Nighttime Demons

The toothpick population at my house has been steadily dwindling due to the fact that I need them to prop up my eyelids so I can drive to work and get coffee so they'll stay up on their own at least part of the day (and then write endless run-on sentences). My eyelid maladies are stemming from the Little Man, who has turned into the Little Nighttime Demon this week.

My lovely, cuddly, sleeps-8-to-10-hours-at-night Little Man has reverted to waking up 3 to 6 times a night all of a sudden. Definitely not a pretty sight. And I do mean me - he doesn't seem to show an ill effect whatsoever. I however, have taken to shuffling around like Lurch and grunting at the baby in the dark at 3:20 when the siren call lures me into the nursery. And I am out of sorts and function through a thick haze when I'm awakened for the final time in the morning, which this week has been around 6 am. I feel for my poor co-workers, because as of Tuesday I stopped caring about my appearance, and have steadily declined to the point that I'm really not sure if I brushed my hair or my teeth this morning.

The thing that really sucks is that, not only does he wake up several times a night, he squeals with an unnatural sound until he is rocked back to sleep by me - and only me. Sometimes this rocking process is repeated 2 and 3 times when he wakes up the instant his head touches the mattress - which is apparently filled with sharp pins. Which leaves me actually in my bed, able to sleep for about 30 minutes each hour. Which means I slept . . . ahh, hell with the math. Not e-damn-nough.

This evening I'm feeling more alert and it has occurred to me that his behavior may not be the growing-spurt phase that's happened several times in the past, interrupting his sleeping habits for a few days. With that strange pig-stuck squealing cry, there may in fact be something physically wrong with him. Perhaps he may be teething. I tested the theory when I put him down this evening, and used the baby Orajel on his little gums for the first time in a while. Amazing, instant results. He started sucking on the Q-tip applicator, and immediately stopped fidgeting and squealing, and fell fast asleep.

No more will I be a victim of the demons. I am heavily armed, not with stakes, crosses or holy water, but with a little pink magic Orajel Q-tip, and the ability to snap the tip off and use it.

Political Wanderings

I'm not all that political of a person. However, watching the presidential debate just makes me wonder, isn't there anyone else?

I've also noticed that they are both wearing the exact same outfit and tie tonight. So, those of us who buy a car primarily for its color are just screwed.

I'm thinking I'll just watch Jib Jab and make my call.

And there was blahness

Gloomy, stressful day. All that comes to mind seems blah, blah, blah. But here goes anyway.

It seems that my production of bloggery is directly related to whether I have my computer in my office or the living room. I think I may have a fear that I have to be Responsible and Do! Work! in my office, so I just don't go down there. And blogs don't get written. One of the real reasons I use it more in the living room is that I watch TV while I'm surfing. However, the commercial that just aired talking about vaginal dryness and night sweats makes me wish I were in my office being spared exposure.

One funny tidbit: the Little Man is gaining lightning speed, and the cats are freaked out. Oddly, the in-general stupider cat - Mojo - is much better in the child avoidance category, where the normally smarter cat - Darwin - seems to get caught in the Little Man's apparently basilisk-like gaze and can't get away. I looked away for two seconds this morning and turned back to find the little man clasping the cat by both ears and the cat's face jammed in his mouth up to the eyes. Beyond the giant "Ewwwwww" that came out of my mouth, it was quite a sight to see his little blue eyes looking up at me with wonder, the cat's whiskers poking out the side of his mouth. And poor Darwin's wide blue eyes right next to his filled with startled, pleading panic.

And now I'm done.

Messy Marvin

Tonight the Little Man's dinner was quite the adventure. Thus far, he has been content to be a passive participant in meals, opening his maw like a good little bird for each spoonful of mushy goodness. Lately, though, he's been becoming more opinionated about most areas of his life, and dinner was his latest experiment. Instead of his normal tractable behavior, as I approached with his bowl of ummy goo his arms started rotating like windmills, and one caught the bowl, which dumped and oozed all over his tray. He promptly stuck his busy hands into the goop and mucked around in it. Then he grabbed the bowl and started drinking the remainder, grunting like a barbarian. The rest of the meal was spent in messy baby glory, with the Little Man alternately grabbing the spoon I attempted to navigate into his mouth and sucking on his goo-laden fingers. Finally both he and I had had enough. I did eventually find a clean Little Man, but it was only after peeling off the clothes that were paper-macheted onto him and copious amounts of soap and water. I have a feeling that dinner time will never be the same again.

