As life would have it, I gave birth to my lovely daughter five days after my last post here. She decided to put in her appearance on November 7, at 4:22 AM, at only 33 weeks and 3 days old. She was big for a preemie - 5 pounds, 6 ounces, 18 1/2 inches long, and had tons of dark hair.
The Reader's Digest version of the past month: my daughter is gorgeous, and such a good baby I can hardly say that out loud for fear of jinxing myself. She spent three weeks in the children's hospital for surgery and complications from being early, but as of today, after 2 1/2 weeks of being at home, she's doing great.
I have many stories about the past month, but I have been too busy living through things to chronicle them. Thus, I've decided do a time warp and write some non-chronological posts to cover the highlights. So look for more birthing and baby-related stories to come.
Oh, and the winner of the bet is she who chose option "F" - the flood waters broke on the hospital room floor.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Care to Weigh In?
Yet another doctor's appointment today. It went well - the baby is doing well, moving around like a crazy girl. And, a bonus - I lost, LOST!, a pound after several weeks of gaining at every appointment. Always nice to hear.
It got a little weird when my doc said "Oh, wow!" when he saw my belly, then proceeded to compare its size with other patients who were having twins. I have achieved belly size of someone who is over full-term at not quite 33 weeks. Yippy for me. He said I was a ways off of his "record" patient who got up to 50 cm with her EIGHT POUND TWINS. Which, thank God. I'm sorry, I really wasn't out to set any records, especially as the man has been in practice for over 20 years and has delivered over 3,000 babies. I'm fine with being somewhere in the middle, thank you.
He then went on to tell me about the delivery of another patient who had polyhydramnios. He said "Yeah, there was a lot of water. It flooded the delivery room."
Translation: I am fucked. The man is going to have to sit in a boat to deliver Little Miss.
The reason - my doc tends to be very reserved, so in most cases you can multiply the severity of what he says by about 5. Also, he told me that the other patient didn't start having fluid buildup until very late in her pregnancy - I started earlier and likely will be gallons ahead of her.
Oh, yeah. F-U-C-K-E-D
And so, for the class involvement. Mr. Me and I have a bet on what we will get to replace when my water breaks and I flood my immediate surroundings
A. Our bed
B. Our couch
C. My car, or at least a seat
D. Some miscellaneous section of carpet
E. My office chair
F. Some other random place/thing that I've not thought of
Any guesses? Mr. Me is most frightened for the bed, while I am scared to death of something happening at work (though, I can't think of a better way to get away with destroying office property, hee hee.)
It got a little weird when my doc said "Oh, wow!" when he saw my belly, then proceeded to compare its size with other patients who were having twins. I have achieved belly size of someone who is over full-term at not quite 33 weeks. Yippy for me. He said I was a ways off of his "record" patient who got up to 50 cm with her EIGHT POUND TWINS. Which, thank God. I'm sorry, I really wasn't out to set any records, especially as the man has been in practice for over 20 years and has delivered over 3,000 babies. I'm fine with being somewhere in the middle, thank you.
He then went on to tell me about the delivery of another patient who had polyhydramnios. He said "Yeah, there was a lot of water. It flooded the delivery room."
Translation: I am fucked. The man is going to have to sit in a boat to deliver Little Miss.
The reason - my doc tends to be very reserved, so in most cases you can multiply the severity of what he says by about 5. Also, he told me that the other patient didn't start having fluid buildup until very late in her pregnancy - I started earlier and likely will be gallons ahead of her.
Oh, yeah. F-U-C-K-E-D
And so, for the class involvement. Mr. Me and I have a bet on what we will get to replace when my water breaks and I flood my immediate surroundings
A. Our bed
B. Our couch
C. My car, or at least a seat
D. Some miscellaneous section of carpet
E. My office chair
F. Some other random place/thing that I've not thought of
Any guesses? Mr. Me is most frightened for the bed, while I am scared to death of something happening at work (though, I can't think of a better way to get away with destroying office property, hee hee.)
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Spousal Support
I gotta give it to Mr. Me. He's been awesome through all of our recent trials - very supportive, and volunteering to take over a lot more of the housework and Little Man care than before. He does daycare pickup in the evening, and has dinner on the table almost every night when I get home from work. He also does bedtime duty way more than his allotted 50%. He coddles me appropriately and deals with all my moans and groans and flatulence and irritability like a champ.
Tonight, though, he was off his game. He was irritable, both with me and the Little Man. He called before I left the office to request I pick up some KFC so he didn't have to cook. He didn't get very far with the house cleaning project we had lined up for the evening. He whined for hours about the temperature in the house - which we do keep a little on the cool side due to my unstoppable heat flashes, but still.
This pattern continued into the evening, with him falling asleep on the floor and snoring loudly, but refusing to go to bed and getting angry with the Little Man for his occasional loud outburst. The pinnacle of the evening was when he opened the fridge to get a drink and a container of spinach fell to the floor and splattered all over. He ranted and raved for probably five minutes and stormed off to the bedroom.
And though he was acting like our two-year-old, I got it. He had had a bad night. He had had it with being the steady and supportive one. He needed a little love back. So, I cleaned up the mess, and I put the Little Man to bed. And I listened - without laughing - to him bitch and moan about the fact that Spinach! Got on his socks! Which was the only thing keeping him warm! The horror!
And afterwards he was in a much better mood. Which just goes to show that a little love and a big spinach cleanup can work wonders.
Tonight, though, he was off his game. He was irritable, both with me and the Little Man. He called before I left the office to request I pick up some KFC so he didn't have to cook. He didn't get very far with the house cleaning project we had lined up for the evening. He whined for hours about the temperature in the house - which we do keep a little on the cool side due to my unstoppable heat flashes, but still.
This pattern continued into the evening, with him falling asleep on the floor and snoring loudly, but refusing to go to bed and getting angry with the Little Man for his occasional loud outburst. The pinnacle of the evening was when he opened the fridge to get a drink and a container of spinach fell to the floor and splattered all over. He ranted and raved for probably five minutes and stormed off to the bedroom.
And though he was acting like our two-year-old, I got it. He had had a bad night. He had had it with being the steady and supportive one. He needed a little love back. So, I cleaned up the mess, and I put the Little Man to bed. And I listened - without laughing - to him bitch and moan about the fact that Spinach! Got on his socks! Which was the only thing keeping him warm! The horror!
And afterwards he was in a much better mood. Which just goes to show that a little love and a big spinach cleanup can work wonders.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Update
I must say, the doctor's appointments have been going decently the last couple of weeks. No new surprises, and tests last week showed that there is no longer baby's blood in mine, so if there was a hemorrhage, it's likely now stopped. We also get to skip a week of sonogram because the blood-flow readings went down as well, hooray!
At my second appointment last week, I did find out that I'll get a physical exam TWICE a week, instead of just once, which I thought was bad enough. Me and that car-jack, we're going to get real friendly. My Doc also told me subtly, because he doesn't say these things directly, that my belly is humongous and that I'll be lucky to make it to Thanksgiving, a month before my due date! As my co-worker suggested, I'll be crossing my legs for the next month.
We did find out that our daughter is already an overachiever. She's huge for her age - over 5 pounds at 32 weeks, when babies normally aren't quite 4. She's also a bit of a prankster - during the fetal stress tests she plays hide-and-seek with the nurse when she's trying to find the heartbeat. It took the nurse 15 minutes today to set it up because every time she'd locate the heartbeat, Little Miss would swim away.
Oh, and there's this.
Really, from our last sonogram - Jane can vouch for authenticity, as she was kind enough to scan it for me. Little Miss says give peace a chance, man.
At my second appointment last week, I did find out that I'll get a physical exam TWICE a week, instead of just once, which I thought was bad enough. Me and that car-jack, we're going to get real friendly. My Doc also told me subtly, because he doesn't say these things directly, that my belly is humongous and that I'll be lucky to make it to Thanksgiving, a month before my due date! As my co-worker suggested, I'll be crossing my legs for the next month.
We did find out that our daughter is already an overachiever. She's huge for her age - over 5 pounds at 32 weeks, when babies normally aren't quite 4. She's also a bit of a prankster - during the fetal stress tests she plays hide-and-seek with the nurse when she's trying to find the heartbeat. It took the nurse 15 minutes today to set it up because every time she'd locate the heartbeat, Little Miss would swim away.
Oh, and there's this.
Really, from our last sonogram - Jane can vouch for authenticity, as she was kind enough to scan it for me. Little Miss says give peace a chance, man.
A Little Note about Little Hands
Some nights when I lay down with the Little Man to settle him for bed, he puts his little hand up to my cheek, sighs, and says "Mom, I wuv you", or takes a hold of my hand and says "Mommy, can I talk a you?" It makes his mom's heart melt. His little hands are perfect - never dry, but not sweaty, just slightly damp, gentle little boy hands that manage to smell like corn dog and soap and banana and fishing reel oil all at the same time. Those little boy hands, I love them.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Pregnancy Side Effects
I'm just into my 31st week of pregnancy and unfortunately most of the related side-effects are already in full-swing. Insomnia? Check. Heartburn? Check. Wild mood swings? Check. The pregnancy waddle (coupled with the general maneuverability of a whale)? Oh hell yeah. Oh, and I almost forgot, forgetfulness. Check that one too.
Friday we had our carpet cleaned because it really needed to happen (and I think the nesting phase is starting too). The guy was super nice and did a great job on our house, even with all the stairs (we have a split-level). So, the cleaning guy and Mr. Me told me about 154 times to be careful because the stairs were wet. And now you can totally see where this is going, right?
Pregnancy Clumsiness hit just as Cleaner Guy and Mr. Me called me out for final carpet inspection. I slipped on the first stair and glided with all the grace of a listing blimp (color commentary provided lovingly by my husband) to land on my rump on the bottom stair. I had, trying to be careful and all, kept a firm grip on the banister and it pulled my shoulder out of socket. I have thrown my right shoulder out periodically since eighth-grade basketball, so this isn't a new thing for me, but I still screamed like some creature out of Alien (again, with the color commentary) because it. hurts. like. a. motherfucker.
Those poor men. They were as white as ghosts - even the black Cleaner Guy. He was on my right side and tried to pull me up by my arm which earned him another alien-like scream (and I almost passed out). Mr. Me, thankfully, has helped my put my shoulder back in before, so they traded sides and he helped me manipulate it to the banister so I could put it back in. (Tip: if you ever throw your shoulder out, find the nearest wall/other vertical surface and slowly walk your index and middle fingers up it as far as you can reach - puts it back in place every time).
They took me outside and hovered over me for a while, which was very sweet. Mr. Me actually wouldn't let me re-enter the house and finished packing everything for our weekend trip himself. Thankfully, Little Miss started kicking really softly right after I landed, which I interpreted at the time as her way of asking if I was ok and telling me she was there. (but it may have been more of a "yo, cut it out with the adrenaline rushes, babe)
So, now we can add Various Aching Parts over 90% of the Body, and Clumsy to the list. Check, and check.
