Holy crap, we survived Christmas

Best moment: T (inexplicably--no, actually, it is explicable: it's T) got A a whoopie cushion for her stocking. He was demonstrating it and sat down too hard and blew the thing apart. That in and of itself was pretty funny, but better was A's reaction: "Daddy broke Christmas!"

It truly is the little things.

'Tis the season to be busy

And who thought it was going to be a good idea for me to go out of town the weekend before Christmas? Yeesh.

Anyway, too much happening on the home front for any sort of coherent report, other than to say that (presumably like most children right now) A is absolutely spinning like a top. A loud, out of control, but happy top. I'm at work, though, and Mom's home dealing with her. Bwah ha ha...

Also, apparently my child has bat radar ears because I swear, I'm only muttering the bad stuff now but she hears it anyway. As was evidenced this weekend, when I spent 30 minutes hunting for a parking spot. During that time, she informed me, "We don't say 'shit,' Mommy," and said, "Please don't get us killed."

Ho frickin' ho?

Oh, to be young again…

So, I’m just now starting to attempt to decorate the house. Which means, basically, that I’ve ventured into the Closet of Doom and hauled out the two giant bins that hold all of our Christmas decorations and ornaments. In doing so, I also had to displace an old microwave, which proved to be extremely heavy, so I just set it on the stairs and left it there.

A, of course, was onto the bins like a moth to flame and started prying them open before I could stop her. (I’d wanted it to be a surprise, ha ha, ha ha, as if anyone could keep a toddler out of anything.) I tried, “No, don’t-” but too late, she was already in there. She said, “Oooh, Christmas decorations!”

I said, “I know, honey, but let’s not get into them now. It’s time to go upstairs to take a bath.”

She dutifully (for once) started heading up the stairs, and then stopped, checked by the sight of the microwave. “What’s that, Mommy?”

“That’s a microwave.”

“Oooh, Christmas microwave!”

If only we all were so easy to please, no?

Beatrix Potter is a masochist

Seriously: Am I the only parent who's read her little "gems" and wondered WTF? If children were really her primary audience, well, methinks she didn't like kids that much. In half the books, the cute little animals who serve as children get switched or beaten. Not saying that there's not a time or place... no, no, kidding. I think. But in a book that you're reading to your child?

The coup de grace came last night when A picked out Miss (or Mrs. or Ms., whatever) Jemima Puddle-duck for me to read for the first time. Not only did the poor damned duck have to go to great lengths to hatch her own eggs, she also was almost eaten by a fox AND saw her eggs eaten by puppy dogs! And then, as if THAT weren't enough, she was finally allowed to hatch seven eggs... but only four of them survived, and the deaths of the other three were blamed on her neglect. I mean... really? Jesus Christ. That's hard enough for an adult (at least this one) to stomach, but a child? A kept wondering why I'd skim a page, mutter something to myself, and improvise. ("Oh, look, the nice fox went away." When in reality, he got EATEN by DOGS.)

Maybe I'm just weak of heart or stomach or something. But in my ever humble opinion, these books suuuuuck.

I am still alive...

Even if it is in more of a zombie-fied manner. I may even start posting again someday.

But really... remember when Christmas was actually FUN and not a hassle? Forget the Grinch who stole Christmas; I'm stealing all of December.

I like to @#$%*, too

Amazing--watch this before it gets removed. Best way to watch Sesame Street, IMO: http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=B-Wd-Q3F8KM

(And of course, the link function isn't working, so it's back to good ol' copy and paste... ah, technology.)

Frickin' hysterical

I'm assuming that the few of you who read this blog share my sense of humor. If so, you have to check out "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia" on FX. It's totally sick, twisted, and dark, and is one of the few shows out there that makes me laugh my ass off these days. Tonight's episode about the Revolutionary War (don't ask, somewhat complicated) actually had me in tears. T rewound the end a couple of times because we were literally falling over each other on the couch, we were laughing so hard.

Maybe it won't be your cup of tea (ha ha), but at least give it a shot (I am full of the puns tonight)--if you like it, you'll love it.

Her father's daughter

Last night, after her bath, A decided that she needed to go potty. I dried her off, wrapped her in a towel, and set her on the john.

A: I need a magazine to read. [keeping in mind that the child isn't yet three-and-a-half and cannot, in fact, read]

Me: Okay. [picks up a random magazine next to the toilet]

A: No, I want the video game magazine.

I ask you...

After the first half hour, we started to hate the Zs...

Ah, election season is finally, thankfully, almost over. Although it seems determined to go out with a bang; not only did I get four phone calls last night about voting (including a thoughtful one from Michelle Obama, I feel very important right now), but I also got totally screwed at the polling place. Here, they divvy up the names A-G, H-N, P-Z. And evidently, 90 percent of the county's population--including me--falls under the first category. It's strange, really. But the A-G line snaked out the door while the others waltzed in and out like the breeze. So yes... 30 minute in, we were giving P-Z in particular some dirty looks. I finally voted after 45 minutes; the girl behind me (an M) confessed that she'd been there for less than 15. The vagaries of fate. Or surnames, I suppose.

Regarding the election, I'm afraid to get my hopes up--and even then, it's more of a case of "(almost) anybody but him"--but I am planning watch The Daily Show's coverage for some entertainment value, at least.

But I really hate those frickin' Zs.

Best sign ever

I've been a little busy [chortle, chortle] lately, so no time for updates (although I am working on "Why kids' cartoons annoy the crap out of me, by me, part deux"), but I had to put this somewhere out in the universe.

Our local 7-11 has a sign on the door that says, "Happy Halloween! Please, no masks inside store." Because you know, most potential burglars are going to honor that.

College football edjumication begins early in these parts

This is the following conversation, verbatim, that took place betwixt the child and I while I was putting her to bed tonight:

Me: Hey, we have lots of college football to watch on tv tomorrow! That means we get to yell a lot![This being, of course, her favorite part, although to her credit, she generally yells the right things at the right time.]

A: Why do we yell?

Me: Because we get excited when our teams play. [Feeling no need to elaborate upon "excited" just quite yet.]

A: What kind of things do we yell?

M: You know, like, "Go go go!" and "Get him!" and "Touchdown!" or sometimes, "Oh, man!"

A: And "Oh, shit!"

[a moment of dead silence as I do my best to stifle my laughter]

Me [weakly]: No, honey, we don't say that.

A: Daddy does.

[another pause, partially because she's right, partially just because I'm glad she didn't finger me for it, which she justifiably could have]

Me: Well, he shouldn't. He'd rather say [outright lying shall now commence] "Oh, shoot!" And I like to say, "Oh, phooey!"

A: What's my word?

Me: Um... darn it?

A: No. It's "Oh,bugger."

I suppose that's better than "Oh, shit"...

Randomness

A few notes from the gloomy stretches of SW Virginia...

A has a strange obsession with what's going on with traffic signs, directives, etc. For example, they recently put up two new traffic lights (yippee) on the main road near our house. But the lights weren't activated until a couple of weeks after they were erected. (Always fun to type that word.) And boy, did that just about drive her crazy. Every time we drove past, her little brow would furrow. "Why dey not workin' yet?" "I don't know." "Dey can't not work." (Already started on the double negatives--yes!) "Well, the men [not being sexist, all the workers were men] are trying to make them work." Delivered in a dark mutter: "Dey haf to work." And so on, until it got to the point where I started taking a back road to avoid said non-working lights because I was getting a little concerned about her mental health.

Yet our glorious town, which is evidently determined to screw with her, is now adding speed bumps to the back road. There were previously two big ones and then a set of small ones. Two days ago, they started work on the road, which elicited a great deal of alarm: "What dey doin' over dere?!" "They're adding bumps." "But why dey do dat?" "To get people to slow down." "Dat's not fair." (Since I tend to agree with this, I said nothing.) Well, this morning on the way in, there were more trucks, more orange cones (which, thanks to "Lou and Lou Safety Patrol," she calls "safety biolations"), and more workers. All of which served to make her wail, in a tone worthy of one announcing that an iceberg had hit the Titanic, "I don't know what's going ON!!" I suppose I shouldn't have laughed. Or kept laughing after the third time she said it.

Another thing: You'd think I'd have learned by now to watch what I say. Well, when it's early and I haven't had enough caffeine... I was jotting something down while driving (which: uber-safe, yes) and weaving a little, and muttered, "The police are going to take Mommy away." It took a good five minutes to talk her down from that one by assuring her that Mommy was just being silly and that no one was going to take me away and--telling, no?--that Mommy wasn't going to call the police to take A away. I did manage to refrain from noting that I'd considered it, which I think is laudable.

And yet another: Yesterday, we were walking to our car from daycare at the same time as one of A's teachers, and A yelled out to her, "You're not going to beat me, are you?" Well, you should have seen the look of alarm that crossed the woman's face. I could tell that she was trying to process a protest that no, she doesn't actually beat my child, so I said, "No, she means in your car. She's got a thing about trying to beat cars in traffic." (Back to the traffic again. I don't know what that means.) The teacher, needless to say, looked quite relieved.

But A has always had a knack for saying just the wrong thing. When she was about two, she called every man we saw "Daddy." Tell me that didn't do wonders for my reputation. And last weekend, we were on our Saturday walk when we came across a very short man walking in the opposite direction. As he drew closer, A said, "Look, there's a little boy!" Me, in a quiet voice, "No, that's just a man." A, louder: "Hello, little boy!" "Honey, hush." A, waves: "Hello, little boy!" "Little boy": glares, walks by without saying a word. A: "He's not very nice."

Finally, two words that she mangles that I find hilarious. One is that she likes to help out around the house. (Don't know where she picked that up; must be a second-generation sort of thing.) And she particularly likes to take out the plastic bottles to the recycle bin, cheerfully announcing, "I'm precycling!" I suppose that's not entirely off. The other is what she calls the fairy godmother in Cinderella: the "bery godmudda," making it sound as though she's an extra from Goodfellas.

I tell ya, it's hard to keep up. But entertaining nonetheless.

"A Christmas Story" came early this year

They say that when you become a mother, you become YOUR mother. I'm finding that not only is this true... but that I'm becoming everyone else's mother, too.

For example, this morning, it was below freezing here (which is unseasonably early and entirely unwelcome). Since A's winter jacket hasn't come in yet, I had to stuff her into multiple jackets so that she wouldn't freeze. She wriggled experimentally and then whined, "I can't move. I have too much jacket on." And I said without thinking, "Well, you can move when you get to daycare." Then I realized that I was channeling Ralphie's mother from "A Christmas Story." (And if you haven't watched that movie's classic "I can't put my arms down!" scene, well, I don't know what to say to you. I mean, you can watch it for 24 hours straight on TNT on 12/25. Get thee to a tv.)