Odd People

Recently I've been encountering odd men. I don't know why, or what I've done to deserve this, but I wish I could figure it out so I would stop seeing these people.

For instance, I went to a pro football game on Sunday. This is not a normal occurrence for me - I make it out to the stadium about once every three years. And this guy - Semi-Drunk Sports Fanatic guy - is one of the big reasons why. He yells loudly at the refs and players throughout the game. Sometimes the yelling is profane, always it is loud and inappropriate (and unimaginative). He is offended by those like me and my girlfriends who choose to sit and watch the event without incurring laryngitis or bursting a blood vessel. He feels that it is his duty to clap us repeatedly on the shoulders and say "come on girls, we need you to get up and cheer", under the mistaken impression that this will incite some action from us other than a snow cone or drink tossed in his face. He is so involved with himself and his behavior that he doesn't even realize that his pronouncement that his wife doesn't like him very much shocks no one.

Then, there's this guy that works at the mail shop that I frequent. Nice guy, I've always enjoyed chatting with him, until he proved that he's a TMI guy. TMI guys are the unfortunate types that foster the impression that strangers in their vicinity give a shit about the details of the personal horrors that have befallen them. I was making polite small-talk with this man, and all of a sudden he launches into this saga about a recent colonoscopy gone wrong and how it landed him in the hospital. Why, oh why, would anyone think the inner-workings of their ass would be an acceptable topic of conversation? Maybe at a proctologist convention, but certainly not with a patron of your business.

So, note to strange guys: Leave Your Strangeness at Home! I'm sick of wrestling with whether I want to wring your neck with my bare hands or will the floor to suck me in. Enough already, people!

Out, Damn Cobwebs!

Cobwebs have formed and crickets are chirping at the blog. Sorry, folks, but we've been on vacation.

Every year we take a trip for our anniversary. This year was our seventh, to grand ol' St. Louie. Over the years we've been to Phoenix, Minneapolis, Florida, the Bahamas and Branson. Branson has been a choice multiple years for the simple fact that we're normally too broke to take a vacation at all, but we go anyway because the trips are one of our secrets of "keeping the flame alive". Plus, it ensures that we at least get one vacation a year, and, let's face it, a lame vacation is better than none at all.

What with the week it takes to prepare home, work and now Little Man for absence, and the week it takes to recover from the travel and unpack, there are times I wonder if vacations are really worth it. But, as I can think of no additional material to support that statement, it must be just a general bitch and I do really like them.

Details to come, but suffice it to say that St. Louis is a below-average vacation destination - worse than Branson! - but we had a nice hotel & enjoyed the luxury of living child-free for the weekend.

The Sopranos are Killing Me

My friend loaned me the first two seasons of the Sopranos. I've been watching them and they're awesome. And I can't . . .stop . . .watching! Such a great storyline, I can't stop hitting "play" for the next episode.

My life has gone to crap. Since I got them laundry and dishes have started to pile up, but I can't be bothered because I must know who gets clipped next. I have to prop my sleepless eyes open with toothpicks every morning, yet I have to know if the FBI have got Tony yet. Thank goodness she only gave me the first two seasons, or this would drag out for weeks. (Hmmmm, I wonder if she has season three . . .)

It's 1 AM. The Little Man will be squealing for more vittles in a few short hours, and I must get some rest. But, I think I have time for just one more . . .