Friday we had our carpet cleaned because it really needed to happen (and I think the nesting phase is starting too). The guy was super nice and did a great job on our house, even with all the stairs (we have a split-level). So, the cleaning guy and Mr. Me told me about 154 times to be careful because the stairs were wet. And now you can totally see where this is going, right?
Pregnancy Clumsiness hit just as Cleaner Guy and Mr. Me called me out for final carpet inspection. I slipped on the first stair and glided with all the grace of a listing blimp (color commentary provided lovingly by my husband) to land on my rump on the bottom stair. I had, trying to be careful and all, kept a firm grip on the banister and it pulled my shoulder out of socket. I have thrown my right shoulder out periodically since eighth-grade basketball, so this isn't a new thing for me, but I still screamed like some creature out of Alien (again, with the color commentary) because it. hurts. like. a. motherfucker.
Those poor men. They were as white as ghosts - even the black Cleaner Guy. He was on my right side and tried to pull me up by my arm which earned him another alien-like scream (and I almost passed out). Mr. Me, thankfully, has helped my put my shoulder back in before, so they traded sides and he helped me manipulate it to the banister so I could put it back in. (Tip: if you ever throw your shoulder out, find the nearest wall/other vertical surface and slowly walk your index and middle fingers up it as far as you can reach - puts it back in place every time).
They took me outside and hovered over me for a while, which was very sweet. Mr. Me actually wouldn't let me re-enter the house and finished packing everything for our weekend trip himself. Thankfully, Little Miss started kicking really softly right after I landed, which I interpreted at the time as her way of asking if I was ok and telling me she was there. (but it may have been more of a "yo, cut it out with the adrenaline rushes, babe)
So, now we can add Various Aching Parts over 90% of the Body, and Clumsy to the list. Check, and check.
Doctors-'O-Rama
I am now looking forward to two fun-filled months of thrice-weekly doctor appointments, yee-flippin'-haw. For your entertainment and amusement (and in case you care) here's nauseating detail of my schedule .
On Mondays I have my weekly appointment with my OB, at which I have alarmingly learned that we will be doing a physical exam EVERY WEEK, complete with a date with the Vaginal Car Jack (yeah, you know what I'm talking about). For those of you who haven't tried this whole Having a Child thing, this isn't normal. Normal weekly appointments consist of a few questions, blood pressure, measurements, poke on the belly, then you're gone. This, it sucks.
We will also do a fetal non-stress test at that visit as well, where they hook you up with monitors and you lay around and listen to the baby's heart beat and movements and watch contractions on a line graph for a while.
The second appointment is another fetal non-stress test on Thursdays. These are actually not so bad except that they're time consuming. The Little Miss is a mover and a shaker and at my last appointment I was laying in there for over 20 minutes because they kept having to reset the monitors to keep a bead on her heartbeat.
On Fridays, it's a Level-2 sonogram with the specialist OB group across town. They're keeping an eye on my fluid levels - which they charmingly referred to the baby's "olympic-size swimming pool" last week - and her bloodflow levels for the anemia. They don't think she's acting anemic, but are still keeping an eye on it because her numbers are going up and are now just under the scary "really anemic" line. Eh.
Can I just say, thank God for good insurance? We got the bill for the first sonogram and, well, damn. This is just prenatal care - can't wait for those surgical bills. You know they're impressive when your OB tells you to take your checkbook.
On Mondays I have my weekly appointment with my OB, at which I have alarmingly learned that we will be doing a physical exam EVERY WEEK, complete with a date with the Vaginal Car Jack (yeah, you know what I'm talking about). For those of you who haven't tried this whole Having a Child thing, this isn't normal. Normal weekly appointments consist of a few questions, blood pressure, measurements, poke on the belly, then you're gone. This, it sucks.
We will also do a fetal non-stress test at that visit as well, where they hook you up with monitors and you lay around and listen to the baby's heart beat and movements and watch contractions on a line graph for a while.
The second appointment is another fetal non-stress test on Thursdays. These are actually not so bad except that they're time consuming. The Little Miss is a mover and a shaker and at my last appointment I was laying in there for over 20 minutes because they kept having to reset the monitors to keep a bead on her heartbeat.
On Fridays, it's a Level-2 sonogram with the specialist OB group across town. They're keeping an eye on my fluid levels - which they charmingly referred to the baby's "olympic-size swimming pool" last week - and her bloodflow levels for the anemia. They don't think she's acting anemic, but are still keeping an eye on it because her numbers are going up and are now just under the scary "really anemic" line. Eh.
Can I just say, thank God for good insurance? We got the bill for the first sonogram and, well, damn. This is just prenatal care - can't wait for those surgical bills. You know they're impressive when your OB tells you to take your checkbook.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Friday the 13th Doesn't Scare Me!
Today was Friday the 13th. We had multiple Doctor Appointments today. Given our recent medical luck on days that aren't superstitiously charged, can you blame me for being nervous when I awoke this morning?
I must say, though, my nervousness was unwarranted. After today I'm not quite so superstitious any more. It wasn't necessarily an awesome day, but it wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been, so I'm calling that a win.
Firstly, I only have ugly bruises in 2 of the 6 spots that the lady in the lab stuck me in on Wednesday. She normally bruises me with every stick, so I figured I'd look like I'd been beaten by someone who hates arms this morning, but she must have had a good day. Or a miracle occurred. Either way, I only have the WT bruises on my right arm and hand, which works for me.
Secondly, we got lab results back and I don't have gestational diabetes. Thus, I don't have to stick myself with a needle 3 times a day and avoid pie, THANK THE LORD. This baby, she loves the pie.
Thirdly, the re-do of the results-never-come-back-positive-on-this-blood-test test was positive again, but with lower levels than the first test, which is a good thing.
Fourthly (can there be a fourthly?), we had a great meeting with the neonatologist. He was awesome (awesome enough that I got over the scary '70s porn-'stache thing that he had going on within the first few minutes). He took all the information we had, laid it out very clearly about what was being treated and why for all of our issues, and what some of the treatments for complications would be. He also explained very clearly what the baby's treatment would be after delivery and how the surgery would work, and offered to set up a meeting with the surgeon and a tour of the neonatal part of the hospital where the surgery would take place. AND offered to answer any questions we might have at any time. Actually told us to KEEP his number, and call if we got more information and needed to discuss it. He talked with Mr. Me and I for over an hour, just consulting. He was a peach.
Unfortunately, the fun stops there. The ass-master doc who oversaw the sono did confirm (as much as he'd "confirm" anything) that Little Miss has mild anemia. This means weekly Level-2 sonograms to monitor it and see if it gets better or worse. (And, a nice game of Russian roulette as to whether we have to see the ass-master doc or get one of the nice ones, because we have to see whoever is staffing the sono unit that day). It also may mean that, depending on the severity of the anemia, even if she doesn't have to have an in-utero transfusion, she may need a transfusion after she's born. The thought of someone else's blood trucking around my teeny baby's body is NOT so appealing, but I guess whatever they have to do to make her healthy will have to be fine by me.
All in all, Friday the 13th has lost its hold over me. It only brought what has come to be "normal" news around our house, scary enough, but not too terrifying.
Note: Jane's comment brought to mind a funny comment that the doctor made. I asked about using blood donated from someone we chose - it's called directed donation - and he said it was possible if we had 3 or 4 days for processing by the blood bank. He basically warned us to be careful what we asked for, because apparently many people find out about skeletons in the closets of family and friends when they don't pass the blood center screening. As I know Jane has earned over her gallon pin for donation, I'm sure her blood-related skeletons are well under control, but it just made me chuckle wondering news some people found out . . .
I must say, though, my nervousness was unwarranted. After today I'm not quite so superstitious any more. It wasn't necessarily an awesome day, but it wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been, so I'm calling that a win.
Firstly, I only have ugly bruises in 2 of the 6 spots that the lady in the lab stuck me in on Wednesday. She normally bruises me with every stick, so I figured I'd look like I'd been beaten by someone who hates arms this morning, but she must have had a good day. Or a miracle occurred. Either way, I only have the WT bruises on my right arm and hand, which works for me.
Secondly, we got lab results back and I don't have gestational diabetes. Thus, I don't have to stick myself with a needle 3 times a day and avoid pie, THANK THE LORD. This baby, she loves the pie.
Thirdly, the re-do of the results-never-come-back-positive-on-this-blood-test test was positive again, but with lower levels than the first test, which is a good thing.
Fourthly (can there be a fourthly?), we had a great meeting with the neonatologist. He was awesome (awesome enough that I got over the scary '70s porn-'stache thing that he had going on within the first few minutes). He took all the information we had, laid it out very clearly about what was being treated and why for all of our issues, and what some of the treatments for complications would be. He also explained very clearly what the baby's treatment would be after delivery and how the surgery would work, and offered to set up a meeting with the surgeon and a tour of the neonatal part of the hospital where the surgery would take place. AND offered to answer any questions we might have at any time. Actually told us to KEEP his number, and call if we got more information and needed to discuss it. He talked with Mr. Me and I for over an hour, just consulting. He was a peach.
Unfortunately, the fun stops there. The ass-master doc who oversaw the sono did confirm (as much as he'd "confirm" anything) that Little Miss has mild anemia. This means weekly Level-2 sonograms to monitor it and see if it gets better or worse. (And, a nice game of Russian roulette as to whether we have to see the ass-master doc or get one of the nice ones, because we have to see whoever is staffing the sono unit that day). It also may mean that, depending on the severity of the anemia, even if she doesn't have to have an in-utero transfusion, she may need a transfusion after she's born. The thought of someone else's blood trucking around my teeny baby's body is NOT so appealing, but I guess whatever they have to do to make her healthy will have to be fine by me.
All in all, Friday the 13th has lost its hold over me. It only brought what has come to be "normal" news around our house, scary enough, but not too terrifying.
Note: Jane's comment brought to mind a funny comment that the doctor made. I asked about using blood donated from someone we chose - it's called directed donation - and he said it was possible if we had 3 or 4 days for processing by the blood bank. He basically warned us to be careful what we asked for, because apparently many people find out about skeletons in the closets of family and friends when they don't pass the blood center screening. As I know Jane has earned over her gallon pin for donation, I'm sure her blood-related skeletons are well under control, but it just made me chuckle wondering news some people found out . . .
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
And, There's More
Went to the Doc again today and he had more fun news. One of the "just in case" tests that I've been volunteering as a human pincushion to take came back positive. This is a test that is uncommon enough that the lab technicians couldn't even pronounce it. It's negative NINETY PERCENT 0f the time - the Doc actually had the lab repeat it, then had me go in for a second test to confirm. The result basically means that the baby's blood has seeped into my bloodstream, indicating some level of hemorrhage (fetomaternal transfusion causing fetal anemia, to those playing the "learn a new medical term" home game). So, on top of everything else, the baby may be anemic and may require a blood transfusion IN UTERO.
ARRRGGGGHHHHHHHHH!