So while I originally found the scene funny, I now realize that the screenwriter probably heard the same thing from his mother, who heard it from her mother, who... well, you get the gist: as mothers, we are reduced to automatons, mere shells of what we used to be. Now, pardon me, I'm off to chide my child to please, please watch where she's going for the thousandth time today, and then to watch as she trips over her feet nonetheless. If I had a nickel for every time she did that... or every time I spouted a mothering cliche... I'd be off to the Bahamas... I wish.

Dude... it's getting all existential in here.

So last night during our "getting the child to bed" process, A asked me to sing "Row your boat" with her. Which I did; it's better than singing the theme song from a tv show, I figure. Afterward, though, she asked, "Mama, what is life?" (Because you know, the song ends with "life is but a dream.") And I was floored. My brain was flooded with potential replies, such as, "I'm still trying to figure that out, I'll let you know in 30 years," "It's a journey, enjoy the ride," and "It's part of the universe and everything" (only Douglas Adams fans will get that one; I'm pretty sure A wouldn't). But I figured those were a tad too old for her (although the question--quite unintentionally on her part--is, too) and ended up stuttering, "Uh, life is every day."

She seemed satisfied with that, even if I'm not entirely sure what it means. But man... I didn't expect to be tackling issues like this so early. I'd better start studying philosophy, theology, and everything else that ends in a "y."

"I don't know any more things."

Well, it’s happened. We have entered the “why?” stage that I’ve heard is inevitable—and that in itself makes me wonder why, but no, we have too much of that going on already—and two days in, I’m already tired of it.

Because I don’t know. I don’t know why the truck went straight instead of turning. I don’t know why the speed limit is 60 mph, and I don’t know why the other car is going faster. I don’t know why the red leaves haven't fallen yet, why the light is green, or why that man isn't walking on the sidewalk. I don't. Friggin. KNOW.

The worst part is that I actually try to answer the questions. (He had to go home. It's a safe speed. Because they're speeding. Because it's not time, it's our turn to go, he's not being safe.) Now, as any parent who has weathered this stage will know, the penalty for doing so is the resulting, "but why?" In other words, by trying to make the question into a teachable moment, I am beginning what will be an endless loop of "why?"s until I finally cave and say (mutter, shriek), "I don't know."

I remember when I first saw this comedian Louis C.K.'s spiel on this topic. That bit (also the source of this post's title) starts at about 7:10 in (although the whole thing's a pretty damned funny commentary on parenting). (Also, if you're sensitive to swearing, uh, skip it.):
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=4u2ZsoYWwJA

I laughed my ass off. Of course, I saw this about a year before I got pregnant. And don't get me wrong, it's still extremely funny, but because I'm now watching it from the other side, my laughter has a bit of an edge to it, mostly because I really do start getting into existential crisis mode about five "why?"s in.

T, of course, has the best solution: he just makes shit up. But I figure that we can't both go that route, otherwise we'll never be able to ship the kid off to college. So, wish me luck. I'll be the one in the corner rocking back and forth, whimpering, "I don't know. I don't. I swear I don't!"

I may or may not be exaggerating. I'll keep you posted.

Because I have no time to be funny

I'm passing along something that is, although only if you were a fan of '80s music and/or remember when MTV actually aired videos. Give it about 30 seconds to kick in with the funny.

http://www.holymoly.co.uk/news/28/take-on-me-literally-4361.html

Yo, blabba blabba

Anyone who's read this blog for long enough knows how much I despise Yo, Gabba Gabba. However, when T is away at school, I do allow A to turn on Noggin when we get home to ease her into the "where's Daddy" transition. (TV replaces Daddy... paging Dr. Freud, party of three...) Anyway, Noggin was insidious enough to change their schedule from showing the reasonably innocuous Little Bear or Franklin, or even one that I really like, such as Backyardigans, at that time. Because no. Guess what we're stuck with: Yo, Gabba Gabba. Which, naturally, she loves. Yippee.

It's got its pros and cons, lesson-wise, I've found. Such as tonight in the tub, when I heard her making some really strange blowing noises. I asked what on earth she was doing and she informed me that it was BizMark's beat of the day. Oh, joy. On the other hand, I later heard her singing at her dinosaurs, who were attempting to do something or another, "don't give up... never give up... keep trying, keep trying, don't give up," etc. ad infinitum.

So what it comes down to is, learning to beatbox versus learning the value of persistence. I honestly can't decide which one trumps the other.

And more importantly: when am I going to get that frigging song out of my head?! (Keep trying... keep trying...)

Yikes

You know, I joke all the time about the fact that I no longer have a memory is because the kid sucked it out of me. But I may not, in fact, be wrong. Because she has a SCARY sharp memory.

Case in point: Several months ago, I wanted to get her a clock for her room so she would know when she was allowed to start bellowing for us in the morning. We bought a cute frog clock from Target but when we got it home and opened the package, I found out that it was broken. So I took it back the next day and saw that that was the last one, so instead, I dug up an old Mickey Mouse clock of mine and we've been using that.

Well, tonight, out of nowhere, she's talking about what time it says on the clock and says, "What happened to the frog?" I say, "What frog?" thinking, she can't possibly mean the frog clock. But no. She did; she says, "The clock with the frog on it. Where did it go?"

Keep in mind that a) this was, like SIX MONTHS AGO, b) we owned said clock for less than 24 hours, and c) it has NEVER been mentioned again. Like, we don't sit around waxing rhapsodic, "Gee, remember that frog clock?" Hell, I'D even forgotten about it.

So... that kind of freaks me out. And it's getting to the point where she's reminding ME of things. I somewhat fear that I'm going to be committed any day now; yeesh...

Since I haven't posted in awhile, a few random thoughts. Such as, this was an actual conversation I had this morning: "Mama! This doesn't work!" "I know. That's because you broke it."

Really, I am operating at a high level here. Of course, that could be because I'm facing my midterm exam in my graduate comm theory course. Here are the take-home test questions:

1. Compare and contrast two of the seven traditions [of communication theory]. Explain systematically the traditions, key concepts and applications. Describe advantages and disadvantages of applying the traditions, i.e., what questions will be answered per tradition, what aspects will not be examined, what will be revealed, etc.? Provide examples or proposed case studies to support or illustrate positions or concepts.

2. Identify two to four theories/perspectives discussed thus far in the readings that you find most useful, most insightful, most informative from your perspective about the nature of human communication. They may be within one “tradition” or across “traditions.” I would assume the theories selected address issues of most concern to you as a scholar of human communication. What specific questions would these theories address? Again, please provide examples or case study to illustrate perspectives.

Me, reading through, brow furrowed. "Huh." Re-read. "Right." Type e-mail to professor: "I think I'm going to need to ask a few questions about this exam..." So, hopefully, I will be slightly more elucidated after today. Otherwise, I'll be typing 16 pages of bullshit. Which is nothing new, really.

In other exciting news, I have been living with a pirate for the past few weeks. Because yes, even though that's what she was last year, A is determined to be a pirate again this year for Halloween. I hope this isn't an early preview as to her career interests. (Lawyer? Loan shark?) At least I got her a different costume (although to me, it looks more like she's a gypsy, but hey) which is good, because she periodically strips down and asks us to put it on her. The funny part is that T had the great idea (and no, I'm not being facetious) to get out a pirate game we have (and no, not THAT kind) that we never play. The whole thing comes in a real wooden chest and has a fake cloth map and fake (I assume) gold dubloons and fake (this, I know) diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. It's pretty cool--I'll even volunteer to play pirate if I get to have some of the treasure. Which A is very good about sharing, mind you (and much to my surprise). A few amusing things,though. When she was first explaining what treasures she had, she said, "gold coins, rubies, and maxes!" And she didn't get why I started laughing, poor thing. Also, she can't say sapphires, so she calls them "pacifiers." Why not. Finally, she was showing us where on the pirate map we lived and we said, "But where do you live?" and she said, "I live at WalMart." Um... ha ha?

She has also reached the streaking stage. Which I happen to think is pretty funny, especially because she'll run through the house giggling, "naked baby coming through!" T, however, is not as amused because he thinks it makes her look like a redneck. Whatever, he has issues.

And finally, I've realized that not only do I barely register them anymore, I also have cause to be grateful for the toys that beep and whir and sing. You see, when T is gone, A is alone downstairs while I get ready for work. She's ostensibly watching television but is really doing, well, whatever it is she does. But as long as I can hear Thomas the Tank clacking along or the discordant songs from the Loving Family Car or the steady thump-thump-thump as she hammers... something, I can track her, much like a hunter in the wild. But when I can't, heaven only knows what she's up to. Case in point: This morning, I suddenly realized that, Blue's Clues aside, there was only silence, which any parent knows is something to fear, not embrace. So, "What are you doing down there?" Continued silence. I walked to the head of the stairs and bellowed it more loudly. Finally, "Nothing." Ooh, bad sign if she's lying about it. "No, really, what are you doing?" "Just holding this orange feather." I blinked. "What orange feather?" "The orange feather I got off the table." Now, as far as I know, there are no orange feathers in our house, nor should there be. Clomp, clomp, clomp downstairs...

Turns out there was no orange feather, which is good, but that she was just messing with me. Which is bad. Very bad. This living at WalMart idea might have some merits after all.

I can't decide

Serious stuff, here. I can't decide which of these otherwise potentially interchangeable (taste/texture-wise, that is) products has the better name: Ho-Hos or Ding-Dongs. I used to be solidly on the Ho-Ho side but this morning, I was jonesing for some chocolate (NOTHING to do with my mother being here, no stress eating or anything like that, uh-uh) and all 7-11 had was Ding-Dongs. And really, it's just fun to say, "These Ding-Dongs are mine" and "I had two Ding-Dongs" for breakfast.

I like Ho-Hos.

I like Ding-Dongs.

Hm. I think I'm leaning toward the double Ds. Thoughts?

(And yeah... it's been a looooong week.)

effin' fruit flies...

