OW. FOR REAL.

Pin It

So in the spirit of teaching my kids stuff (#111 - 116)  (and also in the spirit of Our Cupboards They are Barren), yesterday we went to Smiths to learn about grocery shopping and using an ATM card.

(I love Smiths Marketplace.  The warm fuzzies some of you have for Target, I reserve for Smiths.)

(If there isn't a Smiths by our new house I am totally cancelling the lease.)

I let the kids (including the two year old) (DANGER DANGER) each take a cart and then we proceeded to v-e-r-y  s-l-o-w-l-y make our way through the store.

VERY SLOWLY.

Leading four kids with four carts (including one kid who continually shouts "I SMASH YOU") through a crowded grocery store = total insanity.

(I am not even kidding when I say that my heels were bloody by the time we got out of there.)

(DO NOT GIVE A TWO YEAR OLD A CART.  It is TOO. MUCH. POWER. for them to handle.)

(Also, WHY IN THE NAME OF HEAVEN don't the mini-grocery carts have bumpers?  WHY? WHY?)

(Other things my children learned yesterday: two new swears.  I'm so proud.)

I gave the three oldest lists.  For Megan (10) and Emma (9), the lists were general (bread, eggs, 2% milk, toilet paper, bananas, generic light canned pears) (which meant that we had to talk about what "generics" were) and I asked them to look at the different prices to see what the best deals were.

We talked about how sometimes an item might look like it's cheaper, but if you look at the size/number of ounces you are actually paying more. I also gave them each a budget and had them try to figure out if they had enough money for the things in their cart.

For Jake (7), we kept things a little simpler.  His list was pretty specific (Powerade Zero, Comet, etc.) in most cases.  When it wasn't specific, say for "cereal", I had him pick out the three cereals he liked best and then we compared what the prices were and picked the least expensive option.

Josh, meanwhile, was randomly throwing every kind of crap on the face of the earth into his cart (Goldfish! Oreos! Fudge Sticks! French Vanilla Cappuccino!) and as soon as he put something in, I went behind him and put it back on the shelf (although he was pretty insistent about the fudge sticks).

For my own sanity I didn't just let them take off, I made them stay on the same general aisle and pick out their stuff as we went along.  The other shoppers were not all that thrilled that we were continually blocking the aisles (other than the grandmas who by and large thought we were all ADORABLE JUST ADORABLE), but we tried to smooth things over with lots of "excuse mes" and by quickly moving out of the way as much as possible.  (Teaching politeness and grocery store etiquette, CHECK.)

When we were (finally) (FINALLY) done (seriously, this took FOREVER, but it was fun - other than, er, the part where MY HEELS WERE BLEEDING) (HAVE I MENTIONED MY HEELS WERE BLEEDING?  NO?), we took over two of the self-check stations so that two kids could check out while I helped them, while the remaining kid could attempt to keep Josh from absconding to Mexico.

They entered our fresh value card id number, checked and bagged their own groceries (including the produce), swiped their coupons, and then I let them use the debit card to pay (their favorite part, bar none).  (SECRET CODE.)  (DRUNK WITH POWER.)  The girls were very impressed by the How Much You Saved Today part of the receipt and kept reminding me How Much We Saved You Today Which Probably Means You Should Buy Us Slurpees.

I am nothing if not totally addicted to slurpees right now (SUGAR FREE mango - 20 calories for 8 ounces ARE YOU KIDDING ME), so that was our next stop.  At the Sev (as we like to call it in the hood) I gave them each some change and had them each take their own drinks to the counter and figure out how much change they needed to give the clerk.

I can't say that the clerk was all that thrilled to be part of our object lesson, but there was nobody else in the store so - SHUT IT grumpy store clerk.

They really loved this.  Megan took her receipt home and put it in her scrapbook, that's how much of an impression the whole thing made on her.  (The children's museum trip they took earlier in the day with their awesome babysitter - apparently not worthy of recording, but GROCERY SHOPPING WITH MOM = A DAY TO REMEMBER.)

We will definitely do this again, and next time I want to talk more about what KINDS of foods to buy - looking at ingredient labels, how to pick out fruit, etc.

And next time I will LEAVE JOSH AT HOME.

(I love you Josh, you little turd.)

Insufferable

Pin It It galls me how much time is wasted in an office.