So, more worry and angst, and more TESTS. I have FIVE doctor's appointments and tests scheduled in the next couple of weeks. That's after the two tests and appointment I had today. I'm grateful for my awesome doctor and the level of care I'm getting, but yowza, I wish I didn't need all these tests! I've been stuck with a needle 6 times today. Enough already!
He also measured my belly today and I'm measuring the size of someone at 36 weeks, even though I'm only at 30. No wonder I feel as big as a barn - I AM!
This little girl is either going to be a perfect angel after she's born, or God's just preparing us for many more years of worrying about our little hell raiser. Damn.
ARRRGGGGHHHHHHHHH!
So, more worry and angst, and more TESTS. I have FIVE doctor's appointments and tests scheduled in the next couple of weeks. That's after the two tests and appointment I had today. I'm grateful for my awesome doctor and the level of care I'm getting, but yowza, I wish I didn't need all these tests! I've been stuck with a needle 6 times today. Enough already!
He also measured my belly today and I'm measuring the size of someone at 36 weeks, even though I'm only at 30. No wonder I feel as big as a barn - I AM!
This little girl is either going to be a perfect angel after she's born, or God's just preparing us for many more years of worrying about our little hell raiser. Damn.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
State of Mind
I'm feeling better, thanks to all of you for all your kind comments and concern. It's taken a bit, but I'm not quite as shaky as I was. I'm at least able to think about and actually talk about the medical issues without breaking down. A few people have come back with positive stories about friend-of-a-friends, which have helped too (though, honestly, one little pessimistic voice in the back of my head wonders if that makes our odds worse...). I do get insanely pissed off when I have talked to the few people who seem to think "it's no big deal," But mostly everyone has been lovely and supportive.
We've been doing quite a bit of research, both online and by talking to doctors. I'm the type that has to know everything I possibly can before making big decisions, so it's soothing to find every new nugget we can, even though sometimes they're unpleasant. I think we've settled on a delivery hospital and transferring the baby for surgery, but I still need to talk to the neonatologist and surgical office before we make the final decisions.
I've now become a human lab rat-my wonderful doctor is being overly cautious, so I'm scheduled for tests upon tests upon appointments upon tests. I think there will be a permanent bruise on my arm from the vampires in the lab.
I am noticing the effects of the polyhydramnios because I don't recall the 7th month of my last pregnancy being nearly this arduous. Oh, and I feel as big as a barn already - which means I'll maybe feel like an airplane hanger before this is all done with? I'm carrying the Little Miss differently than I did the Little Man, but that can't be the reason that a 45-minute walk can put me down for the rest of the day, if not an entire weekend. Or that I'm already having to sleep with 5-6 pillows at night to support all the various aching body parts. I was looking forward to those lovely perks to start in a month or so, instead of now.
Damn, pregnancy is fun!
We've been doing quite a bit of research, both online and by talking to doctors. I'm the type that has to know everything I possibly can before making big decisions, so it's soothing to find every new nugget we can, even though sometimes they're unpleasant. I think we've settled on a delivery hospital and transferring the baby for surgery, but I still need to talk to the neonatologist and surgical office before we make the final decisions.
I've now become a human lab rat-my wonderful doctor is being overly cautious, so I'm scheduled for tests upon tests upon appointments upon tests. I think there will be a permanent bruise on my arm from the vampires in the lab.
I am noticing the effects of the polyhydramnios because I don't recall the 7th month of my last pregnancy being nearly this arduous. Oh, and I feel as big as a barn already - which means I'll maybe feel like an airplane hanger before this is all done with? I'm carrying the Little Miss differently than I did the Little Man, but that can't be the reason that a 45-minute walk can put me down for the rest of the day, if not an entire weekend. Or that I'm already having to sleep with 5-6 pillows at night to support all the various aching body parts. I was looking forward to those lovely perks to start in a month or so, instead of now.
Damn, pregnancy is fun!
Friday, October 06, 2006
Boy's Got Taste
The Little Man and I were driving down the road the other day and, though the radio was on, I started to try to sing John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt to him. As per the norm, 4-5 words into the song he says "Mom, stop it! Stop singing!". Since he was in the back seat, at least I was saved the requisite attempt to hit me in the mouth.
I stopped trying to entertain my hostile audience, and noticed that The Roof is on Fire by the Bloodhound Gang was playing on the radio. So we drove along, enjoying the song, and I start hearing "The roof, the roof, the roof on fire" coming from the back seat. The best part was that the rearview showed him head banging along with the beat. We sang along with the chorus the rest of the song, and may I just say Thank You FCC for the bleeping of "motherfucker," 'cause THAT would have gone over well at daycare.
He still sings it sometimes, all the while head banging to the beat in his head, but the roof is now under water instead of on fire. I have no idea why, but whatever works for him, it's damn funny either way.
I stopped trying to entertain my hostile audience, and noticed that The Roof is on Fire by the Bloodhound Gang was playing on the radio. So we drove along, enjoying the song, and I start hearing "The roof, the roof, the roof on fire" coming from the back seat. The best part was that the rearview showed him head banging along with the beat. We sang along with the chorus the rest of the song, and may I just say Thank You FCC for the bleeping of "motherfucker," 'cause THAT would have gone over well at daycare.
He still sings it sometimes, all the while head banging to the beat in his head, but the roof is now under water instead of on fire. I have no idea why, but whatever works for him, it's damn funny either way.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
I Fix It
Today was the first day we've had the Little Man home for a while, and it was a good day. My mental state has stabailzed somewhat - at least my face is no longer randomly leaking - and it was nice to have him running around the house again (my wonderful parents had him for much of last week after we got the news).
He and I were rocking and talking before his nap this afternoon, and he had slowed his normal pace and was being cuddly and sweet. He had been complaining about his head being 'broken' the moment before, so I kissed it and he said "Thanks, Mom, it's fixed".
He started tracing my eyebrows and forehead with his finger and said "Mom, you head broken too?" When I told him yes, I thought it was, he said "It's ok Mom. I fix it."
I like his confidence. I bet he actually can.
He and I were rocking and talking before his nap this afternoon, and he had slowed his normal pace and was being cuddly and sweet. He had been complaining about his head being 'broken' the moment before, so I kissed it and he said "Thanks, Mom, it's fixed".
He started tracing my eyebrows and forehead with his finger and said "Mom, you head broken too?" When I told him yes, I thought it was, he said "It's ok Mom. I fix it."
I like his confidence. I bet he actually can.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
What a Crap Week
Monday started out great. The Little Man woke up in a decent mood and we watched Mickey! in the morning while snuggling and drinking apple juice. Went to work, and I actually felt as if I had a bit of a handle on my job, which has been out-of-control stress for a month. It was a lovely day to boot.
At 3:00 all hell broke loose. Things at work fell out of the sky and onto my head and I spent until 8:00 that evening scrambling to put them right again.
And, mentally, I snapped.
I spent much of that night having insomnia and mentally raging against The Man. In the morning, I had an hour-long meeting with a project manager, much of which I spent BAWLING UNCONTROLLABLY. (Don't you want to hire me? I'm such a professional.) And I went home for the day because I was such a gawd-awful mess.
Wednesday morning we had a doctor's appointment, a Level-2 sonogram. We had to be there at 7:00 AM, I woke at 4. Insomnia-rage-against-the-man wash, rinse, repeat, with an extra helping of worrying about the baby. So my wonderful hubby woke early too & we went to breakfast at 5:30 before the appointment, you know, to beat the rush.
The sonogram confirmed a couple of problems that the doc had found the previous week. Turns out I have polyhydramnios, and the baby, she has duodenal atresia. Neither is fatal with proper treatment. It could be so much worse - both are correctable. Yadda Yadda Yadda.
But.
All of a sudden I have a high-risk pregnancy and have to "take it easy" with a 2 1/2-year-old. All of a sudden, I have to choose a hospital based on whether they have a Level 3 critical care unit, not in case of emergency, but because I know she'll need it when she's born. I have to find, not a pediatrician, but a pediatric SURGEON and anesthesiologist and neonatal specialist because she'll be in surgery within 24 hours of her birth, and be invaded with tubes and such the minute she's born. All of a sudden I have to be constantly hyper-aware of her movements as there's a greater chance that her cord will wrap around her neck. All of a sudden I have to prepare my maternity leave around the possibility I could go into labor a month or more early and that my precious little girl will spend her first weeks, if not months in the hospital instead of her crib with the new pink sheets. All of a sudden. . .
It is a fluke and a miracle that we caught it - a nurse scheduled me for a sonogram last week that I wasn't supposed to have, thank God. We also, thank God, live in an area where we have choice about surgeons and specialists and specialty hospitals. And, catching it early lets me have my mental breakdown now with just normal pregnancy hormones to deal with and not the crazy post-partum stuff. But can I just say, all thankfulness aside, I'm not dealing with this well.
Went in to work after the appointment for an ill-advised and way-too-frank meeting with my supervisor (you REALLY want to hire me now, I can tell), then went home to work for the week. Because I am a walking disaster that spurts tears at the drop of a hat and spends 2-3 hours in the dead of every night alternately cursing my job and worrying about my baby. Because I can't actually deal with people right now. Because I'm actually hiding in my house until my face stops leaking already.
I wonder when that will happen?
At 3:00 all hell broke loose. Things at work fell out of the sky and onto my head and I spent until 8:00 that evening scrambling to put them right again.
And, mentally, I snapped.
I spent much of that night having insomnia and mentally raging against The Man. In the morning, I had an hour-long meeting with a project manager, much of which I spent BAWLING UNCONTROLLABLY. (Don't you want to hire me? I'm such a professional.) And I went home for the day because I was such a gawd-awful mess.
Wednesday morning we had a doctor's appointment, a Level-2 sonogram. We had to be there at 7:00 AM, I woke at 4. Insomnia-rage-against-the-man wash, rinse, repeat, with an extra helping of worrying about the baby. So my wonderful hubby woke early too & we went to breakfast at 5:30 before the appointment, you know, to beat the rush.
The sonogram confirmed a couple of problems that the doc had found the previous week. Turns out I have polyhydramnios, and the baby, she has duodenal atresia. Neither is fatal with proper treatment. It could be so much worse - both are correctable. Yadda Yadda Yadda.
But.
All of a sudden I have a high-risk pregnancy and have to "take it easy" with a 2 1/2-year-old. All of a sudden, I have to choose a hospital based on whether they have a Level 3 critical care unit, not in case of emergency, but because I know she'll need it when she's born. I have to find, not a pediatrician, but a pediatric SURGEON and anesthesiologist and neonatal specialist because she'll be in surgery within 24 hours of her birth, and be invaded with tubes and such the minute she's born. All of a sudden I have to be constantly hyper-aware of her movements as there's a greater chance that her cord will wrap around her neck. All of a sudden I have to prepare my maternity leave around the possibility I could go into labor a month or more early and that my precious little girl will spend her first weeks, if not months in the hospital instead of her crib with the new pink sheets. All of a sudden. . .