So, I know that I usually don't post happy homemaker stuff, mostly because that's not me. (Well, the homemaker part; I'm usually fairly genial.) BUT, we were recently struck with an infestation of fruit flies (okay, so I didn't realize that the tangerines had gone bad, whoops) and the little buggers practically have been swarming us. However, my friend K over at koalabrains posted a tip for getting rid of them and by damn it, it WORKS. You just pour some apple cider vinegar in a bowl and swirl in a little dishwashing soap, and I tell you, those annoying little shits die faster than a Florida State drive against Wake. I will admit that I'm getting a tad OCD about this... I just sort of hang out and watch, waiting for them to take the bait, and I'm starting to compile body counts. I may need help.

That notwithstanding, if you have fruit flies, this is an awesome (and disturbingly entertaining) way to get rid of them.

Back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Getting back to the point...

Okay, the original intention of this blog was not to share funny stories (and admittedly, I've been doing so because I've been without a home computer and had to log them somewhere before I forgot, like, how sad is THAT) but rather funny/interesting/whatever parenting experiences. The current one being, "Is my child Sybil? When should I get worried?"

To clarify: Several parents warned me that the terrible threes were worse than the twos. I find this to be both true and false. False in that I can actually (generally) reason with her to some degree, whereas a two-year-old is, like, deaf to anything you say, mostly because they can't hear anything over their own whining. And true because there is still whining, only now it's strategic whining. I can't say which is worse--whining makes my ears hurt regardless.

But the big thing to me--and this takes me by surprise every time, meaning I must have a really slow learning curve--is how she can go from being a delightful, laughing, joyful child to complete, histrionic meltdown in, like a nanosecond. I mean, seriously; sometimes you can predict what's going to be a trigger, other times, it's like she's received orders from Mars or something: cue meltdown NOW! T likened her meltdown visage to the witch from "Army of Darkness" (which, if you haven't seen it, what are you doing here? Go watch it!) and it's not a bad comparison. Applicable adjectives include shrieking, livid, face-melting (not literally), and banshee-like.

"Exorcist" comparisons (also apt) aside, I think it's the sheer unpredictability of it that really gets me. This morning, for example, we were having a fine old time getting ready for daycare, chitchatting, tickling, etc. And then... then I said "no" to the "pirate treasure" (a bag of colored gems) that she wanted to bring in the car, knowing full well that they would end up all over the seats and floor. And oh, did the toddler hit the fan. The neighbors must have thought that I was slaughtering a cat. Either that, or they're reporting me to Health and Human Services for child abuse. And I just stared at her as she writhed on the floor in absolute toddler rage.

So... here's my question. Is she the only one like this? Is there hope for this ever passing? Should I just go ahead and bring in a priest and call it a day? Seriously--anecdotes, advice, and psychiatric help are all welcome here.

And I will close with a funny, if only because those get filed under Things Keeping Me From Returning My Daughter To The Hospital For A Refund: Last night, she was running (I'm sorry, with a toddler that should be the default assumption, I suppose) down the hallway after her bath, me telling her for the zillionth time to walk, and she slipped and totally ate it. I picked her up and she was crying, pointing in the general direction of her face. I asked, "What did you hit?" and she sobbed, "The ground." I probably shouldn't laugh, should I?

another funny

There's a lot going on these days so I've just got time to post the things that make me laugh. Tonight, I was reading Alexandra the dinosaur book and there's one, Pachy-something-or-other, that looks like it's rushing off the page toward the reader, so I always tease her that "Pachy" is coming toward us. Tonight, she decided to "take him out of the book"--she reached in his direction, "placed" him next to the chair, and then shook her head and told him he wasn't allowed to climb her bookshelf and that she was putting him back in the book, which she did. (I suppose. Or maybe he's still running around in there.)

Anyway, she then frowned at me and asked why I was laughing. I said, "Because you're too smart." And she said, "No, I'm one smart."

That she is.

More funnies

Ms. Sassy Pants continues her reign of know-it-allness at daycare. Her teacher--Miss A, appropriately enough--was cleaning the table after lunch and A asked, "What are you doing?" Miss A replied, "What does it look like I'm doing?" and A said, "It looks like you're doing a lot of walking back and forth."

Later, all the kids were coloring and one said, "Oh, it's a dinosaur!" and A said (rather haughtily), "No, it's a pteradactyl."

Hee.

Just a quickie

And no, not the fun kind. I'm a little blue--T started his commute back to school again today. I didn't realize how much I enjoyed having him around this summer until right now.

But... this is not the place for melancholy. Instead, two fleeting moments that told me that A really does pay attention to what I say. One was in the car today on the way to Target (or "the dress house" as she calls it), when some elderly person pulled out in front of us. Keep in mind that I've tried to get better with my automatic impulse, which is to yell, "Thanks, asshole!" and instead say something slightly more innocuous. This time, however, before I could say anything, A said, "Get out of our way, dude!"

The other was tonight in the tub. She had two warring pirate ships and one rammed the other, causing its sail to fall off. She said, "Oh, sorry, my bad."

How can that not make you smile?

This is funny

Just a quick update. A did indeed have rotavirus, which is easily the most vile, evil (which is spelled using the same letters as vile--coincidence? I think not) virus known to humankind and the offal of which could legitimately used in biological warfare. But more on that later. (And that's not the funny part, either. It's absolute fact.)

About rotavirus: "Children with a rotavirus infection have fever, nausea, and vomiting, often followed by abdominal cramps and frequent, watery diarrhea. Kids may also have a cough and runny nose."

That's still not the funny part. (Actually, there was nothing remotely funny about that--two miserable days for everyone, especially poor A.) This, however, is: About rotavirus in adults: "As with all viruses, though, some rotavirus infections cause few or no symptoms, especially in adults."

Which must explain why, since Monday evening--despite having disinfected everything in the house a billion times over with an anti-rotavirus spray until the mere smell of Floral Spring makes me want to puke--T and I have been experiencing something along the lines of a particularly vindictive stomach flu. Usually, we are never sick at the same time, which is a good thing because I found myself arguing that I was sicker than he was because my fever was higher than his. (What can I say, I was delirious and wanted nothing more than for him to put a pillow over my head to end my suffering.) For two days, all I could tolerate was orange soda. I do not know why this is.

Several days later, we're both still lagging, I'm still not really eating, and today is my first day at work all week. And A? Has been bouncing and gleeful and the very picture of perfect health since Monday. Which is a joy to behold when you're lying limply on the couch trying to explain why you don't want to play hide and seek (other than trying to get her to hide for 15 minutes of blessed silence).

Oh, and the potty training? Going beautifully, thanks for asking.

The horror... the horror...

Longer review of potty-training weekend to follow later. Brief precis, however, is: commando potty training+frickin' ROTAVIRUS=hell. You cannot convince me that someone, somewhere, is screwing with me. Big time.

Guerilla warfare: Us vs. the diapers

So, this is what it’s come down to. All the books read, the potty treats proffered, the subtle peer pressure… no dice. The kid will not willingly use the potty. As noted in a previous post, it’s not because she’s not ready—it’s because she’s “too busy.” (My child to a T. So to speak.)

At any rate, desperate times, desperate measures, yadda yadda yadda. After much research (sort of) and a reasonable assessment of A’s temperament, I’ve decided that we’re going commando this weekend: no diapers, no pull-ups, just the cotton big-girl undies. I think (hope, pray, whatever) that after a few accidents make A realize how a) messy and b) time-consuming it is to have accidents, she’ll wise up and start telling us when she has to potty. Of course, A being A, the gods only know how this will actually pan out. I’ll keep you posted. Keep us in your thoughts.

One prospect that a friend mentioned, however, does bring a smile to my face every time I think of it: We let A pick out which big-girl undies she wanted and she chose two packs of Dora the Explorer underpants. Which means that Dora will, in all likelihood, get shit on this weekend. It’s a thought to warm the very cockles of my heart.

Words are fun

Just a quick post amidst the chaos...

This weekend, I was doing my usual Saturday exercise, which is to walk for about two miles while pushing (a nonstop chattering) A in her stroller. Between pushing a 31-pound kid and trying to reply to her (nonstop chatter), I started to get a little winded toward the end and slowed down a bit. A said, "Faster, mama, faster!" I said, "Honey, I can't, I'm pooped." She said, "Yes, I can smell you."

I've finally found a human being more literal than I am.

Weather report from Florida

So, Fay is taking her time making her way up the east coast of Florida, which is where I grew up and my parents and friends still live. My father, who is usually fairly stoic about things out of his control, such as the weather, sent me the following weather report that I simply cannot improve upon:

"At first, our little tropical storm was refreshing, change in temperature, some windswept showers, a nice break in the summer. Unfortunately, it is being driven by an ancient retired guy from Akron, Ohio, at 6 mph, weaving all over the place, no headlights, tail lights or turn signals. Leaving Florida doesn't appear to be high on the agenda."

It's funny because it's true.

Oh, Jeebus, I must be crazy

Seriously. What was I thinking?

To wit, my current situation: Full-time working mom and part-time single mom whose workload just increased by about 50 percent. And to this, I'm adding a graduate-level course in a long-term effort to get a master's degree. My first class is next Monday and I already have homework. HOMEWORK. For the first time in 15 years. Which I am supposed to get done... when, exactly?

Ye gods, saints preserve us, etc., etc.

Calling Mr. Johnson...

This gets filed under "child's idiosyncrasies." On Sunday we bought a few dolls and two rooms from the barfily named "Fisher Price Loving Family" play set, mostly to see if A was interested enough in the dolls to justify buying more. I like the idea because she loves having things talk to each other, so I saw this as another means of furthering her imagination. I just didn't realize quite how much, though.

The two rooms we got were the kitchen (T's pick) and the laundry room (A's pick, which I thought was hilarious). In the kitchen, you can push a button and make the oven timer go off. Strangely enough, about a minute after it does, the kitchen's little telephone rings. Really, I wonder who came up with that concept; maybe someone's calling to see if dinner's ready?

Anyway, the first few times the phone rang, A had me answer it and "talk" to whoever was on the line. Finally, I asked her who was calling, fully expecting it to be one of her grandmothers, which is usually the case when she pretends to be on the phone. Instead, she said, "Johnson." T and I both said, "Who?" And she said, "Johnson's calling." Keep in mind that we don't know anyone named Johnson, nor is there any such character on any show she watches. We were baffled, although I suppose it's possible that she has a larger social life than I ever suspected.

At any rate, on Sunday, she was fairly insistent that it was Johnson on the line. We were like, okay, fine. Then yesterday, it evolved into Mr. Johnson who, the next thing I know, shows up for cupcakes in the form of the father figure. I said, "Isn't that Daddy?" She said, "No, Mommy, it's Mr. Johnson," sounding utterly exasperated. Oookay. "Where's Daddy, then?" "He's not home." Great--not only is her future shrink going to have a field day with this, T's going to think I'm having some guy named Mr. Johnson over for cupcakes when he's away.

