckling said squirmy baby into a car seat one-handed would make a good Fear Factor challenge. (Your mission: Using only one hand, place infant in carrier, adjust and buckle straps, raise carrying handle and install in car. You must also carry the carrier, with the infant inside, through two doors, including a spring-loaded glass door. Make sure to lock all doors securly behind you. Do not, at any time, allow the infant to squrim out of your grip or out of the car seat and knock his head on a hard surface. You have two minutes.) 7. You can only ice your hand for so long before it starts to lose circulation from the cold. 8. Lumps on your hand can hurt like you wouldn't believe, but look so unimpressive that you are embarassed to tell anyone about it. 9. Walking dogs while pushing a stroller and nursing a bum hand is not recommended. 10. Hunt-and-peck typing is no fun. 11. It is very frustrating to have an injury that doesn't look like any injury. You become embarassed to tell people why you aren't using your hand. 12. If you do decide to injure yourself, make sure it looks really bad. If it does not look bad (ie black and blue) then wrap it in an ace bandage to garner sympathy. 13. Don't bother busting up your hand. I already did it for you.

Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!
The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun!
View More Thursday Thirteen Participants

More, Peas

Today, we introduced a new veggie to Tom, a vegetable he loves like no other: peas. I swear he would have eaten the entire jar if I'd let him. Who knew? With carrots he makes a face. Squash adn sweet potatoes he likes, but peas ... it was chomp chomp chomp and a screaming fit if I took to long to reload the spoon. Crazy kid.

Wonder what he'll think of spinach?

Vacuum Wars

As I attempted to suck up a man devouring-sized ball of fur yesterday, I realized that my vacuum wasn't working quite the way it should be. By that I mean it was coughing and wheezing and spitting dust at me, instead of sucking it up. So I bundled the vacuum in the car and took it to the repair shop. The nice man there was happy to take it off my hands, but said he couldn't get it back to me for 10 days. 10 days?!?!

Now, normally, 10 days without a vacuum wouldn't bother me so much. I hate to vacuum. I hate the noise. I hate the smell of the dust getting stirred up. When was a child, my mom used to clean when she got really mad, so the sound of a vacuum still puts knots in my stomach.

But we have a medium-sized black dog who sheds like he thinks he's a Great Dane. My kitchen constantly has cat-sized balls of black fur tumbling through on the way to the living room. To add to that, we are dog sitting for Copper, Cole's best buddy. (See fig. 1) She is a gorgeous Golden Retriever, but man, can she shed. Together they make the Hairballs of Doom (HOD).

Fig. 1

These suckers are like nothing I've ever seen. I think the other day, one of the HOD tried to eat Tommy. It's that bad. And they come back every day, even when I whisk them away or suck them up.

So 10 days without a vacuum is almost a death sentance. At least we'd be warm under all that fur.

But wait - what's that I hear? It's a Christmas Present Miracle!

That's right. My mother-in-law, also known as The Best Gift Giver Ever, has struck again. This year she gave me a Dustbuster, a high powered one with two speeds and some sort of fancy tornado suction thingy. The important point is that it works. And it obliterates the HOD with a mere flick of the switch.

Poof, they're gone.

We may just make it through, after all.

The First Date

Eight years ago today, Super-Hubby and I were out on our first date. I had been pursuing him for nearly a year, and finally convinced him to go to the movies with me "as friends." He was skittish around girls, the result of a gorgeous red head breaking his heart the year before.

We decided to go to see Good Will Hunting, which had just been released. Unfortunately, the 7 pm show was sold out, so we hung around in a Borders and drank lattes and discussed philosophy until the 9:30 show started. But that was sold out, too. We ended up seeing As Good As It Gets, a movie that neither of us knew much about.

Just before the movie, I went to the snack counter and purchased a large (a very large) Coke. These were the days before stadium seating; the theater we were in had only one aisle and it was all the way to the left of the theater. We were seated up against the right wall, with about 20 seat in between us and the aisle. And all the seats were full of people.

Like I said, I knew nothing about this movie, least of all that it was really, really long. So I polished off my 128 oz. soda about an hour into the show. And realized I really needed to go to the bathroom. But I didn't want to interrupt all those people's viewing in order to get to the aisle. So, I could hold it, I thought.

Then came the scene where Jack Nicholson uses about 20 bars of soap to wash his hands, and leaves the water running the whole time. I thought I was going to die.

To take my mind off my bladder, I had been trying to get Super-Hubby to hold my hand throughout the movie. I would lean in just a little towards him, and he would lean away. Every time.