It is a fluke and a miracle that we caught it - a nurse scheduled me for a sonogram last week that I wasn't supposed to have, thank God. We also, thank God, live in an area where we have choice about surgeons and specialists and specialty hospitals. And, catching it early lets me have my mental breakdown now with just normal pregnancy hormones to deal with and not the crazy post-partum stuff. But can I just say, all thankfulness aside, I'm not dealing with this well.
Went in to work after the appointment for an ill-advised and way-too-frank meeting with my supervisor (you REALLY want to hire me now, I can tell), then went home to work for the week. Because I am a walking disaster that spurts tears at the drop of a hat and spends 2-3 hours in the dead of every night alternately cursing my job and worrying about my baby. Because I can't actually deal with people right now. Because I'm actually hiding in my house until my face stops leaking already.
I wonder when that will happen?
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Not for the Faint of Stomach
I put the Little Man down for his nap last Friday, as usual. Also as usual, he didn't go down easily, or quietly, and was still protesting when I shut the door and told him I'd see him when he woke up. Not usual - but pivotal - was that he was wearing only a diaper at the time. Not because he suddenly had a need to go a little WT, but because he had totally trashed his clothes at the park.
After a bit I heard actual crying intermixed with the whining and protesting that was trickling from his room, so I went up to investigate. And, oh my. OH my. Ewwwww doesn't even come close. (and those with a weak stomach, you'll want to stop reading RIGHT HERE)
I walked into the room, which reeked. The Little Man was laying in his big boy bed, crying, covered in crap. Oh yes, literally (shudder). I actually had to grab him by the shoulder for the march to the tub because it was one of the few clean spots I could find.
As much as I can piece together, he decided that it was time for a nice BM, and that going in his diaper was overrated. So, he stripped down and did his thing in the corner. On the carpet. Then, because hey, why not, he RAN A GIANT DUMP TRUCK THROUGH IT. Apparently he then tried to clean it (or himself) off with his hands, climbed the ladder and got into the top bunk of his bed, came back down and crawled under the covers in the lower bunk. And then, only then, did he decide that he did not like being covered in poo so much and began to cry.
WHAT THE FUCK.
All I can say is thank God for Clorox wipes, carpet shampooers and washing machines. If it weren't for them I would have had to cut his room off the house and let it just fall into the yard. 'Cause, DAMN people. Cleaning little boy crap out of the treads of a giant dump truck is NOT for the weak-kneed.
I truly hope this is a one-time-only precursor to interest in potty training. There just HAS to be a silver lining.
After a bit I heard actual crying intermixed with the whining and protesting that was trickling from his room, so I went up to investigate. And, oh my. OH my. Ewwwww doesn't even come close. (and those with a weak stomach, you'll want to stop reading RIGHT HERE)
I walked into the room, which reeked. The Little Man was laying in his big boy bed, crying, covered in crap. Oh yes, literally (shudder). I actually had to grab him by the shoulder for the march to the tub because it was one of the few clean spots I could find.
As much as I can piece together, he decided that it was time for a nice BM, and that going in his diaper was overrated. So, he stripped down and did his thing in the corner. On the carpet. Then, because hey, why not, he RAN A GIANT DUMP TRUCK THROUGH IT. Apparently he then tried to clean it (or himself) off with his hands, climbed the ladder and got into the top bunk of his bed, came back down and crawled under the covers in the lower bunk. And then, only then, did he decide that he did not like being covered in poo so much and began to cry.
WHAT THE FUCK.
All I can say is thank God for Clorox wipes, carpet shampooers and washing machines. If it weren't for them I would have had to cut his room off the house and let it just fall into the yard. 'Cause, DAMN people. Cleaning little boy crap out of the treads of a giant dump truck is NOT for the weak-kneed.
I truly hope this is a one-time-only precursor to interest in potty training. There just HAS to be a silver lining.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Fall!!
Temperatures have been bearable around these parts for a couple of weeks. A few of the over-achieving trees have started to turn. Yes, there are hints that my favorite, favorite season is here. And THANK GOD, I didn't think summer would ever end already. Fall, winter, spring, these are all fine by me. Summer, with its breath-stealing humidity and skin-burning death rays, and, perhaps worst of all, shorts, is completely for the birds. I always look forward to its end with glee.
I really know Fall's officially here, however, because I've had my very first Pumpkin Spice Latte of the season, accompanied by the mandatory slice of pumpkin bread. Mmmmm-mmmm, damn tasty stuff.
I really know Fall's officially here, however, because I've had my very first Pumpkin Spice Latte of the season, accompanied by the mandatory slice of pumpkin bread. Mmmmm-mmmm, damn tasty stuff.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Caught With My Parenting Pants Down
I'm shell-shocked. I just attempted to take the Little Man to his first class. And it went oh-so-badly. SO badly.
I chose a play/gymnastics class at My Gym, thinking that he would enjoy the physicality of it and benefit from someone teaching him how to control his ever-lengthening body (the kid is over 38" tall at 2 1/2 and has the wingspan of a condor - I'd like to give him at least a shot at coordination!) We got there for our free trial class a few minutes early. And the Little Man went apeshit. There was all this stuff to play with - ladders, slides, a ball pit (SURELY cleaner than McDonalds) a basketball goal at which he could dunk, and lo, other children! He ran around happily from one thing to the other, diving, climbing, sliding and generally laughing like a madman. And he didn't push, he didn't hit, he didn't make any negative contact whatsoever with another child. I was so proud!
Then class started. The teacher sat down for Circle Time. And all the other little kiddies dutifully sat on their mommies' laps and patted the ground. Except for me, who was trying to figure out what the hell was going on and keep an eye on the Little Man, who was having no part of these silly people who were sitting when you could be running and playing! I finally pulled my head out and went and grabbed the boy and carried him, protesting loudly, over to the circle. And I made the stupid mistake of sitting beside the teacher to the left, so I got over to the circle just in time for the "question of the day": What is your name, and what is your Mommy's name?
Oh my.
My son knows his name. He says it when he wants to point out that something is unequivocally his, or to say "I not a boy. I Little Man!". When I ask him what his name is, his reply is always "Darwin" (our cat) or "No-No" (our former cat) or sometimes Mommy, accompanied by a giggle. He is a smartass, you see (I have NO idea where he gets that from). And I don't think he has a clue what my name is. He calls me various forms of Mommy, and sometimes Honey, which is what his dad uses most of the time.
Fortunately/unfortunately when she posed the questions to my son who I knew had no answers, he was still wrestling with me trying to get back to the playing. All she actually got out of him was an "I stuck!" At which, you know, they chuckled. However, the chuckling stopped as the wrestling billowed into a full-blown temper tantrum while the next polite, socially-apt child was giving his well-formed answer to the teacher.
I gave the Little man a hushed lecture, a series of choices and an ultimatum, but finally we got up and left. After a sum-total of about 5 minutes in the room. My kid is clearly not down with the Circle Time, or any other structured activity for that matter.
How is it that 10 other kids in the same general age group (ok, he IS on the younger end) can manage to sit and participate in a group activity and mine is the only one that acts like he was raised in the wild by hyenas? Do you have to start at 6-mos with the expensive-ass Gymboree classes to instill this behavior in your kid? Or maybe this is my penance for not attending church regularly (or at all). And are they really supposed to know their mom's real name at 2 1/2? I read Parenting - how could I be missing out on such vital knowledge as "your son is socially incapable AND he doesn't know your name, shame, shame".
The Little Man has been behaving really well for the past month, minding and learning new phrases like crazy. He's polite - says please, thank you, no, thank you, you're welcome and blesses people when they sneeze. Last weekend we put up his big-boy bed in his new room and he's slept in it fine every night except the first (besides rolling out of it onto the toddler mattress on the floor occasionally). And he can get up and down the ladder to the top bunk safely (yes, we taught him this for fear of him getting up to the top bunk some non-safe way like climbing up a pile of pillows, which he attempted, and not knowing how to get down). And he's started helping with chores around the house. I thought he was a little ahead for his age!
This is the first time in about 6 months I've felt like a completely inept parent. Help me, Internets! How do you give a bright, active, independent kid group social skills? Because I obviously sure as hell don't know. At this rate he'll be the kid in kindergarten that's running laps around the room while class is going on. I can see a lot of principal time in my future.
Eh.
I chose a play/gymnastics class at My Gym, thinking that he would enjoy the physicality of it and benefit from someone teaching him how to control his ever-lengthening body (the kid is over 38" tall at 2 1/2 and has the wingspan of a condor - I'd like to give him at least a shot at coordination!) We got there for our free trial class a few minutes early. And the Little Man went apeshit. There was all this stuff to play with - ladders, slides, a ball pit (SURELY cleaner than McDonalds) a basketball goal at which he could dunk, and lo, other children! He ran around happily from one thing to the other, diving, climbing, sliding and generally laughing like a madman. And he didn't push, he didn't hit, he didn't make any negative contact whatsoever with another child. I was so proud!
Then class started. The teacher sat down for Circle Time. And all the other little kiddies dutifully sat on their mommies' laps and patted the ground. Except for me, who was trying to figure out what the hell was going on and keep an eye on the Little Man, who was having no part of these silly people who were sitting when you could be running and playing! I finally pulled my head out and went and grabbed the boy and carried him, protesting loudly, over to the circle. And I made the stupid mistake of sitting beside the teacher to the left, so I got over to the circle just in time for the "question of the day": What is your name, and what is your Mommy's name?
Oh my.
My son knows his name. He says it when he wants to point out that something is unequivocally his, or to say "I not a boy. I Little Man!". When I ask him what his name is, his reply is always "Darwin" (our cat) or "No-No" (our former cat) or sometimes Mommy, accompanied by a giggle. He is a smartass, you see (I have NO idea where he gets that from). And I don't think he has a clue what my name is. He calls me various forms of Mommy, and sometimes Honey, which is what his dad uses most of the time.
Fortunately/unfortunately when she posed the questions to my son who I knew had no answers, he was still wrestling with me trying to get back to the playing. All she actually got out of him was an "I stuck!" At which, you know, they chuckled. However, the chuckling stopped as the wrestling billowed into a full-blown temper tantrum while the next polite, socially-apt child was giving his well-formed answer to the teacher.
I gave the Little man a hushed lecture, a series of choices and an ultimatum, but finally we got up and left. After a sum-total of about 5 minutes in the room. My kid is clearly not down with the Circle Time, or any other structured activity for that matter.
How is it that 10 other kids in the same general age group (ok, he IS on the younger end) can manage to sit and participate in a group activity and mine is the only one that acts like he was raised in the wild by hyenas? Do you have to start at 6-mos with the expensive-ass Gymboree classes to instill this behavior in your kid? Or maybe this is my penance for not attending church regularly (or at all). And are they really supposed to know their mom's real name at 2 1/2? I read Parenting - how could I be missing out on such vital knowledge as "your son is socially incapable AND he doesn't know your name, shame, shame".