So now I feel compelled to buy another father figure (although they're going to be identical, so I'm hoping the new one isn't Mr. Johnson's twin, Mr. Johnson) so that we have a Daddy. Meanwhile, when I last saw Mr. Johnson, he was sweeping the kitchen floor, so maybe he's not so bad after all.

The bedtime quagmire

First, thanks to koala brains for inadvertently reminding me what I was going to post about.

Second, I looked up the definition of "stall" and this was my favorite answer: "To stick fast, as in mire." Because that's what bedtime has become. A is now a certified M.S., proudly holding her Master of Stalling.

I approach this with a mixture of impatience, irritability, and determination to pick my battles wisely, over which lies a veneer of saintly motherhood. But seriously... I have never found myself so attached to numbers. We can read three books, I'll tell two stories, we'll sing two songs, she can have two small sippy cups of milk, after which she gets water... I'm like a friggin' UN negotiator.

This is how bedtime unfolds in our house:

T gives her a half-hour bath, dresses her for bed, kisses her goodnight, and cheerfully saunters off, leaving me with a wide awake and not-at-all-ready-to-go-to-bed-even-though-she-didn't-nap-which-is-therefore-making-her-overtired-and-prone-to-pitch-a-fit-over-the-smallest-thing child.

I'm in the rocking chair, making sure that we have her lovey, her towel (she sleeps with a towel, not a blanket, and no, I don't recall how that started), and the "black blanket," which is in actuality a navy blue bandanna (and no, I don't know how that started, either). Depending on the night, season, we are running a humidifier and/or a fan. I have to let her turn on the fan.

At the start, I state that we're reading three books and that she can pick which ones. Thus begin the negotiations. "I want this one and this one and that one and that one." (The child, by the way, can count.) "No, that's four. You get three. Which ones out of these four?" "All of them." "That's four." "I want four." "We're only reading three." [insert mild fit as I choose the longest one to set aside] "Are you going to settle down so I can read? If not, you're going right to bed." [me, crossing my fingers] "Okay." [aggrieved sigh from child]

We start the books.

Keep in mind, at this point, I hate all of the books, although some less than others, simply because I've read them all eight billion times. And each of them has a different tradition. The dinosaur book, for example, is far too advanced for her but she likes the pictures. She talks to some of them, she comments on what others are doing, and some of them, well, she smells. (Short explanation: When we first got the book, the woman who gave it to us must have kept it near perfume or something because it smells flowery. I made the mistake of picking it up, frowning, sniffing in the direction of the first dinosaur and muttering, "That's strange." So now, A sniffs half of the dinosaurs, says, "That's strange," and holds it up to me to do the same. You see how this might get old?) And trust me, I have similarly odd stories for most of her other books, too. Not to mention that she knows each book page by page, word by word. So you can't skip or she'll call you on it.

Somehow, I make it through the books and turn out the light. It's story time. She asks for specific stories, from my take on the princess stories (in my version, they're never reliant on the prince, thank you) to stories that happened to me or other family members when we were young. You'd think this would be fun because I have room to be flexible but my brain's already been addled by the books so I find myself struggling. And oh, if I don't get it right, we dissolve into Whine Central. "You didnit tell it right!" Ay, carumba.

I forge valiantly onward to one song in the chair. If I'm lucky, she doesn't argue about the number of songs. But I'm usually not lucky. So we have another back-and-forth, then hopefully, I get away with something relatively easy like the theme song for Blues Clues or Mickey Mouse Clubhouse or Little Einsteins (no, we don't watch much tv, why do you ask?). If I'm unlucky, it's one that I don't know the full lyrics for (some of those damn Backyardigans songs are LONG) or, worse, one that they sing in daycare that I can't even tell what it's supposed to be. If that's the case, we can schedule in a full fit.

Let's just go ahead and fast forward to the crib (yes, she is still in one and will remain in one until she's ready for college, if I get my way). First, before I can even put her in, I have to "sing" "Little Bo Peep" to her, but that's mercifully quick. Then I can put her down, go get the second milk, and then begins the "goodnight" ritual, which goes as follows: "Night-night towel [place that on her], Night-night black blanket [put that on her], night-night soft blanket [same], night-night Bee-bee [that's her lovey, which is an elephant, not a bee], night-night snake [yes, she sleeps with a seven-foot boa--not a live one, I know this because it has purple spots, which I'm fairly certain that no real one does], night-night [random other stuffed animal that she's picked up], night-night bird [we've moved up to her Rainforest Sights and Sounds thingy, which she calls her computer], night-night monkey, night-night butterfly [which I used to skip until T pointed it out, the bastard], night-night fishie." [pause, I look around melodramatically] "Did I forget anybody?" A holds up Bee-bee or the snake, or the towel or whatever and it tells me, "You forgot A." "Oh, for goodness' sake!" [slap to forehead] "Night-night, A!" She giggles maniacally as I thank whatever animal/object reminded me. "Night-night, sleep tight," kiss on the forehead, I leave the room.

If I'm lucky, she falls asleep. If she's in a TRUE stalling mode, I get pulled back in to: give her some water, adjust the blanket (or towel or whatever) because it isn't on right, change her diaper, etc., etc. This usually ends up with someone crying (not me) and someone else making the declaration, "This is the last time and if I have to come back in, there's going to be trouble!"

So. That's bedtime in our house. By the time she's finally asleep, I'm drained. My questions, then, are these: Does anyone else have a routine that's only slightly less complicated than the plan to invade Normandy Beach? And how do the rest of you handle stalling? Because I'm quite certain that I'm not the only parent slogging through the mire. (If I am, please let me know. And give me your mailing address; you'll be receiving a large package notable for its whining and the breathing holes.)

Huh.

I woke up in the middle of the night with an idea for a post, one that I thought would be of great interest to parents, and now, I haven't the foggiest what it was. I was going to ask for advice about something. Damn it. Maybe I should ask for advice on how to get back my sadly flagging memory...

Parenting in public

As promised, something for the larger audience: My experiences in parenting in public.

It’s a scene we’re all familiar with: that of a child having a meltdown in a store. Whether because they’re tired or they’re denied something they want, the cause isn’t really the issue—it’s how the parents react.

In the olden days, of course, or so our parents would tell us, they’d just whomp us on the butt and ‘nuff said. While this may or may not be true, doing so these days will probably get you hauled off to the county jail. (Well… that probably depends on the county you live in.)

Regardless of your feelings on spanking vs. not, how you handle your child during a public bout of bad behavior can be a true test of your mettle. Personally, I think that since becoming a part-time parent last fall, I have developed the vital “you know, I really don’t give a shit what other people think” coat that you need to be a parent-with-boundaries. Witness the evolution...

Stage One, or, “Why did I want to have a kid, exactly?”:

Last fall, I was still only a month or two into part-time-single-parenthood, T just having started commuting to grad school. I was tired and irritable and hadn’t quite learned how to juggle everything on earth yet. (I still haven’t, I just fake it a lot better. And no, not like that, thankyouverymuch.) A had already been sent home for her first ear infection of the season (the previous winter, she was sent home from daycare with NINE ear infections, the poor kid, and she was on antibiotics pretty much the whole winter, which made me a nervous wreck) and her pediatrician had said, “I think we need to consider ear tubes for her.” I bit back my automatic “Ya THINK?” and said that yes, I thought that was a good idea.

Where we live, there is, evidently, and I am not exaggerating, only one ENT specialist in about five counties. We had a work-in appointment at 8 p.m. on a week night and I was stunned ,when A and I got there, to see that there was standing-room only in the waiting room. Hour past bedtime + cranky toddler with ear infection + long wait in a crowded, public place + me flying solo = recipe for disaster.

And A didn’t fail me. I’d planned ahead, of course, brought food and drinks and coloring books and pretty much the kitchen sink. But no. She wanted to play with the toys in the (very) small children’s area. I think they think they’re being helpful by having toys for kids but in reality, they are only fostering trouble because first, there’s the inevitable sharing (or lack thereof) issue with the other kids who are similarly cranky and tired, forcing all parents to watch the area hawkishly, as though they’re refereeing the end of a tied Super Bowl. “Tommy, I said to share!” “A, that’s not nice, give him the truck back.” “Jimbo [no, really], don’t hit her on the head with that book.” And so on.

Then there’s the fact that the play area is, as I said, quite small. Yet because the waiting room was so crowded, I invented the rule that she couldn’t take any toys out of the play area. And lo, thus beginneth an epic struggle of which the sages still sing. Because this was pretty much the loop that played over and over (and over) again:

Me: “A. Keep the truck in the play area.”

A: [nudges the truck to the very edge of the play area]

Me: [edging closer to the play area, arm poised, ready to strike]

A: [gives me a shit-eating grin and pushes the truck about a centimeter out of the area]

Me: [pushing the truck back in] “What did I say?”

A: [knowing full well that my powers, at this moment in time, are limited, abandons the truck and picks up a car, which she starts edging toward the edge of the play area]

Me: [leaning forward—fully aware that all of the other patients are watching with interest—and hissing under my breath] “I am SERIOUS. You STOP that RIGHT NOW or we’re going to the car for a TIME. OUT.”

A: [somehow instinctively knowing that I am going to do no such thing because it already seems like we’ve been here for an eternity and heaven forbid we’re not in here if/when her name is ever called, scoots her bottom and the car over the edge of the play area and smiles at me again] “See the car?”

Me: [temples throbbing] “I am going to kill your father.”

Lather, rinse, and repeat for the next HOUR AND A HALF.

During that horrendous wait, I really did contemplate divorcing Tom for making me do that alone. I was absolutely drained by the time we actually saw the doctor. I think I’d developed a tic at the corner of my mouth.

But, as they say, that which does not destroy you makes you stronger.

Stage Two, or, “Don’t let them have all the fun!”:

On a late Sunday afternoon this spring, T, a napless A, and I went to a local nature area. It’s a big pond with all sorts of wildlife that makes for a nice little outdoor excursion. About halfway through, we ran into several families of Canadian geese, complete with cute little goslings. A and a few other kids also there were fascinated and kept walking closer. Most of the geese, obviously familiar with kids, waddled irritably to the water and paddled a few feet offshore, save for one Momma Goose, who clearly was fed up with kids by this point (and oh, can I relate, honey). She began stalking toward the kids with her mouth open, hissing. The other kids wisely scattered; A, who is either intrepid or determined to someday win the Darwin Award, kept walking toward the hissing, pissed-off goose. At which point I, being a good mommy, intervened, picking her up and explaining, “You can’t do that, the goose is going to bite you.”