The Cup

I have a black plastic Jack Daniels cup that is a remnant of my college days. As I recall it was a frat party favor and was originally filled with margarita (many that night). If I remember correctly - and there's a good chance that I don't - that was the party that I had to call my roommate sobbing and trashed to come pick me up, even though she had to drive my car halfway across campus and she couldn't drive a stick. For some reason I remembered to take it with me when I poured my drunken ass into the car that night. The cup had a tough life that night, and has since been through six moves and God only knows what hard treatment. Yet, it still proudly displays Jack's logo and you can still read the recipe for Lynchberg Lemonade on the back. It still shouts to the world about its rebel youth.

Last week Mr. Me called it into service in the Little Man's bath. Sometimes inanimate objects have surreal lives too.

All in the Details

The Little Man was sleepy, so he and I were rocking. I had my ankles crossed on the ottoman, and he was sitting on my lap. For some reason he deecided that my knees were worth closer inspection, so he bent himself double, as he does, to get a closer look. Recently he's been teething and drool leaks out like he's a spigot. So, not surprising, almost immediately after he bends over, I feel the lukewarm trickle form a pool on my legs.

There aren't any words to describe how disgusting that feeling is. Just, no words. But he was content, so I just let him sit there and drool. And thought about how much I must truly, truly love him.

Then I saw the carrots in the pool. And I picked him up, and transferred him to a safe spot on my burp-cloth protected shoulder. After all, enough is enough.

And Yet More Parties

This Labor Day weekend has been a good one. Packed with fun things to do. We had a couple of picnic parties to attend, and I'd forgotten how much fun it was to go to parties with other adults. What's more, I'm discovering how much fun it is to go to parties where taking a child is socially acceptable.

The party we went to Saturday was an annual event my friend hosts in her backyard. It was a good time, as always; the addition of the Little Man actually just made it more fun. He attracted folks I didn't know to come by and chat, so we got to meet some new people. Plus, he's pretty well-behaved at these things, so it isn't a huge stress to have him around. The food this year was pot luck and a good variety. My friend and her husband are in a band together this year and played. I hadn't heard her sing for a few years, and she's as good as ever.

Monday we went to a cookout at the house of one of Mr. Me's co-workers. They just moved into a new place, and it's some nice digs. Still in town, but a little land, with a nice barn & shed and place for 5 horses. It was a nice afternoon, and the Little Man had a great time looking at new things and playing with new dogs. He did give me a small coronary, though, when I went to check on him during his nap and he wasn't there! He's just mobile enough that he had rolled behind some furniture, out of eyesight. Other than that, we had a grand old time, and wrapped up with lunch at my brother's with the nieces and nephew.

Maybe we need to do more of these family-type activities. Who knew they could be so fun?

Bulletin 1

Today, Little Man started dancing (when supported, of course). Undoubtedly, it's cute. Unfortunately, it looks as if he will live up to his genetic potential and dance like a white man. We need a rythmic intervention, stat!

The Need to Party

The Little Man turned six months old this week, and for some reason I was obsessed about doing something to celebrate. Six months seems to be a big milestone, so much more of a milestone than, say 5 months, or 8 weeks. Anyway, my spirits sagged until I got something planned to celebrate, a little dinner party with some of his grandparents.

The more I think about it, though, the more I'm wondering if my obsession didn't just make the poor guy's existance miserable. For starters, the day in question we had a well-baby checkup. That landed him with shots - ow! - and some work on his Unit such that it is now a huge sore spot that his mother has to clean multiple times a day - owwwwww! We also received the news that, consistently with all of his past growth measurements, we have a tall, skinny baby with a teeny-tiny head (though that last bit probably bothered his mother more than it did him).

Then his mother went to lunch with his dad and some friends, completely messing up lunch time and sealed the deal on messed up nap times. When we got back to the house, it was pick-up time, then time to start cooking. Mommy and Little Man Play Time was severly truncated, which did not please him.

That evening, guests arrived after his oh-too-short nap and a dose of Tylenol to counter the low-grade fever brought on by the shots. We had a fine meal, as did he, though the menu ended up being quite weird. He had a cracker, a piece of avacado, prunes, carrots, rice cereal and water. Then, the grandparents had brought him a Little Debbie vanilla cake, so we gave that to him to roll with because it's his birthday! And we're celebrating! Never mind the fact that he hasn't yet had cake in any form, and the most sugar he'd been involved with was in applesauce. But, he ended up with very little of it acutally in his mouth; most of it went in his hair, on his clothes, into the carpet and smashed into his high chair tray.