Finally, about 10 minutes before the movie was over, we ended up holding hands. That was nice, but ohmygodi'vegottopee.

As the credits were rolling I shot out of the theater, barely even speaking to Super-Hubby in my quest for a ladies' room. I stood in line and did the potty dance until I could get to a stall.

It's amazing we had a second date, come to think of it.

The Christmas of Crazy Hats

We are not hat people. The only time I wear a hat is if it is really, really cold or if I am gardening in the hot sun. Super-Hubby is slightly more likely to wear a hat than I am, due to his fair and easily sunburned skin, but even then, hats are rare. But somehow, this Christmas hats were everywhere.

Christmas Eve day dawned clear and very cold, and we all piled into my sister's Surburban and headed for Bisbee, to take a tour of the defunct copper mine. They suited us up in real live miner gear, including hard hats (as illustrated by myself and my youngest nephew, Jeremy) and heavy duty battery packs strapped to our waists to power our miner's lights.







Tom was too little for his own miner's hat, so he's wearing his cool ear-covering fleece cap from Old Navy. It's actually borrowed from the little girl across the street, but we won't tell Tom that. (We also won't tell him that he sleeps in her pink fleece sleeper bags.)
The mine was really interesting, but I have absolutely no need to ever go half a mile underground ever again. Once was enough. And cold. I can't imagine what it must have been like working there 10 hours a day. The tour guide said they used to keep mules in the mine to pull the cars, and the mules would be underground for 10 or 12 years, until they died. Most of the mules went blind because of the constant darkness.


Look, Daddy and baby Santas! My mom found a Santa hat just Tom's size, but the Santa booties (which were supposed to fit up to 18 mos) were way too small for his feet. We stuck them on anyway, for the picture.














Here is Super-Hubby in my sister's super hiking hat. Tom is staring off at the gorgeous view from an Arizona mountaintop. Tom spends a lot of time staring off into space, come to think of it.







And finally, me and Tom with a saguaro at Saguaro National Park. Those suckers are some big cacti. It takes a saguaro about 75 years to start growing arms; they can live over 200 years. Notice the hat: it is one of my father's. Since moving to the Southwest, he and mom have gone cowboy. It's kind of cute actually. They have boots and white cowboy hats and everything. Guess they're the good guys.

Baby Musings

It makes no sense, this pull in my belly. The empty hollowness of my abdomen. My ache for another life to feel pulsing and kicking and fluttering behind my navel.

Tom is just barely five months old, and my breasts are still heavy and full with milk for him. His little fingers are beginning to reach out to touch and grab, his little tongue constantly exposed as he tastes everything. There is still so much he needs from me; how can I want another baby so soon?

My house is in shambles, my garden full of dead plants I never dug up in the fall after having Tom. I cannot keep up between the house, the dog, the baby and work. I barely sleep.

So why do I wake up at night dreaming of a baby that doesn't exist?

Thirteen Things that Drive Me Crazy

Thirteen Things that Drive Me Crazy 1. Blemishes, on myself and other people. Poor Tom has baby acne, and it drives me nuts. I have a friend who has a blackhead in her ear (I doubt she knows it's there) but it's been there for at least 8 years, and it drives me insane. 2. The paper that always seems to pile up on any flat surface in my house. 3. People who tailgate and flash their lights, telling you to get out of their way. (Where's the fire, buddy?) 4. People who drive WAY below the speed limit on a major road. 5. People who tell detailed stories about their lives without giving any context. "So then Jenny came into the office and said that Suzie had complained about me to Mary ..." Wait, who's Jenny? Suzie? Mary? Why do I care? 6. People who set dishes in the sink when the dishwasher is empty and just waiting to be filled up with nasty dirty dishes that should never be in my sink. 7. Drawing a nice hot bath, getting in and comfy, and having the water go cold five minutes later. 8. Running out of HOT water during my shower. 9. Squirrels and birds eating the plants in my garden. 10. Coltrane "watering" my garden. Grr. 11. Strangers who give parenting advice. Advice from family and friends, great. But the lady in the supermarket? Please. 12. Running out of chocolate in the house. 13. My inability to just get up with my alarm. I need an alarm that does not turn off until I put my feet on the floor.

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Confessions of a former female chauvinist

I used to be one of those women who laughed at jokes about men and how stupid, dirty, and lazy they are. You know, like the Mr. New Dad T-shirts that show a man diapering the dog and allowing the baby to eat dog food while dad is trying to catch the game out of the corner of his eye? Or jokes like these, which pretty much sum up my point.