But rationale has never stood in the way of a good tantrum. She immediately let loose with a howl that even took the marauding goose aback. “I wanna see the goose!” “Honey, you can’t. It will BITE you.” “I WANNA SEE THE GOOSE!” “Just let her get bitten. That’ll teach her.” “T, I can’t let her get bitten by a goose.” And so on. We walked back to the car, a full-meltdown-mode toddler squirming and crying in my arms. I strapped her into her carseat, my ears ringing at the 80-decibel scream assaulting my ears, and we started on our merry way home. After about 30 seconds, T did the best thing ever: he started mimicking A’s howls. She was startled into silence for a second and then started in again, even louder. At this point, I was laughing and started doing the same as Tom. A yelled, “Stop whining like me!” “Are you the only one allowed to have a temper tantrum?” “YES!” “I don’t think so!”

I can only imagine how we must have looked to other cars, two adults and one child yelling “WAAAAAHHH!” as we whizzed down the road. Still, it mellowed T and I out sufficiently so that we didn’t drop her off at the hospital and ask for a refund, and A eventually got bored enough with it that she stopped and started pointing out things on the side of the road. I’m quite certain that Nanny 9-1-1 would not approve. But damn it, it was funny.

Stage Three, or “Yes, we have reached maximum parent”:

So, we were in Target yesterday, and yes, we were “that” family: the one with the screaming brat in public. Once again, A was napless, once again no big shock and a big factor in the meltdown.

You see, sometimes we’ll let her walk around Target as long as she’s holding hands with one of us. (Otherwise, she’ll take off for parts unknown, and that little bugger is FAST.) She was doing fairly well for awhile but then rounded that mental corner into No Man’s Land and started taking off, running down the aisles away from T and laughing maniacally. So after T tried three times to rein her in, I said, “That’s it” and picked her up and put her back into the cart. She, of course, started screaming “I wanna walk!” as if she were the lead in “Ice Castles.” What made that particular claim even funnier is that she had a diaper rash (okay, that’s not the funny part) and was walking strangely because of it (neither is that), leading T to comment that it looked like she had polio. (Which shouldn’t be funny but was.)

Anyway, T offered to take her to the car but I said, “Nope, she can stick it out and learn to deal with it.” So for a fun 10 minutes, we finished the shopping with A repeatedly yelling “I wanna WALK. I WANNA WALK!” while hapless bystanders avoided us like the plague. At one point, I pushed the cart away so that she was halfway down the (empty) aisle ahead of us while we browsed comforters as though we didn’t even know the child howling angrily at us from the pillow section.

At any rate, she did start to calm down and I had a little “chat” with her, and things were fine. I still didn’t let her down to walk, though. At least my early deafness will be the result of standing firm as opposed to something fun, like partying with rock stars.

So. Those are just a few of our “parenting in public” stories. Anyone else want to share? Oh, and the last thing that I will offer is this: I sure was a better parent before I actually had a child.

Nothing to see here unless you're super bored

This isn't one of my usual "gosh, parenting is tough" posts, more like something I just wanted to, dare I say it, brag about a little.

For most of my life, I was blessed with a superb metabolism. Until, of course, I got pregnant and gave birth. I'd never really worried about weight until I was pregnant--I carefully monitored every single one of those added 36 pounds, thank you--and then afterward, when I started getting those "is she still pregnant?" looks (and one question--ouch!). Since then, it's been kind of a roller coaster. My first mistake, I think, was getting in the best shape of my life before I got pregnant, reasoning then that it would be easier to get back in shape afterward, totally not factoring in that duh, I'd have a baby, a full-time job, and little time or money for a fitness regimen.

I've tried just about every diet out there, too. The South Beach worked great before I got pregnant but it's one of those that T and I have realized is less successful every time you try it. (And oh, is it brutal. It's like boot camp for eating. When you find yourself going, "And in three days, I can have an oatmeal pancake with sugar-free syrup!" and SALIVATING, you know it's not a fun diet.) I tried the Special K diet--no change in weight. I tried the Prevention magazine's MUFA diet and GAINED five pounds. (Talk about pissed... I was muttering about lawsuits.) Finally, in late April of this year, I realized three things: One, three weeks from then, I would have to wear a bathing suit in public. (We were going to Florida on vacation.) Two, the only bathing suit top that would fit me was a tankini--even a simple one piece made me look pregnant, ye gods. And three--and the most startling--was that I was only eight pounds shy of what I weighed when I GAVE BIRTH. Brrrrring! That was the big wake-up call.

In desperation, I turned to Google, as one does, and typed "boost metabolism." And, without going into even more boring details, I started doing two things: One, counting calories as though it were a new religion, and two, walking at least 30 minutes every day. Since then, I have shed 18 pounds. And I am pretty damned pleased with myself about that. See, you have to understand, I am one of those to whom exercise is anathema. I hate sweating. I hate having an accelerated heart rate. I'd rather be reading or watching tv. So for me to actually stick to something, much less something exercise-related, for the first time in my life, well, I think that's mostly what I'm proud of. (Although I was pretty damned pleased when, this morning, I was able to slide into my Gap-sized-6-which-means-they're-actually-8 jeans for the first time Ican'trememberwhen.)

I still have two goals. One is to get back to the weight I was when we got married by our 10-year anniversary, which is in 11 days. I have two pounds to go; I think I can get there. The other is, if I dare to dream, to drop down to where I was when I got pregnant. I haven't set a date for that, yet. Maybe mid-November? I think aiming on the other side of the "eating holidays" is a bad idea.

Finally, I'll admit that I'm vain enough that it's nice to get compliments from others. I liked T's the best; he said that I've always looked great but that I'm definite MILF material now. I'm sure it's bad that this made me smile but you know what? It still does.

Okay, back to business as usual later. I have to go for a walk now.

From Pull-ups to Depends?

This potty-training thing is making me crazy. I'm somewhat convinced that I'm going to be sending the kid off to college still wearing pull-ups. (Or, as noted in the post title, Depends because I doubt that they make pull-ups THAT big.)

But seriously. I tried being low-key about it (which, as anyone who knows me can attest, was quite the battle) and now think that was part of the problem. I didn't emphasize that yes, this is something that she has to be able to do, not just a random whim kind of thing.

And what really drives me crazy is that she has the capacity to both pee and poo (and honestly, the things I find myself saying and typing these days) on the potty, and she knows when she has to go, she's just too busy with other things to do it. And she'll even say, if I ask if she needs to go potty, "I'm busy." Really. And I know, her mother's daughter and all, but even I will get up from a riveting game of "let's hide the portable phone" to go to the bathroom.

My mother is no help whatsoever. (Must... refrain... from... adding... joke.) According to her, I potty-trained myself at age 2 1/2. Of course, I also turned straw into gold and was writing tomes by age five, so we're working with a bit of revisionist history here. But it seems like, with the exception of a few, every other parent--and, more importantly, child--is handling this process (of elimination, hee hee) just fine. So, that's also helpful.

At any rate, I'm feeling even more pressure because she just moved into the three-year-olds room at daycare and I learned from the teachers that there's one poor little boy still in there at 4 1/2 who can't move into the next room with the other fours until he's potty-trained. Can you imagine the counseling that kid's going to need later in life? Not to mention, of course, that that's precisely the scenario I'm envisioning for A in a year. Or six. AIIIEEEEE...

But, no pressure, or so sayeth Drs. Phil and Spock and all the other experts out there. I'll get right on that...

???

I need a little help here, folks. This morning, I'm getting things ready for work/daycare (the latter is for A, not me, although I would appreciate the notion of naptime far more than she does). Among them is a list I made of things to pick up at Target later today. On that list is "Pos. Adv." And I haven't the foggiest what in the world that's supposed to be. "Positive advantage?" Can you buy such a thing at Target? (Well, they do seem to have everything... but no.) "Position advertisement?" It's true, we are hiring, but again: not at Target. "Positive adverb"? "Postulating adversary"? "Positing advantageously"? All possibilities, I suppose, but none of them are nouns and, therefore, are not available for purchase. At least, I think you can only buy a noun--I've never heard of anyone buying something that can be described as a verb or an adjective... "Yes, hello, I would like to buy some running and some yellow, thank you."

And now it's clear that this is making me crazy(ier). Any thoughts? What in Hades am I supposed to be buying today?!?

Too busy to be funny

Which is tragic. But this piece outdistances anything I could have posted, anyway:

http://igiveupagain2.tripod.com/tald2.html

Hand in the cookie jar

Terrible week at work, which is why I've been MIA, but at least I survived A's third birthday, which I consider quite a feat.

As anyone who has a child knows, a birthday is not just a birthday but rather An Event. One that requires a ton of planning, preparation, and forced festivity along the lines of Clark Griswold's "We're gonna have so much fucking fun they're gonna need plastic surgeons to remove the smiles from our fucking faces. We'll be whistling zippity-doo-dah out of our assholes!"

In our case, we're lucky to still be able to get away with a family-only party, but that still involves 14 people descending upon our house (huh, my eye just started twitching again--that's odd), including my mother, whom you've already read about in the previous post. Plus, T was away for the entire preceding week, which meant some extra work and is also a relevant fact later in this post.

At any rate, we had all the bells and whistles, and spent a ton of money we don't have, but all went well and people seemed to have fun (although I don't think anyone needed plastic surgery). A got tons of toys as well as a lot of clothes, which she of course tossed aside in search of things that beep and sing. And naturally, if you ask her what her favorite present was, she'll cheerfully say, "Chocolate ice cream!" Something that I should keep in mind for next year before I go crazy for the 4th birthday party but that I know I won't, thus ensuring the perpetuation of the cycle of Birthday Madness.

However, as any parent of a child at daycare/school knows, there is not only the home birthday party but also the outside birthday to consider. If you're lucky, your child's birthday falls on a Saturday or a Sunday and it's not an issue. A's, of course, was on Monday. So in the midst of the party-planning frenzy, I also had to take into account the daycare birthday treats. By that point, I was heartily sick of frosting and decided to buy "festive" (M&M-laden) cookies homemade at the grocery store bakery. It took me a good five minutes to diligently count the number of cookies in each box because there are 16 kids in the class plus three teachers, and while you can hope that a few kids will be out, you can't rely on that, and of course, no self-respecting bakery would box 19 cookies--they seem stuck on counts of six, for some reason. But finally, I found one with 20 cookies and waltzed out satisfied that I'd gotten at least one thing checked off my list.