The Little Man has been behaving really well for the past month, minding and learning new phrases like crazy. He's polite - says please, thank you, no, thank you, you're welcome and blesses people when they sneeze. Last weekend we put up his big-boy bed in his new room and he's slept in it fine every night except the first (besides rolling out of it onto the toddler mattress on the floor occasionally). And he can get up and down the ladder to the top bunk safely (yes, we taught him this for fear of him getting up to the top bunk some non-safe way like climbing up a pile of pillows, which he attempted, and not knowing how to get down). And he's started helping with chores around the house. I thought he was a little ahead for his age!
This is the first time in about 6 months I've felt like a completely inept parent. Help me, Internets! How do you give a bright, active, independent kid group social skills? Because I obviously sure as hell don't know. At this rate he'll be the kid in kindergarten that's running laps around the room while class is going on. I can see a lot of principal time in my future.
Eh.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Worlds Collide
I've been tossing around in bed tonight with pregnancy-induced insomnia and heartburn, playing an endless loop of "what went wrong at work today" in my head to the theme song of Higglytown Heroes. As I had a horrid week at work, hate having insomnia and the ever-present heartburn, and double-hate Higglytown Heroes (and that I was up to watch it at 6:30 AM), I dub this montage "Things I Hate the Most About My Lives".
The end.
The end.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
An Announcement
Being the spotty poster that I am, I've failed to write about a fairly significant thing going on: I'm pregnant. Yep, you'd think that this would trickle into a post faster than, say, a comma key, but then you'd be mistaken. This is because I'm looking out for your best interest. Because I care for my readers, the both of you. You skipped the whining about months and months of fertility angst, the crazed rantings from the weeks of hormonal insanity (courtesy of Chlomid's first cousin), and all bitchy posts from the first-trimester ickiness. You're just in time for stories from the 2nd trimester. Of which there are none. Well, at least not many.
Except that I'm growing out of my clothes ALREADY at 5 months. These second babies really do blossom out early, so I've alreay broken out the always-attractive Pregnancy Pants. Bleh.
And that, along with insomnia and ever-present heartburn and the weird joint pain that I get, I now have some sort of weird pain in my lower abdomen that wakes me up when I turn over in bed. (Love my doc, but "just ligaments stretching", my ass. I think I pulled a muscle.)
Oh, and my kids are already abusing each other. The Little Man has gotten in several pretty good head-butts in the belly despite the constant "be careful of Mommy's belly!" warnings. And the little one kicks him in the head whenever he lays down on my belly, generating confused looks from the abuse-ee.
And we found out we're having a girl. :-) The Little Man seems excited and will say "Yes, I having Baby Sister", but if you ask him where she is, the answer is always "in the car" or "downstairs". And when I go downstairs and get in the car, he's right.
Welcome to the blog, Little Sis.
Except that I'm growing out of my clothes ALREADY at 5 months. These second babies really do blossom out early, so I've alreay broken out the always-attractive Pregnancy Pants. Bleh.
And that, along with insomnia and ever-present heartburn and the weird joint pain that I get, I now have some sort of weird pain in my lower abdomen that wakes me up when I turn over in bed. (Love my doc, but "just ligaments stretching", my ass. I think I pulled a muscle.)
Oh, and my kids are already abusing each other. The Little Man has gotten in several pretty good head-butts in the belly despite the constant "be careful of Mommy's belly!" warnings. And the little one kicks him in the head whenever he lays down on my belly, generating confused looks from the abuse-ee.
And we found out we're having a girl. :-) The Little Man seems excited and will say "Yes, I having Baby Sister", but if you ask him where she is, the answer is always "in the car" or "downstairs". And when I go downstairs and get in the car, he's right.
Welcome to the blog, Little Sis.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
A Lesson in Self-Editing, Brought to you by Dell
My comma key just fell off. FELL OFF! I realize that I type probably 72% more commas than are strictly necessary, and leave at least 30% more than are needed after editing. However. It's a bit harsh to have the key actually try to flee for its life after a little over-exertion. Maybe it's a pre-set by Dell - after so many commas, the key is set to just pop off.
I wonder how many "a"s I have left.
An Addendum - I must say many thanks to those who said a few words at the reported demise of my comma key. However, the following evening, courtesy of a long 30 minutes with tweezers and a magnifying glass, it lives again! Take that, Dell!
I wonder how many "a"s I have left.
An Addendum - I must say many thanks to those who said a few words at the reported demise of my comma key. However, the following evening, courtesy of a long 30 minutes with tweezers and a magnifying glass, it lives again! Take that, Dell!
And even milk!
The Little Man is becoming quite the little card. He's getting more articulate, and (likely thanks to the massive amount of TV he imbibes) tries out a lot of things and phrases daily that I have no recollection teaching him. Thank God we haven't started him on the Cheech & Chong or hard-core Sci-Fi yet, so mostly when he tries out new material it cracks my ass up.
A sampling:
A sampling:
- He practiced pratfalls in the living room the other day. Falling on the edge of the couch cushion to the floor, over and over and over. For no apparent reason, and not necessarily even looking up to see audience response.
- He randomly picked this line up out of a train documentary "[Trains haul] gas, oil and even milk!" He spent the rest of the day coming up to me and saying, "Even milk, Mommy! Even milk!"
- I was changing him out of his pajamas and the shirt got stuck half-way over his head. He looked at me with his little face sticking out of the middle of his bunched up yellow shirt and said, "Mommy! A sunflower!"
- This morning right after rising, he started tugging at his full, saggy-wet diper. I asked him, "Are you wet? Do we need to change your pants?" "No, Mommy, I have gas." "You have gas?" I asked him, starting to giggle. "Yes, Mommy, gas, oil, and even milk!"
- We're in the car and I hear this little voice pipe up from the back seat in an adoring tone,"Fuck!" My mind instantly went into overdrive about where he learned this - was it me? Mr. Me? My parents? And, wherever he got it, he hasn't been using that term nearly long enough to be actually fond of it. I looked in the rear-view and finally saw him staring lovingly at his truck. You know, when you're two that "tr" sound can be awfully hard to pronounce.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
We've Got Gas
Mr. Me and I have been enjoying a baby-free week due to daycare being closed and oh-so-generous grandparents taking the Little Man for the week. The Week! It's been glorious.
We went out on our first night to ourselves to dinner and a movie - predictable date, but such a treat these days. We got home at 11:00 and my plans included falling into bed literally the minute I got home. But. When we got upstairs for pajamas/bed, we noticed this horrible smell coming from the air conditioning vents. It smelled like farts. Like our house was farting out the vents. It had started to smell the night previous, but I wrote it down to the cat pooping in an inappropriate place that I would locate later. It had gotten stronger overnight, though, to almost uncomfortable levels. I thought to myself that I REALLY needed to make an effort to find that pile of poo, but first thing tomorrow because Dear God I'm exhausted.
Mr. Me, however, had more energy and went down to the basement in search of the source. He came bounding up the stairs "Honey, we have a gas leak. Let's call the fire department!"
Now, I know what gas smells like and this smelled like a whole different type of gas, but I also know that if I didn't put this gas-smell thing to bed he would be bugging me half the night and I would get no sleep. And calling the fire department? Pshaw. So I trekked down to the little room in the basement where the heater & hot water heater live and I smelled something too. It smelled odd, kind of like gas, but if it was gas it wasn't a lot.
Mr. Me took this as confirmation that the house was completely full of gas and started throwing open the windows of my nice, cool house to the muggy 95 degree night air. And he called my dad - our local handyman - who said that if we had a gas leak we needed to get out of the house and call someone.
"Honey, we need to get out of the house NOW and call 911". Apparently talking with my father had shot him right into "our house is going to blow up any second" orbit. Sigh. Our house is full of running electronics - if it had a blowing-up amount of gas in it, it would have blown up already. And, you'd be smelling natural gas throughout the whole house, which I wasn't necessarily convinced we had any gas even in the utility room. I tried arguing, but to no avail. I at least talked him into calling the gas company instead of 911, but he nagged me to hurry and leave the entire time I was going to the bathroom and changing fom my pajamas.
Sitting on the stairs in front of the house was not good enough for my protector, so I ended up sitting on the curb in the dead of a swamp-hot night with pebbles digging into my ass getting madder by the minute. All the while my worry-wart husband paced back and forth, back and forth across the drive, insisting that he's made the right decision.
Finally, FINALLY, the gas guy arrives. And informs us that we have sewer gas coming up through the drain in the basement. And that it can be fixed with a few gallons of bleach water.
This will provide me with YEARS of material for snark-laden commentary. YEARS, I tell you.
We went out on our first night to ourselves to dinner and a movie - predictable date, but such a treat these days. We got home at 11:00 and my plans included falling into bed literally the minute I got home. But. When we got upstairs for pajamas/bed, we noticed this horrible smell coming from the air conditioning vents. It smelled like farts. Like our house was farting out the vents. It had started to smell the night previous, but I wrote it down to the cat pooping in an inappropriate place that I would locate later. It had gotten stronger overnight, though, to almost uncomfortable levels. I thought to myself that I REALLY needed to make an effort to find that pile of poo, but first thing tomorrow because Dear God I'm exhausted.
Mr. Me, however, had more energy and went down to the basement in search of the source. He came bounding up the stairs "Honey, we have a gas leak. Let's call the fire department!"
Now, I know what gas smells like and this smelled like a whole different type of gas, but I also know that if I didn't put this gas-smell thing to bed he would be bugging me half the night and I would get no sleep. And calling the fire department? Pshaw. So I trekked down to the little room in the basement where the heater & hot water heater live and I smelled something too. It smelled odd, kind of like gas, but if it was gas it wasn't a lot.
Mr. Me took this as confirmation that the house was completely full of gas and started throwing open the windows of my nice, cool house to the muggy 95 degree night air. And he called my dad - our local handyman - who said that if we had a gas leak we needed to get out of the house and call someone.
"Honey, we need to get out of the house NOW and call 911". Apparently talking with my father had shot him right into "our house is going to blow up any second" orbit. Sigh. Our house is full of running electronics - if it had a blowing-up amount of gas in it, it would have blown up already. And, you'd be smelling natural gas throughout the whole house, which I wasn't necessarily convinced we had any gas even in the utility room. I tried arguing, but to no avail. I at least talked him into calling the gas company instead of 911, but he nagged me to hurry and leave the entire time I was going to the bathroom and changing fom my pajamas.
Sitting on the stairs in front of the house was not good enough for my protector, so I ended up sitting on the curb in the dead of a swamp-hot night with pebbles digging into my ass getting madder by the minute. All the while my worry-wart husband paced back and forth, back and forth across the drive, insisting that he's made the right decision.
Finally, FINALLY, the gas guy arrives. And informs us that we have sewer gas coming up through the drain in the basement. And that it can be fixed with a few gallons of bleach water.