People stand around and talk about video games or television. They surf the internet and play hallway hackey-sack. They wander to the break-room for a soda, they stop and watch world cup soccer in the conference room. They stop by my cubicle and shoot the breeze and I smile and chat while thinking I could be with my kids right now, I could work from home and get all of this stuff done in four hours, GOOD GRIEF, THE AMOUNT OF TIME THAT IS WASTED IN AN OFFICE IS CRIMINAL. (Which is not to say that it isn’t a terrific job, because it is, and I am lucky to have it, and to have a great salary and a pleasant boss and interesting work, and you know what, let’s forget I said anything about work in the first place because the only thing that would be worse than working full-time would be NOT working full-time, PLEASE DON’T FIRE ME FOR THE LOVE)

The baby refuses to look at me when I finally get home. He wants his dad, which is ridiculous, because his dad has been gone just as long as I have, we CARPOOLED and yet I’m the one he’s holding a grudge against. He believes I’m a fair-weather friend, and it takes me the whole weekend to win back his good will and preference. I hold him for an hour after he falls asleep at night, wishing this could count as quality time, because now, suddenly, I’m one of those moms who is forced to care about quality time.

The children are excited I’m home, they aren’t holding the full-time job against me yet, but I can tell it’s wearing on them, from the way they cling and fuss and argue with each other. It’s been mostly fine because Grandma has been here for the last week and she lets them watch TV and play video games and eat too much junk, but she leaves on Wednesday and then they’ll be with a babysitter, and we’ll see if they are so willing to forgive me then.

Well meaning people ask where we are moving to, and I tell them "I don’t know,” and I make a joke about being spontaneous, something dumb about throwing a dart on the map, and then change the subject before I start to get morose and teary-eyed - because most people really don’t want to deal with your sadness - you can be sad, but not THAT sad, not sad in a way that's going to make everyone uncomfortable. When my powers of WASPy repression fail me, I try to at least make it more palatable for everyone around me, by being a version of sad that includes Not Feeling All That Sorry For Myself, or Looking on the Bright Side, or Having A Stiff Upper Lip, or Being O.K. With It Because I’ve Learned A Good Lesson About Fiscal Responsibility.

I am not really very good at this kind of acting though. I don’t have much experience pretending not to be depressed. The only time I was ever really depressed was as a teenager, and back then I flaunted it, I wore it proudly, I snarled and snapped and dared people to mess with me. People would say what is WRONG with you, and I took it as a compliment, an external validation of my self-diagnosed issues.

And honestly, I don’t think I have Clinical Depression or anything like that - I’m just sad because things kind of suck right now. I’m guessing that once things suck a little less, once we’re in some other mode than Stuck, (or once I eat this tray of brownies right here) well – THEN I’ll probably feel better. (And in probably related news, I am vastly fat right now, the fattest I’ve ever been in my life. Let’s hear it for my new insurance, which covers gastric bypass surgery, and I’m TOTALLY DOING IT, SHUT UP, I AM.)

I hide out in my house, avoid church, avoid friends who will ask how we’re doing, what’s going on, what's with the house? The truth is that I don’t care about the house, about how it’s gone and we have to move. Sure, I will miss my neighborhood, and the school and the park with the stream, and the way it takes an hour to walk around the block, because there is always a friend to stop and talk to for a few minutes. But I’m o.k. with it. I can handle it. It’s just a house, I tell my friends flippantly, and I mean it.

What I am not so o.k. with is the fact that I am out of the house for ten hours a day. I’m not o.k. with my nine month old being with a sitter more than he’s with me. My friends who work tell me I will get used to it, that it won’t bother me so much after a while, but I’m not sure that I WANT it not to hurt. I’m not sure I want to get to the point where I’m totally o.k. with leaving my kids for almost 50 hours per week.

It’s not as though I’m new to working. I’ve always worked full-time, ever since I was eighteen years old, but from the moment I got pregnant with Megan I worked from HOME - four or five hours during the day and three or four at night – and I could stop to take them to school, read them a story, fix them a snack. They had a sitter, but I was here, they could run in and out to see me, and when I was done working, I walked out of my room and into the family room, The End. But now there is This Freaking Economy to deal with, and apparently the tech writing gigs, they are not just falling out of the sky, and I have had to Make Certain Accommodations. It boggles my mind now to think about how I complained about it sometimes, about how hard it was to juggle work and the kids.

At night after they’re in bed, I know I should be packing, but I can’t make myself do it. I don’t know where we’re going, and what good is a departure without an arrival? Instead I climb into bed hours early, hiding under the covers, alternately sniffling and napping and picturing my children in the future, turned melodramatically goth and pale and sarcastic, full of hatred for their constantly absent mom.

(I am closing comments, but I will go ahead and list a few that I would fully expect to get: 1) I’m Sorry, 2) Come On Sue, It Could Be Worse, 3) Maybe You Should See A Counselor, 4) Just Be Grateful You Have a Job, 5) Hey, At Least Nobody Has Cancer (Yet), 6) I Lost My Job Too, But Now I’m Making Great Money Working From Home Selling XOSLIEFJL, 7) Here, Let Me Give You A Little Thing I Like To Call Perspective, 8) GAH, Stop Feeling So Sorry For Yourself, You Are Insufferable 9) I Hate To Say It But Working Moms Deserve To Feel Bad, And If Only You Would Sacrifice You Could Be At Home Like Me, 10) Defensive and Cuttingly Angry Comment From Working Mother, 11) Flame War, 12) €£¥∞β≠€¥€)

Expectations - Sucking The Joy Out Of Motherhood Since 2001

Pin It I don't know why I do this to myself.