Or so I thought.

On Monday morning, the day after the family party, I staggered down to a kitchen still festooned with a personalized birthday banner and streamers hanging limply from all corners. I was up early and desperate for a cup of coffee because I had to shuttle Mom to the airport, which is 40 minutes away, and then turn right around and come back home to pick up A and take her, her sheets/blanket/lovey, and the cookies to daycare. As I blearily rummaged for a coffee cup, I saw, sitting on the counter, the box of daycare cookies sans six, their former spots marked by a few sad crumbs. My subsequent gasp was along the lines of "the horror! the HORROR!" as though I'd discovered that our roof was missing or that my car had been stolen. And I knew who the criminal was: T, who has a sweet tooth unrivaled by that of any man or woman alive.

At just that moment, he tripped happily downstairs and chirped, "Good morning!"

Me (giving him the steely eye of death): Do you know what you get to do today?

T (smile faltering): Uh, empty the dishwasher?

Me: Well, that too. But no. You get to go to Kroger and REPLACE THE COOKIES YOU ATE THAT WERE FOR YOUR DAUGHTER'S BIRTHDAY AT DAYCARE!!

T: What? (looks around wildly) But... but I didn't know. Other people were eating cookies yesterday!

Me: THOSE WERE DIFFERENT COOKIES!!

T: Oh.

It's true, there are points that both of us could offer up for the jury. In T's defense, yes, there were other cookies that my grandparents had brought and that other people were eating at the party. In mine, however, is that the daycare cookies were, in fact, different cookies--they looked nothing like the other cookies (remember, M&Ms?)--and that they were in a SEALED box next to my purse, which is where I leave anything that I have to take to work/daycare. Not to mention that there was still an entire half of a damned birthday cake left to sacrifice to his sweet tooth.

At any rate, he went to the grocery store, got some mini-cupcakes, and all was well. And really, in the grand scheme of things, my reaction of absolute horror and subsequent urge to kill were, yes, a bit much. But as a last exhibit in my defense, I blame Birthday Madness. I'm pretty sure that no jury comprised of parents would convict me.

Mamma mia

So. My mother has been here for only (and I use that word loosely) about 24 hours now and thus far, she has:

* Complained vehemently about how difficult our vacuum cleaner is to use (keep in mind that I didn’t actually ask her to vacuum),

* Vowed to chop down our cherry tree (a long story and an unintentionally hilarious threat),

* Been attacked by our wok (hey, she knows that our closets are booby traps at best—caveat mater),

* Gone grocery shopping twice (we were out of hand soap in one of the bathrooms and she doesn't like our brand of toilet paper), and

* Run over a curb while dropping me off at work (giving me the fullest confidence in her ability to not actually wreck my car when she hits—hopefully not literally—the grocery store for the inevitable third time).

And she’s here until Monday. Whee!

Awesome

With thanks to Jody, who unearthed this in response to my diatribe about kids' cartoons. It's the SNL short that parodies Dora the Explorer. If you've ever watched Dora and never seen this, watch it immediately. Even if you have, watch it again. To borrow from Chuck's reply, "That's gold, Jerry. Gold!"

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-1603878540293446653&q=snl+maraka&ei=nlh9SP6kHYSkr

For your consideration: Our entry for the Parents of The Year Award

In response to my post (diatribe, harangue, whatever) about today’s kids’ cartoons, my friend K posited, What do I think of today’s kids’ movies? Which is a legitimate question, yet it's one that I am can't answer because for the most part, A really hasn’t been exposed to any aside from the few Disney-princess movies they've show at daycare. In January, however, we did have encounters with two so-called child-friendly movies that did nothing to make me think that exposing A to such movies is a hot idea. Let the tale unfold...

We Are Awesome Parents (Part One):

We were in Best Buy because T was itching to get a new tv, in theory so that we’re ready for the transition to high-def, in reality because he’s a man and he always wants the latest technology. (And while I usually steer away from men/women stereotypes, I have yet to see a case where this one isn’t true.) Anyway, while he was browsing, I was trying to entertain A, so I wandered around with her until we found a tv showing a Pixar short called “Jack Jack Attack.” Never having seen "The Incredibles," the movie this is based on, I knew nothing about the precocious little Jack Jack. So we watched the short, A all kinds of interested, and then suddenly, the baby self-immolates. I was a bit surprised; A freaked. Her face crumpled and she started screaming “Baby's on fire! Baby's on fire!” Needless to say, this alarmed the other customers a great deal and we were forced to beat a hasty retreat from premises. And for the rest of the day, we had to reassure her that babies don't randomly catch on fire and that the baby she’d seen was just fine. (Which is tricky, because you certainly don’t want to imply that it’s good to be on fire, either. At least, I don’t think you do.) So every time she asked, “Is the baby on fire?” we’d say, “No, the baby took a bath and he's fine.” (Because really... what the hell DO you say?) She seemed dubious but finally, grudgingly accepted this, sometime after the millionth time we told her. Problem solved, right? Of course not.

No, We Really Are Awesome Parents (Part Two):

In an effort to stave off potential nightmares, T downloaded the whole short. We figured that if we couldn't convince her that the baby was fine, we could fast-forward to the end and show her that all was well and good with Fire Baby. T also downloaded my favorite Pixar short, "Mike's New Car" from “Monsters Inc.” (Which, if you haven't seen it, is hysterical.) Because we are complete morons, we still hadn’t yet realized that A, at age 2 1/2, was going to see things through different eyes than we do. So we decided to show her the “Mike” short. And really, she did okay with it until the part where Mike is standing in front of the car and the hood suddenly pops open, he falls in, and the hood slams shut again, trapping him inside. At which point her eyes bugged and she started yelling “No want to watch! No watch this!” and then ran away to go hide in the kitchen.

So, at least we've given her something good to talk about in therapy.

(And P.S.: Wouldn’t “Baby’s On Fire” be an awesome blog name? I gotta get A working on that…)

Why kids' cartoons annoy the crap out of me, by me

I've been working on this little doctrine for awhile and am finally ready to post it. I wanted to address a subject that has long compelled me, one that's been the source of many a conversation with other parents: today's kids' cartoons/shows.

I've done so in part because it's funny to see who advocates which cartoon, and why. For example, I think that The Upside-Down Show is clever and amusing for adults, but most parents I've talked to dislike it intensely. Then there's Yo, Gabba Gabba!, which weirds me out but which plenty of parents—including T, but that may be just to annoy me—really seem to enjoy.

It's also been funny to watch, over the years, as football-weekend discussions have turned from sports and politics to debates over whether Little Bear is too much of a mama's boy and why he doesn't wear pants (more on the latter in a moment). I've found that any parent who's been exposed to cartoons for too long of a time—whether due to exhaustion, bad weather, illness, or the simple inability to amuse your child on your own without assistance any longer before you lose your freakin' mind—invariably forms opinions on said cartoons. I think it's some semblance of trying to hang on to your sanity/avoid dropping IQ points. So, in no order whatsoever, here are my unsolicited, deep thoughts on certain cartoons that I have been far, far too exposed to:

Little Bear (Noggin): This is a cartoon that on the surface seems rather innocuous, and I do have to appreciate that unlike other shows [cough *Oswald* cough], there were more than five episodes ever made, meaning that you stand a decent chance of watching one that, even if it's not new to you, you can't necessarily deliver a thesis on the dialogue and plot point. However, the aforementioned clothes issue bugs me. I mean, really bugs me. Little Bear dons a raincoat when it's raining. His friend Emily changes into a bathing suit to go swimming. And his entire family—including Uncle Redneck Bear (okay, that's not his name, but it's apt)—is fully clothed, so clearly, they are familiar with the concept of and are able to afford clothing. So why doesn't Little Bear wear any damned clothes?! Alas, I fear that this may be one of humankind's enduring mysteries.

Mickey Mouse Clubhouse (Disney): I must offer the disclaimer that I'm a rabid Disney fan. I even got married at Walt Disney World. I know, shut up. Anyway, naturally, I'm delighted that my daughter is already being indoctrinated into the club—literally. However, since it's a reasonably new show (we're either in the second or third season), there are only about 15 episodes, I would guess, floating around. Which means that from the first two seconds of an episode, I: a) know which one it is, b) can successfully name all of the Mousketools that will be used, and c) wonder again at the strange shift in Pete's character arc between the first season(s) and this one. But A loves it, so it stays on, leaving me much time to ponder random things about the show, including the background stories of the characters. For example, I think that the only reason Toodles hangs around is because Mickey's got some dirt on him. That's the only explanation why, less than a minute into the episode's particular challenge/quest/story, Mickey's already calling him up—it's because he's fucking with him. I picture Toodles hanging around the clubhouse having a smoke, and then suddenly Mickey cheerfully calls, "Oh, Toodles!" and the poor bastard has to drop everything and zip into action. He probably hates Mickey, really. And you can't blame him; every time Mickey calls for him, now, there's a little bit of a sinister overtone.

I also think that Mickey has the hots for Minnie, yes, but she's a "good girl" and won't let him go below the neck. So I think he's boinking Daisy on the side. Trust me on this—just watch a few episodes and tell me you're not picking up on that. And then there's Goofy. Heaven help me, I hate Goofy. I know that's kind of the point (if it's not, I don't know what is), but lately, I cringe whenever he mispronounces a word—"trombone-y" is the worst, by far—and I find myself hoping that an Acme two-ton weight takes him out. Really, he's on par with Jar-Jar Binks in terms of character annoyance factor. And that's saying a lot. Finally, there's a new-ish episode where they're looking for Goofy's hat, during which they sing a merry song that ends "now we have to find out where it's at!" The editor in me dies a little death every time I hear that particular refrain.

Max and Ruby (Noggin): Honestly, there's not much that I can say about this that hasn't already been said all over the Internets. I mean, there's even a Facebook group called "Where the hell are Max and Ruby's Parents?" Not that I joined or anything. Ahem. But seriously. Where the HELL are their parents?

Oswald (Noggin): Let me be quite clear about this: I totally fucking hate Oswald. I hate that his character is a pansy-ass doormat, I hate that every episode centers around him fretting about something entirely inconsequential, I hate that every episode lasts only about five minutes but feels like five years, I hate Fred Savage for voicing the character, I hate anyone or anything even remotely involved with this godsforsaken cartoon. Got it?