Jokes like that used to make me chuckle. I would agree with other women that men, as a rule, just can't focus on more than one task at once. The point of the jokes, when told by women, is to make ourselves feel better. To make ourselves feel like the smarter, harder-working, better gender.

But now, every time I hear a joke like that, I think about someone saying it ABOUT MY SON. And I don't want anyone to ever, even jokingly, tell him that he is lazy or stupid or helpless just because he has a penis. Nor do I want someone implying that he should act these ways just because he's a boy.

Being a mom has made me such a stick in the mud. Oh well.

Hail Mary

I'm no theologian, not by a long shot, but I got to thinking about Mary last night. Some branches of the church believe that Jesus was an only child.

I know for some people it messes up the theology, but for Mary's sake, I hope this only child thing simply is not true.

Only one baby to feel kicking and swimming and thriving under her heart? Only one time to feel the power of life inside of her?

Only one pair eyes to follow her every move as she did the cooking and the wash? Only one pair of tiny hands to grab at her hair and only one pair of tiny feet to tickle and kiss?

Somehow, after all that God asked of her, to only have one child to love seems awfully cruel.

Think about it. Mary was young, unmarried, pregnant in the midst of a culture not exactly forward thinking on women's rights. To top it all off, she's going around telling everyone that the father of her baby is - get this - God. You think the other ladies of the town weren't whispering about her as they drew water and baked bread?

"Oy, did you hear about that Mary? G-d is the father of her baby? Poor Joseph. It's bad enough that she's expecting, worse that she's lying about it. He'd be mishsuggana to marry a girl like that."

What about her family? I don't recall much about them in the Christmas story. Someone tell me if I'm missing a big chunk of it here. Like I said, I'm not an expert.

Did her mom and dad disown her? What mother would let her hugely pregnant daughter be dragged across the country on the back of a donkey or on foot?

When she gave birth, she was in a strange town, and not one single door was open to her. Not any of Joseph's relatives, not a hotel or inn. No, she was stuck laboring in a barn like an animal. How humiliating is that? Was there even a woman present to be with her when the time came to give birth? With no midwife, was she pretty much on her own? No one to hold her hand or tell her what to do. I can't even imagine.

Then, not two years after her son is born, she's told to pick up everything she owns and leave the country. On foot. With a toddler.

The least God could have done for this poor girl is give her many children to cuddle and to bless her home.

Still Waters

Sometimes still waters are just still.

I am sitting here, very still, trying to think of something deep and interesting to write about. I've got nothing.

The baby has been asleep all morning, which has allowed me to actually get work done. Hallelujah. He's now playing with a teething book called "Quack" says the Duck; I think it's too funny. Mostly because Tom looks like he's reading, which he's not, but also because Tommy does not say "Quack." He says many other things, mostly during the very, very, quiet part at church when they are preparing communion, but he does not ever say "Quack."

I am also trying to figure out how to buy a week's worth of groceries for less than $25, (ha ha), how to keep Super-Hubby from obsessing too much over his Web-magazine/baby, and still dealing with the fact that there is no Santa Claus.

Don't ask.

How are you doing this Monday morning?

A Picture of my Sister

This is a picture of my sister and my dog, Cole. I couldn't get it to post in the Thursday Thirteen, but I thought it would be nice to have her pic up here.

(By the way, she's the pretty one in the family. Although she's a redhead now. It looks nice.)