Then it was on to the bath for the Little Man, and we started the process of putting his little over tired, sugar high, Tylenol doped butt to bed. However, never underestimate the need of a grandparent to fraternize with the grandchildren (and then leave the parent to deal with the wreckage). They kept coming in to "see him" and ended up taking him back to the living area to watch a football game until 10:00. This, of course, woke him up completely again, and he didn't get to bed until 11. Which is likely why he woke up at 1, 3, 4 and 7 the next night.

But, we celebrated his birthday! Another milestone remembered with people, food and cake.

I bet he's glad that's over.

The Little Man Makes Animal Friends

The Little Man has recently become more aware of his universe. He suddenly notices everything around him, from the remote to the hair brush to Mommy's water glass. Everything that comes to his attention he instantly has a burning desire to a) get it in his grubby fingers and b) transfer directly from fingers to mouth. As we recently discovered to our chagrin, this principle applies to animals as well.

Last week he finally noticed our two cats. The three of them had been co-existing the same space but separate spheres for six months. Suddenly, Little Man notices Hey!There are moving things here! And I want them! Lucky for them, his immobility is still keeping them relatively safe. But the lazy, fuzzy one made the mistake of getting too close to roving fingers the other day. Bam! All of a sudden the area where his nads would have been was in the death grip of one who was now furiously trying to plunge said area into his mouth. I managed to rescue the cat, whose eyes were as wide as saucers at this assault, and the boy, who really didn't want the cat - particularly that area of the cat - in his mouth. No matter how much he thought he did.

Then, on our family trip to Emporia, we stayed with an aunt who has a dog. Some kind of little yappy dog who is actually pretty mellow, as far as yappy dogs go. It was love at first sight for both the dog and the Little Man. At first I was worried that the Little Man's iron-fist fur grabbing technique wouldn't sit well with the dog, but she proved to be good natured and actually encouraged his attentions. Mr. Me and I decided that the affair must end, however, when the dog started licking the Little Man on the face, and he licked the dog back. My son shared his first French-kiss (ok, his first several French-kisses) with a dog. So much for sterilizing those pacifiers.

The Cousins

Over the weekend we had our first-ever cousin reunion. Most families have family reunions, and are lucky to have 50 people show up from the whole extended clan. We don't have numbers issues in my family. I have 35 first cousins. That's not counting their kids, or spouses, or second cousins. 35. First cousins. Thus, we rate a reunion all of our own.

The vast majority of my cousins - and aunts and uncles, for that matter - live in Emporia, Kansas. It's kind of nice to have them all so neatly corralled - if I want family, I go there. If I don't, I stay away. But, it's still nerve-wracking to visit there. It's like I'm related to the whole town.

So, we tooled on down to Emporia for the weekend. Mr. Me, not especially wanting to hang out with loads of my family, went only under duress and with the promise of major spousal "points" dangled in front of his nose. We ended up hauling the Little Man with us, as the baby care fell through. The party started about his bedtime, so the shindig started out stress-laden with the non-positive attitude of the husband and general pissed-offedness of the son.

We pull up in my cousin the hostess's drive and the first words out of my husband's mouth are "Oh my God, the cops are here already!!" upon seeing a black & white in the driveway. I had to talk him off the ledge and explain that, while that might be likely with this group, it wouldn't happen this early, and the car belonged to, you guessed it, a cousin.

Despite the rocky start to the evening, it ended up being a good time. The Little Man eventually zonked out, and I was able to successfully ignore the waves of boredom emanating from Mr. Me, and had a good time drinking and hanging with the cousins. There were over 50 people there, some them I've only seen a handful of times ever, so it was good to get to know them a little better.