Thomas the Tank Engine (PBS, Sprout): Two words: Terminally dull.

Dora the Explorer/Go, Diego, Go! (Noggin, Nick Jr.): These two can be safely lumped in the same entry. You see, I used to dislike them both horribly, but I think I've developed annoyance amnesia with these two—they just don't bother me as much as they used to. Perhaps it's simply that I've directed my cartoon issues elsewhere, yet I find that I've gotten used to their eerie, Children-of-the-Corn-esque vacuous-smile stares as they wait patiently for me to answer a question. ("Do you see the beach?" "Yes, because I'm not bloody well blind.") Even Tico the Squirrel, my one-time arch-nemesis, has become nothing more than a mild irritant. I've escaped your web of terror, Dora and Diego. You no longer have a hold over me! BWAH HA HA HA HA!

The Wonder Pets (Noggin, Nick Jr., Hell): Of course, my near-indifference to Dora/Diego may be due to my newly honed focus on The Wonder Pets. This is one of those shows that, if I sense that it's coming on, causes me to dive across the room for the remote in slo-mo, Mission: Impossible style to change the channel before it can start. Because once it does, A insists on watching it and I end up contemplating suicide. This show actually surpasses my hatred of Oswald. It's created a new feeling of dislike, one so profound that I don't know if there's actually a word that could encompass it. From the same-damned-plot-different-day aspect of each episode to the feeble attempts at moralizing, this show embodies the worst of all cartoons out there today. I cannot make this point strongly enough. Were these characters real, I would cheerfully line up Linnie, Tuck, and the lispingly grating Ming-Ming and laugh maniacally as I threw grenade after grenade at them until the last refrain of "What's gonna work? Teamwork!" was nothing but a whisper in the wind. Then I would likely be carted away in a straitjacket, but that's another story for another day.

Pinky-Dinky-Doo (Noggin): This is one of those curious shows that I dislike but others, including T, like. I'm not sure I can pinpoint why I don't like it but I think that it may come down to one simple line that pops up in every episode: "Pinky, are you going to tell a story?" Yes. Yes, she is. Because that's ALL she does. And that's the only reason the entire show exists. So quit. Freaking. ASKING.

Oobi (Noggin): Seriously. It's a hand. With eyes. And it's wigging me out. Also: I get bad vibes from Grandpoo. But who wouldn't?

Yo, Gabba Gabba! (Nick Jr.): As I stated in my preface, this one is just plain weird. For one thing, half of the characters are just plain scary. The one that looks like a red condom Ribbed For Her Pleasure? The kitty with the Jaws-like teeth? The one with the freakishly long arms? Who came up with these? Then there's the fact that many of the segments are, like, only 10 seconds long. Seriously—what's with fostering the ADHD? Finally, the overall feel is that someone was tripping when the storyboard was created. Maybe if I dropped a tab, I'd appreciate the show more. I dunno. This is definitely a head-scratcher for me. And another one that I'll sacrifice life and limb to get to the remote in time to stave off because it is most certainly not Designed For My Pleasure.

Well, since this has all been a tad negative, I'll list, for the sake of discussion, shows that I do like. (Although I think I like The Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, once you get past my psychological evaluation of the characters).

The Upside-Down Show (Noggin): As I previously noted, most adults that I've talked to dislike this show, many of them intensely. As also noted, there are only, what, seven or so episodes ever made? So you're looking at a lot of repetition (which is T's main complaint). Still, I think it's pretty clever, the adult humor makes me laugh (I'm easy that way), and I find the characters to be pretty well developed. Plus, A likes it, and it's rare enough that we're simpatico on these things.

Jack's Big Music Show (Noggin): It's creative, you've got lots of songs/videos, which A loves, and it's reasonably humorous. That works in my book.

The Backyardigans (Noggin, Nick Jr.): I confess, I will actually watch this one when I'm by myself, depending on the episode. And yes, I actually have favorite episodes ("Race Around the World," "Into the Thick of It," and "Stone on Hilltop High," thanks for asking). I can't help it—I love the way it stirs the imagination, I particularly love how they have a music theme for every episode (that disco is the theme for "Stone on Hilltop High" is one reason it's a fave), and the characters are unique (especially Uniqua, ha ha ha… ahem). A actually has a crush on Pablo, which is adorable, and I don't particularly blame her. Overall, it's a well-done, engaging show, enough so that I don't mind watching repeat episodes of it. Which, when it comes to children's cartoons, is a must.

Blue's Clues (Noggin, Nick Jr.): Please note that I do mean Blue's Clues, NOT Blue's Room, which is a travesty that I shall not even dignify with further words. (Seriously: Blue is not supposed to talk and she is certainly not supposed to be a puppet and she most definitely does not have a mind-gratingly-annoying little brother named Sprinkles! Way to kill the franchise, folks.) Um, back to the point. Yes. Blue's Clues was actually the first kid's cartoon I started watching back in the day when A was a non-sleeping baby (now she's just a non-sleeping toddler) and in my sleep-deprived state, I thought that it would be okay to have the tv on as long as it was a child's cartoon. However, I was unused to the proclivity of many of today's cartoons for the main character to ask a question of the audience and then stare blankly at you for a minute, giving kids time to answer. So I'd kind of start freaking out (remember: sleep deprived) and would snap, "Why are you looking at me? Stop looking at me!" But once I got the hang of it, I decided that I really liked the show. I don't know why; perhaps it's merely for nostalgia's sake, now. It does help that the show ran (in the more preferable format) for about 12 years, so you definitely have a good chance of seeing an episode you haven't seen 1,000 times. And both of the hosts (although I'm a Steve gal, myself; A prefers Joe) are innocuously pleasant enough and sell the naïve "gosh, who'da thunk" bit pretty well. Overall, it's cute, somewhat educational, and mostly harmless.

Franklin (Noggin): I know a lot of people don't like this one, and I'll agree that Franklin's inevitable whining is irritating, but I'm putting this one in the "like" list for only one reason: I have literally never seen a repeat episode of this show. That alone makes it worth its weight in gold.

Miss Spider's Sunny Patch Friends (Noggin): This one is a bit of a puzzle because I feel like it should annoy me but it doesn't. It's altruistic, it always delivers a moral, and Miss Spider is incessantly cheerful. Any one of those factors should make me hate it, much less all three. Yet there's some kind of intangible charm about this one—I find myself actually paying attention, often more than A. Odd. But I like it nonetheless.

Okay, not much more to say about any of the others at the risk of committing the foremost cartoon sin, that of mind-numbing repetition. Thoughts? Arguments? Medication?

So, I needed a laugh... (7/11/08)

A LOT going on right now--impending birthdays, family visits, part-time single momhood again, so I could definitely use a laugh. And I got one: I took a look at the birth plan I ever-so-carefully drafted when I was about seven months pregnant.

You see, having a child is definitely like crossing a threshold. You think you know beforehand what things "should" or "might" be like. But if you haven't been there, you don't know squat. I know that I was a much better parent before I had a child.

Delivering a child is similar. I'm Type A+, as I've previously mentioned, and when I was pregnant, I will admit, in hindsight (and as others will corroborate) that I was OBSESSED with my pregnancy. I read everything in print and online, I bored people shitless with the minutiae of what I was experiencing (although I still think it's cool when your baby gets the hiccups inside of you), I relentlessly posted on baby boards, I fantasized about every possible worst and best case scenarios.

Toward the end, I became fixated on the delivery itself. What if I got the OB from the practice whom I loathed? What if it became necessary for a C-section? What if the birth wasn't the most absolutely perfect thing to EVER HAPPEN? So I got the bright idea to draft a birth plan, based on one I'd found online. For shits and giggles, as suggested by Julie Bulie (who really bore the brunt of my obsession--I am so sorry, Miss Hathaway!), I'm posting the funnier parts of it followed in brackets by what really happened:

The XXX Birth Plan

Due date: July 26, 2005
Obstetrician: Dr. XXX
Birth center: XXX

Dear Dr. XXX/other obstetricians and the Birthing Center Staff:

I look forward to sharing the upcoming birth of my first child with you. I have created the following birth plan to help you understand my preferences for labor and delivery. I have shared this plan with my husband and Dr. XXX, and I hope that you will assist me in making this the wonderful experience a birth should be!
[HA HA HA HA HA!!!! "Wonderful experience"? What the frack was I expecting? Disney World?]

In general, I am hoping for a calm, not rushed or frightening, environment. [Riiiiight.] However, if you see anything that looks like it might become a problem, I would like to have the opportunity to discuss it well in advance. I understand that I likely will be nervous and not thinking clearly [no shit!] but my husband is well aware of my wishes and is to act as my advocate. [This is the same man who, when we were leaving for the hospital, looked at me as I was doubled over with a contraction and said, "Is that what you're wearing?"] If possible, I would prefer a woman obstetrician to attend my labor and delivery. [Unbeknownst to me pre-delivery was that a janitor could have overseen the birth and I wouldn't have given a damn.]

If you have any questions or suggestions, please let me know. Thank you for being part of a special day in our lives! [They must have been pissing their pants laughing at this when I sent it over. I sure would have been.]

BEFORE LABOR BEGINS:

If the baby and I are fine, and if I go past my estimated due date, I would like to wait until I go into labor naturally. [A was five days early and even then, I was asking my OB how she felt about inducing early labor. I wanted that baby OUT!]

FIRST STAGE OF CHILDBIRTH: LABOR
First Stage, Phase I - Latent Labor

General Background:

Upon entering my hospital or birth center, it is crucial for me that I will not be separated from my partner(s) at any point during labor or birth. [Had I been able to do anything other than focus on my contractions, I would have ordered T to go away because all he was doing was peering at the monitor and offering such helpful comments as, "Looks like you're having another contraction" and "Hey, that looks like a big one!" Sadly, I was far too focused to swear mightily at him and a glare had to suffice.]

Environment:

Ideally, I would like my environment to have dimmed lights, lowered voices, and possibly include music I provide. [When I re-read this, I was almost crying, I was laughing so hard. You see, my water broke at 10:30 pm, I had my first contraction around 11:30 pm and the second around 11:32 pm. By the time I was admitted and checked at midnight, I was already at 7 cm. In other words, things were moving so quickly that they could have brought in a high-school band and lit the room up like a runway and I wouldn't have even noticed.]