Thirteen Things about my Sister

Thirteen Things about my Sister I had a wonderful visit with my sister over the Christmas holiday. It's amazing how much closer we've become as we've gotten older. Or maybe it's just me who is getting closer - maybe Sher has been there waiting for me all the time. I'm terribly self-centered, and sometimes I miss out on people and relationships because I simply don't realize they are there. In any case, it's a good thing that we're getting to be friends as well as sisters. On that note, I thought I'd tell you a few things about my big sis ... 1. The way my mom tells it, all my sister wanted for her 10th birthday was a little sister and a 10-speed bike. She got both, but spent a couple of years trying to send the little sister back. 2. When I was a little girl, I had very, very long hair, and my sister would curl it and style it for me. I remember once, when we were going over to her boyfriend's house for dinner, she spent hours carefully curling my hair into sprials with a curling iron becuase I wanted "locks" like a princess in a storybook. I was maybe five or six, and I thought "locks" were long curls, not just long pieces of hair. The curl didn't last long enough for us to get out the door, (my hair won't curl for anything. Not even perms. Really.)but I felt like the most beautiful little girl in the world. 3. Right around that same time, she also gave me an adorable little china clown that sat on an orange satin crescent moon and hung from the ceiling. I kept it in my room for years, even when it didn't match anymore, just because it was from her. 4. Growing up, we had an inground pool in our backyard. When my sister was a teenager, she used to take her little pink portable radio/tapedeck out to the pool and lay out in the sun for hours. She would listen to Madonna but mom would make me come inside because she didn't want me listening to Madonna. Sometimes I would go out anyway and stay out until I got too hot, just to be like her. 5. I was always the one who had to go to the basement for popsicles, cause I was her slave baby sister. 6. As we got a little older, I started knowing most things about her life through the family grapevine, instead of from her. She moved out of the house and went to Florida when I was 8. That put our relationship on hold for quite a while. 7. When I was 13, my sister met a wonderful man and married him. They were engaged just three short weeks before the wedding, which threw my mom into a planning frenzy. My sister was a beautiful bride, but I looked clunky and awkward in my bridesmaid's dress. (I got my first strapless bra, though. Black, from Victoria's Secret. That was cool.) Right after the wedding, she got pregnant and had a baby. I was so jealous of all the attention she got that year, mostly because I was 13 and that's what being 13 is all about. But I wish I had been more interested in her, instead of being jealous. 8. When I graduated college Phi Betta Kappa, Sher tried to get me to go to law school. I think she really believed I had the brains to do it, and she would have been proud to be able to say she had a lawyer for a sister. I hope she's not disappointed that I'm more or less a stay-at-home mom. 9. When we're apart, I always forget how funny she is. I never thought she was funny when I was a kid - mostly because I had no sense of humor and her jokes were often directed at me - but now, man, she can make me roll on the floor. Someday I'm gonna be just like her. 10. Sometimes I'll say something, and Super-Hubby will turn to me with this quizzical look on his face and say "Sheryl?" Apparently, even though we live 2,000 miles apart, I still copy her mannerisims. 11. When we were together over the holidays, we talked about starting a "family homestead" and living on a big plot of land with two houses and a barn and a big garden and a stream for swimming in. That sounds really lovely, and I wish it could happen. 12. I forget how much my sister likes the outdoors. We hiked the Chiricahua National Monument, and it was amazing. She was going full steam ahead, too. At 9,000 feet above sea level. 13. This year, I got the biggest stocking of all, and in it was a box of Cookie Crisp. 'Nuf said.

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Oy Vey

He looks so sweet, doesn't he? Smiling, playing. Don't be fooled. Tommy is an eating machine. He ate a quarter of a cup of rice cereal last night before bed, and still got up four times in the middle of the night to eat. I am very, very tired.

I got up early for the fantastic trip to the girly doctor for my annual exam. Always a pleasure to be poked and prodded "down there" at 8 am. But I made the best of it. I showered. I shaved. Then I put clean socks on my nice clean feet - only to find the left one filled with sand. That's right, sand. What the? So now I'm walking around with sand between my toes. I'm trying to write it off as microdermabrasion for my feet.

So I'm running a little late, and I go to change Tommy really quickly so we can dash off to the doctor's ... and as soon as I get his diaper off, I feel a wet warmpth soaking my leg. And yes, my adorable son has peed all over me, all over the changing table, and all over himself. He even hit his own chin. And he's just grinning at me like it's the funniest thing ever. Yeah. Funny.

So, that was how my day started. How 'bout yours?

A New Year's Meme

I’m back from my hiatus (also known as a crazy Christmas vacation) and ready to blog again. I have so many wonderful memories to share; I also have lots of thoughts for the New Year. I have so much to say, in fact, that I was having trouble getting organized. (Not to mention having trouble finding the computer under all the laundry we managed to generate during our trip.)

So, instead of thinking of something wonderfully creative, I decided to tag myself from a meme that Mopsy has on her site. You know what they say: Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Thanks, Mopsy.

1. What did you do in 2005 that you had never done before?
Traveled to Ireland, danced the Irish broom dance in a pub, collided with an ambulance, bought a brand-spanking-new car, traveled to New Mexico, toured a defunct silver mine, and oh yeah, had a baby. (Not necessarily in that order).

2.Did you keep your New Year’s resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I have no idea what my resolutions were last year, so there’s a good chance I didn’t keep them. I have decided that making formal resolutions is a waste of time. “Eating less chocolate” and “Spending more time with God” are laudable goals, but I never, ever keep it going.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Yep. Me. And my next-door neighbor. And her sister. And a dear childhood friend.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
Nope, praise God.