This will provide me with YEARS of material for snark-laden commentary. YEARS, I tell you.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Swimmin'
The Little Man and I ventured out to our local city pool for the first time this week. We live in a little suburban town adjacent to The City, one of the many towns clustered around and clinging to its coattails. Frankly, I live within 10 minutes of the pools in 3 different cities, but we chose the one of the town where we actually live because
- It was cheaper - they give you a discount for being a resident, and
- Sometimes the other city pools check ID and actually won't let you enter if your driver's license doesn't say you're from that town.
I wasn't sure what to expect at the pool - would the Little Man have a huge cow and run screaming from the building after I paid the fee? Is there just one big swimmin' hole there, or would there be a wading pool for the little guys? If there is a wading pool, will the water be visibly green from all the pee, or will it at least appear to circulate enough to dip a toe in?
Turns out we had a lovely time. The pool had a wonderful kiddy pool, completely separate from the main pool. It had all sorts of cool squirty things and fountains, and was complete with a big water slide for the under 4-ft set! (Oh, and proper circulation - the water appeared to be lovely and fresh, even though with that many little guys in it it was most assuredly not). The Little Man loved it! He shivered for the entire 2.5 hours that we were there, but he had a grand old time squirting the squirters, splashing all over the place, and oh the slide, the SLIDE! He couldn't get enough of the slide, even though he kept getting in trouble for going down on his belly (he discovered early on that you go faster that way). He actually begged to go down the really big story-tall covered curly slide in the big-kid pool, but the lifeguards and mommy have rules about that sort of thing.
The only alarming thing about the pool was actually the other swimmers. The copious ink covering the flesh of too many mommies and daddies. The number of 2-and-3-year-old boys wearing actual BLING with their swimsuits. And there were some missing teeth, on people older than 7. Maybe I should have gone to some other city's pool because my neighbors run a little towards the W-T.
Bonus points of the pool - swimming makes little boys really hungry, so he ate a great dinner. And, swimming makes little boys really tired, so the Little Man crashed on the couch right after we put his jammies on. Methinks we're going to be frequent fliers at the pool this summer.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Perspective
A post by my friend Dorothy got me to thinking the other day about how different a story can be if the characters are changed.
I won't bore you with repeating her version - she says it so much better herself. Here's how things would have gone down if it had been the Little Man and I.
For starters, he would definitely be the instigator of the running to throw pennies in the fountain. (I think he's actually forgotten how to walk. He never walks when he can run! and get there fast!) I would be doing the Mommy Shuffle in his wake, but I'd be more apt to want to join up with the Starbucks ladies and covet their beverages than to chastize them into Shuffling themselves.
Before the Penny Throwing, we'd have an added scene of Fountain Splashing (unless Mommy's Shuffle was shuffling faster than normal and I caught up with him before Splashing could ensue). After another added scene of Tantrum Throwing because geez, woman, you only have FIVE PENNIES!!!, he would automatically start running back to the other side of the mall.
I'd finally catch up with him near Target, where he'd be running circles around me as I stood gasping with a stitch in my side. Then he'd carry me back to the car.
And he's never even heard the word "workout".
I'm firmly convinced that God has this mom/kid personality matching figured out. Dorothy will continue to be a wonderful role model for her Little Angel, and the Little Man will undoubtedly end up being one for me.
I won't bore you with repeating her version - she says it so much better herself. Here's how things would have gone down if it had been the Little Man and I.
For starters, he would definitely be the instigator of the running to throw pennies in the fountain. (I think he's actually forgotten how to walk. He never walks when he can run! and get there fast!) I would be doing the Mommy Shuffle in his wake, but I'd be more apt to want to join up with the Starbucks ladies and covet their beverages than to chastize them into Shuffling themselves.
Before the Penny Throwing, we'd have an added scene of Fountain Splashing (unless Mommy's Shuffle was shuffling faster than normal and I caught up with him before Splashing could ensue). After another added scene of Tantrum Throwing because geez, woman, you only have FIVE PENNIES!!!, he would automatically start running back to the other side of the mall.
I'd finally catch up with him near Target, where he'd be running circles around me as I stood gasping with a stitch in my side. Then he'd carry me back to the car.
And he's never even heard the word "workout".
I'm firmly convinced that God has this mom/kid personality matching figured out. Dorothy will continue to be a wonderful role model for her Little Angel, and the Little Man will undoubtedly end up being one for me.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Back in the Saddle
I'm going to kick my own ass sometime next year, I'm sure of it. One of my favorite things about my blog is going through old posts to see what I and, more importantly, the Little Man was up to in months past. It's going to be much, much harder to go back through the ones that AREN'T THERE for the past couple of months.
I just haven't felt like writing anything lately. No idea why I've been in such a funk, or slump, or whatever, just haven't. I've actually had decent material too, like Mr. Me shattering our back door with a screw, or finding out I have a new nephew who is two years old. But nothing's sparked the writing bug.
So, in an effort to climb back on that horse, here's some of Mr. Me's latest cutenesses:
I just haven't felt like writing anything lately. No idea why I've been in such a funk, or slump, or whatever, just haven't. I've actually had decent material too, like Mr. Me shattering our back door with a screw, or finding out I have a new nephew who is two years old. But nothing's sparked the writing bug.
So, in an effort to climb back on that horse, here's some of Mr. Me's latest cutenesses:
- If he needs to go somewhere, he says "a han!", grabs your finger and pulls. If you won't get out of the chair fast enough, he says "Pull! Pull! Pull!". That means he's pulling hard.
- Since the day we dug up worms under a rock, he is obsessed with them. " A Vurm! A Vurm! A Vurm in my han!" (and yes, he also has a German accent) Unfortunately, he is not very nice to Vurms, with the throwing and trying to squish them and all.
- As you can surmise, the Little Man is talking a LOT. Much of it we still can't understand, but he adds more and more discernable words every day, my favorites of which are "Dude!" and "Burgundy".
- He now has favorite movies. He will sit all the way through "Wallace and Gromit: the Curse of the WereRabbit" and "Robots", and requests them so much more frequently than his mom will allow the viewing.
- Driving! is still a favorite. He now requests to "drive Mommy car" every evening. He has also developed the habit of having his daily constitutional while he's driving, as if he's some little old man that requires his Sunday drive to loosen things up. Like clockwork, if the kid is driving my car for more than 5 minutes there will be a subsequent poopy to change - and more than once it's leaked onto my leather (ewww!).
That's it for a first day back in the saddle. And even with this short little thing my keister will probably be sore in the morning.
Monday, March 27, 2006
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Two Years and Three Feet
Today is the Little Man's Happy 2nd Birthday. The past five days have been a flurry of parties and presents and Cake! He loves Cake! And cookies - kee-kees - but mostly Cake! (and it's always said with an exclamation point, even if his mouth is full of Cake!)
He's getting so big, and funny, and cute I can hardly stand it. He is a quarter-inch shy of three feet tall, which gets him into pretty much everything he wants to get into. Light switches, doorknobs, cats snoozing on the bed - nothing is safe from his massive wingspan. Every day he adds new words to his repretoire - sometimes surprising me with things I've tried and tried to get him say and he stubbornly won't.
His two-year-old temperment is in full bloom as well. He has his "angry eyes" down pat, can throw a full-blown tantrum at the drop of a hat and, dear God, has started whining. It's gotten so bad that we've already had discussions about adjusting his attitude, and he's been threatened (successfully!) with loss of priviledge if said attitude is not improved. The best threat to date is not getting to go to lunch with/go see Gama and Papa. Produces immediate sunshiney happiness and instant minding, I tell you.
He is a wonderous and wonderful Little Man. I can't be prouder of him, and couldn't love him more. Happy Birthday, Little Man.
He's getting so big, and funny, and cute I can hardly stand it. He is a quarter-inch shy of three feet tall, which gets him into pretty much everything he wants to get into. Light switches, doorknobs, cats snoozing on the bed - nothing is safe from his massive wingspan. Every day he adds new words to his repretoire - sometimes surprising me with things I've tried and tried to get him say and he stubbornly won't.
His two-year-old temperment is in full bloom as well. He has his "angry eyes" down pat, can throw a full-blown tantrum at the drop of a hat and, dear God, has started whining. It's gotten so bad that we've already had discussions about adjusting his attitude, and he's been threatened (successfully!) with loss of priviledge if said attitude is not improved. The best threat to date is not getting to go to lunch with/go see Gama and Papa. Produces immediate sunshiney happiness and instant minding, I tell you.
He is a wonderous and wonderful Little Man. I can't be prouder of him, and couldn't love him more. Happy Birthday, Little Man.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
Six Hours I Will Never Get Back
I just arrived home in a formal dress and heels with a Sonic bag swinging from my hand and a wine headache as big as Texas. I attended our local advertising club awards show this evening for the first time, which I have since concluded is naught but a communal circle-jerk for the local ad agencies in my metro area. Needless to day, I was not really impressed.
I decided to go because I worked my ass off on a project last year that was entered in the competition. We know it won, just not what level of award it won, and I wanted to be there to see it win big. Also, because I had never been before and I thought it would be fun. HA, ha ha ha ha, silly girl.
Acting on information (as it turns out, erroneous information) that this was a black-tie event, I started suiting up about 4:30. Hair, makeup, layers of restrictive undergarments, heels - it's been a while since my toilette has been this extensive. The Little Man wasn't sure quite what to make of it. At one point he walked in the bathroom when I was standing in undergarments with a mask on my face. He got this look of horror on his little mug, left the room, then reappeared in seconds with a pair of my pajama pants that he tried to hand to me. "If you're going to look this scary, woman, at least put on some pants!"
I left for The Event around 6:00, all gussied up with my Little Man in tears because Mommy was leaving, and Mommy didn't want him touching her or her clothing just then for fear of ick tranfer to her clothes. Poor guy.
I arrived at the Event completely uncomfortable and overdressed, displaying cleavage out to here which my boss's boss and my boss's boss's boss were privy to - not the most comfortable feeling. And without a buddy. This was my critical mistake. I didn't ensure that at least ONE of my cohorts was going, consequently, I ended up being on my own most of the evening. There were plenty of people from the agency I worked for there, but I didn't really know any of them & they seemed disinclined to take in a fledgling. At least they gave us $20 apiece for booze, so the wine headache was free.
The awards started, the MC did his shtick, and they slowly started through the categories. Finally they got to Interactive. They went through all the winners - not ONE was a project I worked on, and we had submitted FIVE! Shut out. Damn.
A few more categories in, our VP came up to the table with our award. Apparently one of our projects actually did win, but they FORGOT TO ANNOUNCE IT. The awards themselves don't have the specific name of the project on it, so I still don't know which of the five it was. Even if it was the one I poured sweat and tears into and completely railroaded through to deadline myself, whoever sent in the nomination form listed me as the assistant producer instead of the lead producer anyway. Sigh.
Oh yeah, the Sonic. There I was, in a rotten mood, being slowly strangled to death by my clothing, and slightly drunk, and they KEPT PLAYING SONIC COMMERCIALS because the Sonic creative was a big winner. So, I left early and stopped by for a small burger and tots. It was the least I could do for myself, right?