I found it interesting, though, that even though we're all adults now and most have families (some have several families!), I still felt like a little tagalong, just like I did growing up. I was always one of the youngest - my oldest cousin is 18 years older than I - and I always was "too young" to do anything with the older kids. As a kid I felt left out of all the fun which, in retrospect, was probably a good thing because after hearing some of those stories, I'm truly amazed that more of them weren't jailed for the crap they pulled.

The moral of the reunion: any gathering of people from your past - whether it be family or schoolmates - is likely to return you to whatever pecking order you held back in the day. Refreshing. Yet sad.

The Tragic Bottle

The Little Boy was crying tonight. He'd had a snack when mom got home from work, then dinner of barley and fruit. But, he needed more sustenance. He needed . . . Mom's Brand.

For his entire life, he's had only Mom's Brand milk products. They are the only ones he would eat. He was vehement about it. And Mom didn't mind. She was glad that the three weeks she spent in earth-shattering pain and the investment of time in the form of late nights, early mornings, and hours spent at work with The Machine were appreciated. Though she put little stock in brand names, she felt that Mom's Brand did offer quite tangible advantages to the alternative and, though it required some sacrifice, she was happy to be able to provide the best for the Little Boy.

But, alas, tonight she was out. Mom had given all she had to The Machine at work and the supply was depleted. She'd have to try an alternative, though she knew in her heart that it would be spat out as the imposter that it was. Still, she must try. She could hear the hunger gnawing away at his insides. So, with great trepidation, she approached the Little Boy with her offering. Trickery, cajoling - in the past, nothing had worked to persuade him to accept an imposter. This time she gave it to him straight. No funny stuff. And . . . he did not turn away. He did not make a peep. He took it, as a matter of course, that this would do to fill his gaping innards.

And Mom shed a tear for the beginning of the end of Mom's Brand.

And Dad rolled his eyes. Dramatically.

The AAN

I've been toying with the idea of blogging for a time. Seems like a good thing; my own forum to talk about whatever the heck I feel like. But, toying with ideas comes much more naturally to me than actually doing something for me, as I am frighteningly lazy by nature. However, some things - such as acts of God and annoying-ass neighbors - can compell me to ignore my natural bent and ACT.

My AAN, as they shall now be called, have now made me so mad that I feel I must not just vent to the few people who have been polite enough to listen thus far, but to the WHOLE WORLD. They are annoying. And nosy. And generally awful neighbors. And I must have a soapbox to tell my story from, so, lo, I have created it.

They started with just small annoyances. Like telling us that our house used to be owned by their son, and different things about the way they did things as if that were the way things must be done! And then they asked permission for their dogs to come crap in our yard. As they asked, and they picked up the leavings, we thought it would be churlish not to let them. But then, we put some stuff on the yard to make it more grassy and less weedy, and the husband came over and asked to see the bag to see if it would hurt his dog, and kind of chided us for putting stuff on our lawn that might injure his puppy.

Then they got worse. They're quite old, and seem to have nothing better to do than watch what other folks in the neighborhood do. They started stalking me. If they knew I was home - which they knew by watching to see if my car left the garage - they'd come knock on the door, and, if I didn't answer the knocking, they'd call. About stupid crap, like could they have one of the volunteer seedlings that sprouted up under our crabapple. And then about the draininge ditch.

The drainage ditch is a part of an easment that stretches along our back yards. It's "supposed" to be maintained by five neighbors, us included, or so the AAN say. They hinted that they wanted it cleaned out to us, but we blew them off because we didn't see a problem, or a difference in the ditch from its appearance for the last four years. But, they have become obsessed with the draininge ditch, and actually called the city and told on the group of neighbors -including us and themselves - for not properly maintaining the draining ditch. The ditch isn't a maintenance hazard - it's just basically filled with dirt and tall weeds, but it does its function, and it isn't an eyesore.

It got so bad that I finally let the female of the AAN have it one day when she called to "convince" me the ditch needed attention, using the new and inventive tactic that my child would surely get malaria if we didn't clean it out. I really wasn't nice. To an 80-odd year-old woman. And it felt good.

And we're not on speaking terms with them at the moment.

And life is so much more peaceful.