5. What countries did you visit?
I visited Ireland to attend a friend’s wedding. Other than that I mostly stayed on the east coast, except for our Christmas getaway to Arizona and New Mexico. And Texas.

6. What would you like to have in 2006 that you lacked in 2005?
A closer walk with God. The gift of enjoying each day, instead of constantly living in the future. Fewer days spent at our very fine St. Luke’s Hospital.

7. What dates will remain etched in your memory and why?
June 19th, August 13th, September 2nd. These are all days I went to the hospital. The first, in an ambulance after Super-Hubby ran a red light and hit an ambulance. I was seven months pregnant, but he’s the one who got hurt. The second, because that’s the day I FINALLY gave birth. The third is the day Super-Hubby was readmitted to the hospital with a hugemongous blood clot in his leg that the docs think might be a souvenir of the accident.

8. What’s your biggest achievement of the year?
Oh geez. I dunno. Becoming a mother? That seems lame.

9. What was your biggest failure?
My lack of ability to stay even remotely organized once Tommy entered my life. I hate the slob I have become.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Yes, but not too badly. My legs were a little banged up in the crash, and I have a fantastic scar on the front of my left shin, just below the knee, that is from the fabric of my pants melting into my leg when the airbag deployed. The baby, thankfully, was fine.

11.What was the best thing you bought?
My beautiful new minivan. It’s red. It’s still a minivan, but at least it’s sort of sexy. (Hey, don’t disillusion me.)

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Super-Hubby has been incredible, loving, supportive and amazing. My folks and his folks have also been fantastic, especially surrounding Tom’s birth.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and disgusted?
Many national figures have appalled and/or disgusted me this year. Seems every time I turn on the TV I see something new and frightening. But I was most disgusted by Super-Hubby’s bosses this year. They jerked him around and were downright terrible to him.

14. Where did most of your money go?
Wow. Hospital bills, doctor bills, new car bills, bills for baby stuff. That’s most of it, I guess. Oh, and a mortgage. And now our ever-increasing gas bill to heat our house. Ugh.

15. What did you get really, really excited about?
Ireland, the baby, the baby, the baby …

16. What song will always remind you of 2005?
Pass.

17. Compared to this time last year are you?
a) Happier or sadder? Mostly happier. When I’m not wondering what happened to my life.
b) Fatter or thinner? I’m about the same I guess. Maybe a little heavier since I lost weight in the early part of my pregnancy.
c) Richer or poorer? Poorer in money, richer in love.

18. What do you wish you had done more of?
Romping. (I’m leaving Mopsy’s answer. I like it.)

19. What do you wish you had done less of?
Waiting. Waiting for whatever the next fun thing I thought was going to happen to happen.

20. How will you be spending New Year’s Eve?
I spent New Year’s Eve in baggage claim.

21. Did you fall in love in 2005?
Yes, with my son.

22. What was your favorite TV program?
“Medium”

23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?
No. I don’t hate anyone.

24. What was the best book you read?
I don’t know. Probably something embarrassingly entertaining with the literary value of a bag of potato chips.

25. What was your greatest musical discovery?
That I can still play my saxophone. Maybe Super-Hubby and I will start that band after all.

26. What did you want and get?
A baby. A new car.

27. What did you want and not get?
Nothing.

28. What was your favorite film this year?
“Batman Begins”

29. What did you do on your birthday and how old were you?
I turned 25. Super-Hubby set up our living room like a beach and we had a picnic of fried chicken. It was wonderful, especially since we didn’t get to go to the actual beach this year.

30. What one thing would have made your year measurably more satisfying?
Less time in hospitals. A trip to the real beach.

31. How would you describe your personal fashion in 2005?
Fashion? What’s that? You mean this old t-shirt and these ratty jeans don’t count?

32. What kept you sane?
Super-Hubby. My mom. Friends. Wish I could say God, but my relationship with Him has been … cursory at best. I miss it.

33. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Nobody.

34. What political issue stirred you the most?
Iraq. The prisoner abuse scandal.

35. Who did you miss?
I miss a lot of my friends. I miss having a closer relationship with Jen. I miss having family close by.

36. Who was the best new person you met?
My son.

37. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2005.
That epidurals are the most wonderful creations ever. Period.

38. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
I’m skipping this one too, cause I’m horrible at remembering lyrics. Just ask Super-Hubby. He knows every word that’s ever been put to music, and I have trouble remembering the words to “Happy Birthday.”