And in answer to your invitation to go to that upcoming awards show or fancy-dress party, HELL NO.
I decided to go because I worked my ass off on a project last year that was entered in the competition. We know it won, just not what level of award it won, and I wanted to be there to see it win big. Also, because I had never been before and I thought it would be fun. HA, ha ha ha ha, silly girl.
Acting on information (as it turns out, erroneous information) that this was a black-tie event, I started suiting up about 4:30. Hair, makeup, layers of restrictive undergarments, heels - it's been a while since my toilette has been this extensive. The Little Man wasn't sure quite what to make of it. At one point he walked in the bathroom when I was standing in undergarments with a mask on my face. He got this look of horror on his little mug, left the room, then reappeared in seconds with a pair of my pajama pants that he tried to hand to me. "If you're going to look this scary, woman, at least put on some pants!"
I left for The Event around 6:00, all gussied up with my Little Man in tears because Mommy was leaving, and Mommy didn't want him touching her or her clothing just then for fear of ick tranfer to her clothes. Poor guy.
I arrived at the Event completely uncomfortable and overdressed, displaying cleavage out to here which my boss's boss and my boss's boss's boss were privy to - not the most comfortable feeling. And without a buddy. This was my critical mistake. I didn't ensure that at least ONE of my cohorts was going, consequently, I ended up being on my own most of the evening. There were plenty of people from the agency I worked for there, but I didn't really know any of them & they seemed disinclined to take in a fledgling. At least they gave us $20 apiece for booze, so the wine headache was free.
The awards started, the MC did his shtick, and they slowly started through the categories. Finally they got to Interactive. They went through all the winners - not ONE was a project I worked on, and we had submitted FIVE! Shut out. Damn.
A few more categories in, our VP came up to the table with our award. Apparently one of our projects actually did win, but they FORGOT TO ANNOUNCE IT. The awards themselves don't have the specific name of the project on it, so I still don't know which of the five it was. Even if it was the one I poured sweat and tears into and completely railroaded through to deadline myself, whoever sent in the nomination form listed me as the assistant producer instead of the lead producer anyway. Sigh.
Oh yeah, the Sonic. There I was, in a rotten mood, being slowly strangled to death by my clothing, and slightly drunk, and they KEPT PLAYING SONIC COMMERCIALS because the Sonic creative was a big winner. So, I left early and stopped by for a small burger and tots. It was the least I could do for myself, right?
And in answer to your invitation to go to that upcoming awards show or fancy-dress party, HELL NO.
Friday, February 17, 2006
I'm It!
I've been Tagged by Average Jane! So, a meme for you.
What were you doing 10 years ago?
I was a senior in college, desperately sick of school and working two part-time jobs and just trying to GET OUT. I was dating my husband, and living in an old apartment with a co-worker and her boyfriend. As I recall, I was a receptionist at a plastics manufacturing plant by day and a mutual teller at the local dog track by night.
What were you doing 1 year ago?
I had just agreed to work an extra day a week to meet deadline on a huge client project. I was also preparing for the Little Man's first birthday party. And, according to the blog, I was sick and whining about Mr. Me's lack of helpfulness. Yuck. Glad this is this year and not last!
Five snacks you enjoy:
What were you doing 10 years ago?
I was a senior in college, desperately sick of school and working two part-time jobs and just trying to GET OUT. I was dating my husband, and living in an old apartment with a co-worker and her boyfriend. As I recall, I was a receptionist at a plastics manufacturing plant by day and a mutual teller at the local dog track by night.
What were you doing 1 year ago?
I had just agreed to work an extra day a week to meet deadline on a huge client project. I was also preparing for the Little Man's first birthday party. And, according to the blog, I was sick and whining about Mr. Me's lack of helpfulness. Yuck. Glad this is this year and not last!
Five snacks you enjoy:
- Kettlecorn
- Pears
- Dannon Yogurt Smoothies
- Rice Krispy Treats
- Ice Cream, currently non-fat items
(gee, the dieting doesn't show, does it?)
Five songs to which you know all the lyrics
- Hush, Little Baby
- Margaritaville by Jimmy Buffet
- You are my Sunshine
- Banana Pancakes by Jack Johnson
- Amazing Grace
- Build a really cool house
- Pay off all our debts
- Pay off our parents' debts
- Travel with family
- Send our kid to whatever college he likes
Five bad habits
- Procrastination
- Running my car too low on gas before refilling
- Not pushing the drawers back in my bureau after I get something from them
- Not giving my son enough time to transition between activities
- Letting our laundry go until we are almost out of clothes
Five things you like doing
- Playing with the Little Man
- Reading
- Hanging out with my friends & family
- Singing in the car
- Playing volleyball
Five things you would never wear again
- Legwarmers (shudder)
- Mall bangs
- Tube tops
- A perm - poodle, anyone?
- A bikini
Five favorite toys
- Palm Treo phone - love it!
- Video iPod
- Dell laptop
- TiVo
- Bobble-head velveteen moose that I bought in New Hampshire
More and Less
The medication seems to be doing the trick for the kitty. Mojo begs for food constantly, has a little more flesh on her bones, and, boy oh boy has the volume in the cat box gone nuts. Yick. Thank you , my wonderful vet, for having the guts to try something that, at least for now, is working out great.
I, on the other hand, am becoming less of myself daily. I joined Weight Watchers mid-January so far it's working pretty well. I've been losing steadily at a pretty good clip, and it's not been as hard as I thought it would be. I don't really like to talk about weight loss efforts because it seems to ensure that they tank. Feeling pretty optimistic about this one, though, so maybe it's safe to proclaim that next year, though I doubt I'm a super model, at least there should be much less of me and hopefully more energy to go around!
I, on the other hand, am becoming less of myself daily. I joined Weight Watchers mid-January so far it's working pretty well. I've been losing steadily at a pretty good clip, and it's not been as hard as I thought it would be. I don't really like to talk about weight loss efforts because it seems to ensure that they tank. Feeling pretty optimistic about this one, though, so maybe it's safe to proclaim that next year, though I doubt I'm a super model, at least there should be much less of me and hopefully more energy to go around!
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Poor Kitty
My poor little kitty Mojo (or No-No, if you're the Little Man) is sick. She won't eat. She used to pork out on just about any cat food in range of her snout. Last summer she had gotten so hefty that she could barely squeeze her way through the banisters on our stairs to escape pursuit by the Little Man. Now, she can go through without touching.
Her weight loss was pretty gradual - I finally became concerned about it in November. When I took her to the kitty doc, she had lost 5 pounds - a lot for a 14-lb. cat. The doc did her exam thing, and the super-expensive blood test and the result was that hey! she's not eating! and it was causing her liver to start eating itself. So the answer was that I needed to feed her! Which I'm thinking I could have figured out without the $150 blood test, but I guess it's nice to know it wasn't something else.
We started plying her with a variety of wet cat foods, and discovered that she had become extremely finicky. We finally found some treats & food she would nibble at, but have to keep rotating them because all of a sudden the pick of the week will fall out of favor. We kept an eye on her and thought she was eating the appropriate amount, and maybe gaining a little weight. But I got worried again and took her in again last week, and she had lost an additional 2 pounds. And now has a heart murmur. After an x-ray and additional blood tests, we still know that Hey! She's still not eating! And they can't find anything wrong, so maybe it's irritable bowl, and maybe it's cancer. And for $2,500 in additional tests we can find out for sure.
I love my kitty, but I'm enough of a farm girl that it's hard for me to spend that kind of money on an pet. Especially since my vet told me that they may or may not find out for sure, and if it is cancer we could spend several more thousands of dollars for treatment to maybe extend her life for 15 months. With either diagnosis the treatment was the same medication - dosage was the only question.
So, we've decided to go with the pills without the tests. There's a chance they will kill her, and a chance they will make her better, and a chance they'll make her better for a little while and then she'll die anyway. I'm starting to get paranoid that I'll walk into my room and find her dead on my bed. I'm not sure how I'll deal with that.
She's sitting on my lap now, keeping warm. All bones and fur, curled up in a little ball, purring. I truly, truly hope she gets better soon.
Her weight loss was pretty gradual - I finally became concerned about it in November. When I took her to the kitty doc, she had lost 5 pounds - a lot for a 14-lb. cat. The doc did her exam thing, and the super-expensive blood test and the result was that hey! she's not eating! and it was causing her liver to start eating itself. So the answer was that I needed to feed her! Which I'm thinking I could have figured out without the $150 blood test, but I guess it's nice to know it wasn't something else.
We started plying her with a variety of wet cat foods, and discovered that she had become extremely finicky. We finally found some treats & food she would nibble at, but have to keep rotating them because all of a sudden the pick of the week will fall out of favor. We kept an eye on her and thought she was eating the appropriate amount, and maybe gaining a little weight. But I got worried again and took her in again last week, and she had lost an additional 2 pounds. And now has a heart murmur. After an x-ray and additional blood tests, we still know that Hey! She's still not eating! And they can't find anything wrong, so maybe it's irritable bowl, and maybe it's cancer. And for $2,500 in additional tests we can find out for sure.
I love my kitty, but I'm enough of a farm girl that it's hard for me to spend that kind of money on an pet. Especially since my vet told me that they may or may not find out for sure, and if it is cancer we could spend several more thousands of dollars for treatment to maybe extend her life for 15 months. With either diagnosis the treatment was the same medication - dosage was the only question.
So, we've decided to go with the pills without the tests. There's a chance they will kill her, and a chance they will make her better, and a chance they'll make her better for a little while and then she'll die anyway. I'm starting to get paranoid that I'll walk into my room and find her dead on my bed. I'm not sure how I'll deal with that.
She's sitting on my lap now, keeping warm. All bones and fur, curled up in a little ball, purring. I truly, truly hope she gets better soon.
Friday, February 03, 2006
Fantasy vs. Reality
I've been re-reading the Setephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich the past week. I love it. It is book candy - not much substance, but addictive and as fun as fiction gets. I found the series when we went on a trip to Florida. I was so hooked that I actually ended up buying every book in the series at airport bookshops and what Barnes & Nobles we could locate with our tourist navigational skills. I ended up hauling seven books home in my carry-on. Now THAT'S addiction.
When I read a series like this, sometimes I find myself slightly sucked into the "world" of the books in every-day life. I've noticed that every now and again I unconsciously try to make my internal dialogue funnier, like the main character's. Probably I'll end up starting a sentence with "probably," like the author does constantly. (d'oh!) Re-reading this post, my sentences are even a little choppier than normal, again, a la Evanovich. Yikes!
Does this ever happen to you, oh readers? Have you ever gotten sucked in by fiction?
When I read a series like this, sometimes I find myself slightly sucked into the "world" of the books in every-day life. I've noticed that every now and again I unconsciously try to make my internal dialogue funnier, like the main character's. Probably I'll end up starting a sentence with "probably," like the author does constantly. (d'oh!) Re-reading this post, my sentences are even a little choppier than normal, again, a la Evanovich. Yikes!