First Stage, Phase II - Active Labor - Getting to 10 cm

Exams:

I would like to keep internal vaginal exams to a minimum and I would like to be informed of them in advance and to be walked through them as the doctor is performing them, rather than an abrupt examination. [Right. I was vaguely aware, between contractions, that there was occasionally someone's hand checking on things. I can only assume it was the doctor's.]

Eating / Drinking:

I understand that I will be working REALLY hard. Therefore I would like no restrictions on food or drink. If hospital rules do not allow food, I would like access to clear fluids like water and/or ice-chips. I recognize that this depends on the anesthesiologist. [I dimly recall Tom offering me ice chips and me taking about two minutes to hazily say "yes" each time.]

IV Preparation:

If an IV drip is started, I would like to remain as mobile as possible. [HEE HEE HEE!! What, was I going to be running marathons up and down the hallway? I couldn't even turn over without it causing excruciating pain!]

Pain Relief:

My birth partner and I would like to take a few moments to privately discuss my pain-relief options before a decision is made. [This is probably the funniest part. Our "private discussion" took place in the car as we were speeding to the hospital. Keep in mind that we live five minutes from the hospital and that I had three contractions between our front door step and the check-in desk. Me, groaning in pain: "HURRY. UP." T: "Try the breathing exercises, honey!" Me: "I have been breathing for my entire fucking life and it's never helped with pain before! I need a fucking epidural and NOW!"] However, please suggest medications if you see I am uncomfortable and please discuss my options for medication as soon as possible. [Fortunately, my nonstop screeching for the nurse to "start the IV NOW! NOW" earned me some Nubain, which, for the uninformed, is a muscle relaxant. Basically, I could still feel the contractions, I just didn't care. T says I turned from the cartoon cat clinging to the ceiling into Bob Marley humming "don't worry/'bout a thing."]

I would like the opportunity to try non-medical, non-invasive pain-relief methods. Some therapies I feel would be useful for me include massage, guided relaxation, change in position, and hot/cold therapy. [SNERK!]

Ideally, I would like to be allowed freedom of movement -- to walk, rock, use the bathroom and move as my body dictates. [See earlier IV/movement comment. Then double it.]

First Stage, Phase III - Transition

At this point, my body may be most sensitive. If I am feeling that my support person's or staff member's voice and/or touch feels too much, I will indicate so. [Again: It was all a blur. Dick Cheney may well have stopped by, I don't know.]

SECOND STAGE OF CHILDBIRTH:
PUSHING AND DELIVERY

Pushing

Coaching Preferences:

I will trust the nurses/doctor to let me know when to push and when my husband should coach me to push. [True story: T was supposed to support me and do three counts of 10 for each contraction. Several contractions in, he starts going, "9, 10, 11, 12, 13." And I turn and pant, "What the fuck are you doing?" He says, "I thought it would go faster if you pushed more." I ask you...]


Time Limits:

As long as it is clear that my baby's heart tones are good and that she/he is receiving sufficient oxygen, I would like to be free of time limits on pushing. It is important to me to allow my body to operate in its natural rhythm and timetable. However, if it is not working/clear that it is not going to work, I'd like to discuss options. [Please note that the primary reason I put together this stupid birth plan in the first place was some irrational fear that I was going to be forced into having a C-section without actually needing one. I don't know why. I was pregnant. 'Nuff said. Anyway, what actually transpired is that I ended up pushing for nearly two hours. About an hour in, after every contraction, I whimpered, "Are you sure we shouldn't do a C-section? I really think we should do a C-section." Luckily, everyone was ignoring me by that point.]

Positions:

If my doctor or midwife feels that pushing may not be progressing efficiently, I would like to be reminded that sometimes changing positions helps. Because I may be very internally-focused, I would like to be encouraged to alter to one or more of the following delivery positions: squatting, side-lying position, standing upright, hands and knees on floor, kneeling, semi-reclining on bed with knees pressed to chest with support person behind me providing counter-pressure, or whatever else may help. [Seriously? No... seriously?]

Vaginal Delivery:

Ideally, I would like to avoid an episiotomy. [Wouldn't we all, honey?]


THIRD STAGE OF CHILDBIRTH: DELIVERY OF PLACENTA OR AFTERBIRTH

If a procedure is necessary, please explain it to me. [I don't even remember when this popped out--A was born a little pale and it took some doing to get her to cry, so I was so anxious that I didn't even notice what was going on with me. All I know is that the doctor proffered the placenta in a tray and said, "Do you want to see it?" I looked at what looked like my liver and said, "Oh, that's gross." Miracle of life, my ass.]


So, there you go. Fact versus fiction, fantasy versus reality. But in the end, no matter how it happens, it only matters that you've got a healthy baby in your arms. And a good story to boot.

For the love of...

Okay, this is going to be brief because I'm swamped, but I just had to take a moment to marvel at the stupidity of some people. (And yes, I'm still PMSy, why do you ask?)

But seriously, folks. I park in a lot at work that's gated. All you have to do to get into the lot is swipe your ID card through the little slot and voila! (or as a former boss used to type, viola!), the gate magically opens. Technology is a wonder, no? So, to review: drive up to gate, position driver's side window so that you can lean out, swipe card through, drive into parking lot. Not that difficult, or so one would think.

Yet I repeatedly witness the startling ineptitude of people who park here EVERY DAY (hence they should know the drill) and who a) don't pull up the right way and have to open their car door to access the card swiper, b) manage to pull up correctly but then spend two minutes searching for their ID as if it were a surprise that they had to swipe it through, c) are unable to correctly swipe it through [this baffles me, honestly--there's even a diagram showing how to do it] and have to put the car in reverse and back away from the gate to torture some other souls in some other parking lot, or d) all of the above. What's even more fun is when several cars in a row do this, as if they didn't learn from watching the idiot who just pulled this nonsense. It's like being in line at a fast food joint for several minutes and the guy in front of you, when he gets to the counter, finally takes a look at the menu to figure out what he wants.

Anyway. This morning's idiot pulled up incorrectly, put his car in park, tried to get out but realized that the car was too close to the machine and he couldn't open the door wide enough, got back in, put the car in reverse, pulled up incorrectly again, got out, started fumbling for his wallet, eventually found his card, and took (by this point, I was watching, gape-mouthed, and I counted the swipes) EIGHT TRIES to get his card through. Oh, and after every failed swipe, he'd get back in the car, realize that he'd not managed to open the gate, and get out again. I shit you not.

Finally, FINALLY, he made it through, and I shook myself from my stunned reverie, reminded myself yet again why it's a good thing that I don't have a laser beam attached to the front of my car (although my god, I could take car of all the bad drivers here within a day), and drove up, card at the ready, swiped it, drove in, parked, and was out of the car before the idiot had finally successfully negotiated his car into a parking space.

And people wonder why I'm in a shitty mood by the time I make it into the office?! Ye gods...

Alexandrites (6/30/08)

First, I'm posting these mostly to remind myself that my life is pretty good and lots of interesting and amusing things happen to me. Today just happens to be a shitty day--people are beating upon my absolute last nerve at work. I'm normally pretty bloody optimistic and able to roll with it when the more artistic types, let's say, act out. But today, I lost it with one who was resisting a graphic change that I wanted him to make to the placement of a byline. Normally, I don't get on my high horse about such things but this was a pretty obviously necessary one for readability issues (the age-old struggle between editors and designers and one that I face daily). Finally, after arguing with G for FIVE MINUTES about this, he muttered that he'd shown it to another designer, M, and that she liked it. I stood up, pointed to the change, and said, "I don't give a shit what M thinks, change the fucking byline!" You have to understand, this is totally not me--sure I might think it, but I rarely actually say it. All I can say in my defense is, PMS is a bitch and right now, so am I. (But he did make the change and it looks MUCH better, thankyouverymuch.)

And second, I don't think I've explained (and am too lazy to see whether this is indeed true) why I call the amusing (to me, at least) A stories "alexandrites." Alexandrite is my birthstone and given that A's name is Alexandra and these are little soundbites from her life, well, it seemed to fit. On with the show...

On Saturday, we went for our usual walk (well, me pushing her in her stroller) on a local walking/bike path. At one point, where the path is only about 100 feet away from the road, I was huffing along when she spotted a young man (and I am officially old for typing that) walking along the side of the road. She said loudly enough for him to hear, "Mommy! He's walkin' inna road!" I smiled feebly at the nice young man and said, "Well, honey, that's because there's no sidewalk there." But my Junior Traffic Safety Patrolwoman was undeterred. Frowning darkly at him, she said, "He's gonna get SQUISHED." He, needless to say, started walking faster in the opposite direction. Already winning friends and influencing people--that's my girl.

Yesterday saw a great display of her comedic timing. T and I were watching the UEFA (United European something something--again, too lazy to look) soccer championship game between Germany and Spain. T was rooting for Germany because of his Swiss-German heritage and I was rooting for Spain primarily because their goaltender is pretty hot. T called me out for being superficial so I pointed out, "Well, I don't speak German but I do speak Spanish." And Alexandra turns and cheerfully says, "Hola!" I think we've been watching a bit too much Dora/Diego/Handy Manny, si?

You just can't make this stuff up (6/19/08)

I've had a pretty nasty cold all week--today's the first day I've felt human in some time. Of course, this was exacerbated by the fact that my husband (T) has been gone for nearly a week, meaning that I've been doing the single mom thing for nearly a week. Honestly, I don't know how real, full-time singles do it--my hat, my bra, and anything else I've got go off to them.

That being said, there have been a couple of amusing moments. Such as the following:

Scene: Wednesday, 6:30 a.m., my bed, to which I've retreated with a wide-awake and energetic toddler...

Me: [croaking voice] Honey, please don't jump up and down on Mommy. She doesn't feel good.
[silence]
A: You want some milk?
Me: No, thank you.
A: You want crackers?
Me: No, but thank you for asking.
[pensive silence]
A: How 'bout some smoked salmon?

She's definitely my kid.

Then today, I forced myself out for my daily lunchtime slog, er walk. On the way back, I happened to glance into a car parked on the side of the road... and did a triple take. Because sitting in the driver's seat and looking back at me was a small white dog wearing--I shit you not--an even smaller red cowboy hat. Needless to say, hilarity ensued. That was immediately followed by intense speculation on my part: Where on earth was that dog going next? I'm half tempted to go back and see.

I think that's a great way to lead into my birthday (I'll be 36 tomorrow): everyday reminders that we all just bide our time here in the theater of the absurd.