Does this ever happen to you, oh readers? Have you ever gotten sucked in by fiction?
Monday, January 23, 2006
Hummer
The Little Man is doing a fabulous job trying to learn new words. He's been repeating about everything we say, with varied success with pronunciation. (And no, this is not where I talk about the huge cursing rant I just had. Even though I just did. But he gets bored with those words.)
Friday we were playing on the floor and all of a sudden he says "Hum-mer. Hum-mer." Completely out of the blue. He was playing with a truck at the time, so it wasn't a stretch to go the "vehicle" route with the meaning. Instead my mind went the "have you been watching pron at daycare again?" route**. Sadly enough, that's the first place his dad's mind went when I told him about our Word of the Day after work. Great minds and all.
Luckily, I wasn't left in the dark long (nor forced to set the parental controls on Tivo). Saturday I was fixing lunch and he looked up at me and said "Hummer! Hummer!" A bulb finally flipped on and I asked if he was hungry and he said "Mmmmm, hmmmmm. Hummer!" And I laughed that shaky, relieved laugh. I can see his new word having a long life in our family.
Hummer, anyone?
**Those of you who don't "get" this post, God bless you. I'm happy there are still folks like you around.
Friday we were playing on the floor and all of a sudden he says "Hum-mer. Hum-mer." Completely out of the blue. He was playing with a truck at the time, so it wasn't a stretch to go the "vehicle" route with the meaning. Instead my mind went the "have you been watching pron at daycare again?" route**. Sadly enough, that's the first place his dad's mind went when I told him about our Word of the Day after work. Great minds and all.
Luckily, I wasn't left in the dark long (nor forced to set the parental controls on Tivo). Saturday I was fixing lunch and he looked up at me and said "Hummer! Hummer!" A bulb finally flipped on and I asked if he was hungry and he said "Mmmmm, hmmmmm. Hummer!" And I laughed that shaky, relieved laugh. I can see his new word having a long life in our family.
Hummer, anyone?
**Those of you who don't "get" this post, God bless you. I'm happy there are still folks like you around.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
What are you teaching that kid?
The Little Man has been jabbering up a storm for several months now. He's actually the most vocally adept member of his little daycare (I'm not thinking that means anything necessarily, but it sounds cool). His skill level varies day to day - the words go in and out, sometimes he'll add 2 or 3 words in a day and actually use words for many of the things he wants. The next day, he promptly forget them all and goes back to his standard of using "ba" for all nouns but Mommy and Daddy.
In a vain attempt to coax my child into talking before he's good and ready, I tried a little home schooling the other night. The Little Man pointed to a cat in the book we were reading and said "Ba! Ba!" Now I KNOW he can say 'cat' because he is obsessed with our cats and he has been saying it for months. So I said "No, 'cat', 'ca-ca-cat'". And he laughed and repeated "Ca-ca-cat!" And then turned the page and said "du-du-duck."
And now he stutters about 70% of the time. Damn. With me providing the parental education, I'll have to slip the teacher a $50 to get the poor kid into kindergarten.
In a vain attempt to coax my child into talking before he's good and ready, I tried a little home schooling the other night. The Little Man pointed to a cat in the book we were reading and said "Ba! Ba!" Now I KNOW he can say 'cat' because he is obsessed with our cats and he has been saying it for months. So I said "No, 'cat', 'ca-ca-cat'". And he laughed and repeated "Ca-ca-cat!" And then turned the page and said "du-du-duck."
And now he stutters about 70% of the time. Damn. With me providing the parental education, I'll have to slip the teacher a $50 to get the poor kid into kindergarten.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Little Critic
Last week, my cousin-in-law's father passed away. This is my cousin's wife's father - no actual relation, but I'm close to her, so I wanted to go to the funeral even though I'd never actaully met him. Try explaining that to co-workers - "So it's your cousin's father . . . your uncle, then? No? How did that go again?" They were gracious enough to let me off, and even use berevement leave for the day, but I'm not sure any of them understood the relationship.
ANYWAY, I attended a funeral and got to play with my cousin's twins (extra bonus) and sing in the service (not so much of a bonus, especially for the listeners).
Our family - my folks and my brothers - have always been "the musical family". The quotes here indicate that though other family members think we're the Von Trapps, or maybe the Partridge family, it's so not true. My mom made sure we all had piano lessons (and trumpet and cello and saxaphone and singing for me). We've all done our stint singing in church, and mom's always a pianist or organist in whatever church she's in. My older brother can play any instrument he meets, and plays some local clubs from time to time. He and my mom are both quite talented. My younger brother spent a year singing with Up With People, but I've never actually heard him sing so the jury's still out there. My dad and I are normally passable enough to not deserve to be yanked off stage by a giant hook as long as the genre doesn't steer far from a hymnal. I guess we must not be as bad as I think, because this was the 3rd or 4th funeral I've sung in and I haven't been blacklisted yet.
So we start practicing the night before the service. Mom starts cranking at the piano, and my dad and I start wailing away at The Old Rugged Cross. In the middle of the first verse, in races the Little Man. Screaming. I picked him up, he starts hitting me in the face to get me to stop Stop STOP!!!
We paused, and I explained to him that it was just a rehearsal and that it really would get better. He calmed down. We started back up. And so did he. Going to each of us in turn - putting his little hands under Grandma's bottom to Get Up, and trying to hit Grandpa and I to get us to Shut Up. His dad eventually made him stay in the basement to play because the Music Critic showed up every time we started singing.
He stopped letting me sing lullabyes to him about 6 months ago with similar violent tactics, but I didn't figure he'd do the same thing to his grandparents who he ADORES. Alas, The Critic was more prominent than I had thought.
As we practiced, it became more and more evident that we hadn't sung together for several years. We ended the night sounding ok though my dad's voice was failing and my mom's cold was getting the better of her. The next morning, we didn't have a chance to practice before the service and, though my folks got several compliments on the "lovely music", and I'm sure the family appreciated our effort, I'm inclined to think that the Little Man has a better ear than I gave him credit for.
ANYWAY, I attended a funeral and got to play with my cousin's twins (extra bonus) and sing in the service (not so much of a bonus, especially for the listeners).
Our family - my folks and my brothers - have always been "the musical family". The quotes here indicate that though other family members think we're the Von Trapps, or maybe the Partridge family, it's so not true. My mom made sure we all had piano lessons (and trumpet and cello and saxaphone and singing for me). We've all done our stint singing in church, and mom's always a pianist or organist in whatever church she's in. My older brother can play any instrument he meets, and plays some local clubs from time to time. He and my mom are both quite talented. My younger brother spent a year singing with Up With People, but I've never actually heard him sing so the jury's still out there. My dad and I are normally passable enough to not deserve to be yanked off stage by a giant hook as long as the genre doesn't steer far from a hymnal. I guess we must not be as bad as I think, because this was the 3rd or 4th funeral I've sung in and I haven't been blacklisted yet.
So we start practicing the night before the service. Mom starts cranking at the piano, and my dad and I start wailing away at The Old Rugged Cross. In the middle of the first verse, in races the Little Man. Screaming. I picked him up, he starts hitting me in the face to get me to stop Stop STOP!!!
We paused, and I explained to him that it was just a rehearsal and that it really would get better. He calmed down. We started back up. And so did he. Going to each of us in turn - putting his little hands under Grandma's bottom to Get Up, and trying to hit Grandpa and I to get us to Shut Up. His dad eventually made him stay in the basement to play because the Music Critic showed up every time we started singing.
He stopped letting me sing lullabyes to him about 6 months ago with similar violent tactics, but I didn't figure he'd do the same thing to his grandparents who he ADORES. Alas, The Critic was more prominent than I had thought.
As we practiced, it became more and more evident that we hadn't sung together for several years. We ended the night sounding ok though my dad's voice was failing and my mom's cold was getting the better of her. The next morning, we didn't have a chance to practice before the service and, though my folks got several compliments on the "lovely music", and I'm sure the family appreciated our effort, I'm inclined to think that the Little Man has a better ear than I gave him credit for.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Posts You've Missed
Here are reports of posts you've missed, primarily because they were written only in my head. If I actually posted as much as I think about posting, this would be a much more interesting place to visit.
FIRST BLOOD
The story of the Little Man's first wound. Chock-full of all the things that make a good drama great - loss of balance, weeping, lots and lots of blood, crying mothers, and grandpas who save the day and make it all better. Notable quotes: "I've finally found something in parenting that instantly makes me lose it - blood on pastel footie pajamas." and "Ironically, the Little Man couldn't have chosen a more boyish wound. It's strategically placed and timed so that he'll look like he has a boogie hanging out of his nose in all of the Christmas photos."
CHRISTMAS FUN
An enchanting pictorial of a giant, noisy, confusing lovely family Christmas. Replete with tales of all five Christmas adventures we undertook, with an in-depth look at the one at my parents' where the living room ended up filled with people, and gifts, and torn paper, and excited kids and babies, just the way I like it. Includes some commentary on "the Little Man received metric tons of toys" and "Where are we going to put all this crap?"
FLOATIES
Commentary on the Little Man's recent predilection for pooing in the tub. Includes thoughts on 'Mommy doesn't think she should be the one to clean and sterilize after each instance even though she ends up doing it.' and 'How, if you know what you're looking for, this can be good practice for pooing in the potty if you can whisk the kid out of the tub and onto the potty fast enough' Notable quote "And then from the bathroom I hear the little brother say 'Why are there little brown things floating in the tub?'"
A Happy New Year to you all, and here's to my blog being more entertaining in the year to come.
FIRST BLOOD
The story of the Little Man's first wound. Chock-full of all the things that make a good drama great - loss of balance, weeping, lots and lots of blood, crying mothers, and grandpas who save the day and make it all better. Notable quotes: "I've finally found something in parenting that instantly makes me lose it - blood on pastel footie pajamas." and "Ironically, the Little Man couldn't have chosen a more boyish wound. It's strategically placed and timed so that he'll look like he has a boogie hanging out of his nose in all of the Christmas photos."
CHRISTMAS FUN
An enchanting pictorial of a giant, noisy, confusing lovely family Christmas. Replete with tales of all five Christmas adventures we undertook, with an in-depth look at the one at my parents' where the living room ended up filled with people, and gifts, and torn paper, and excited kids and babies, just the way I like it. Includes some commentary on "the Little Man received metric tons of toys" and "Where are we going to put all this crap?"
FLOATIES
Commentary on the Little Man's recent predilection for pooing in the tub. Includes thoughts on 'Mommy doesn't think she should be the one to clean and sterilize after each instance even though she ends up doing it.' and 'How, if you know what you're looking for, this can be good practice for pooing in the potty if you can whisk the kid out of the tub and onto the potty fast enough' Notable quote "And then from the bathroom I hear the little brother say 'Why are there little brown things floating in the tub?'"
A Happy New Year to you all, and here's to my blog being more entertaining in the year to come.
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