It never fails. Once I realize the kids will be gone - at school, with friends, on an outing, wherever - I spend hours plotting ways to get the baby to sleep at the exact same time,  a fruitless quest for the holy grail of motherhood - a half hour of quiet time.

And of course I KNOW this little plan of mine isn't going to go well, I already know it - how could it ever simply be QUIET for a few minutes - what with the short people coming to the door to see if my kids can play (and the doorbell MUST be rung multiple times, purely for the joy of hearing the faint ding-dong from inside the house, doorbell sign or no doorbell sign), and the bill collectors calling at PRECISELY the wrong moment, and my constant absent minded smashing into clattery things.

But I develop amnesia and pursue the pipe dream of a moment of solitude, even though I know it's completely illogical to try.

When the appointed hour is at hand I tensely tiptoe around trying to make sure everything is Just So.

Baby fast asleep?  CHECK

Kids gone or occupied? CHECK

The book that has gone unopened for three weeks beckons from its spot on the end table where it's been collecting dust.

I settle into the couch, crack open the cover, and -

BANG.  Something happens. 

Someone calls from school because they aren't feeling well.  The baby wakes back up. A friend drops by out of the blue.  Volcano. SOMETHING.  Something will happen.

And when it does, instead of taking it in stride and going with the flow, I feel - resentment. Not towards the kids or the baby or the friend - but towards the universe. (And maybe a little bit toward the volcano.)  Like, REALLY universe? You KNEW I needed fifteen minutes - YOU DID THIS ON PURPOSE.

It takes me a minute to slap back the irritation and get over myself, to get my sense of humor back, to relax and remember not to see my kids as an interruption.

I do so much better as a mother when I relax, when I expect that my day will be full of kids and unpredictability. Full of being needed for one thing or the other. Full of days where you are so distracted you wear your shirt inside out.  Full of dirt. Full of noise.

Quiet is sort of the antithesis of mothering young kids, isn't it?

And someday, my house will be quiet - too quiet.

Someday the sound of kids playing together upstairs will no longer drift down at inconvenient times, waking the baby and soliciting an exasperated eye roll because I was just about to finish something for a client...

Someday my five year old won't come creeping down the stairs after I've sent him up to clean his room.  He won't climb on my lap and ask if we can do something special together, just the two of us - since, after all, the baby is asleep...

Someday there will no longer be a warm, round lump of baby wailing from his crib and then giving me drowsy, rapturous smiles of welcome when he sees me coming...

Someday there will be solitude.

Someday soon - it will be quiet.
  
(And THEN I WILL NAP.)

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Did They Like It? Wild West Veteran's Memorial Park, West Jordan, Utah

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(Look, I even centered the text.)

(I KNOW. It's like I don't even know who I am anymore.)

On Saturday, after three soccer games in two hours...

...we decided to bag the housework...

...and head over to Ye Olden Medieval Times Parke...

Otherwise known as the Pleasant Grove Discovery Park

...where we overbundled our protesting baby...

...slid down a few poles...

...and made beautiful music together.

Not yet ready to call it a day, because LOOK:

...we headed over to Highland Glen park, where we did NOT fish (this time)...

...but threw rocks in the river...

...and danced down a trail...

On Sunday we drove down to the Spanish Fork River Park...

...but the park gates were still locked, and we couldn't get in.

Bummer.

We ended up at the Canyon View park in Provo Canyon, where we stopped for a picnic...

...and then went for a walk...

...and climbed up and down a mountain...

(at a Sunday approved pace, of course)

...and, as ever, posed for pictures.

It was a busy weekend, and by the time we got home we were tired

and I will admit to doing a little of this:

and a little of this:

It was a perfect antidote

for our buckets 'o stress

and now, knee-deep in lots of things I would prefer not to be knee-deep in
if I had the choice
(which, it appears, I do NOT)

I keep wishing it was Saturday all over again.

How was your weekend?

PS: The winner of the ring giveaway was Andrea. Congrats! Thanks to Codi and her husband for the fun ring giveaway.


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I Think Fernando Is Back

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(The Hubs and I make pretty cute babies, I know. Weird genetic fluke.)

I love this picture. He's so adorable and pink and delicious in that picture, but that is not my favorite thing about it.

My favorite thing about this picture is that it's a PICTURE and that he is MUTE.

(BLESSED BLESSED SILENCE.)

Remember how after he was born he would scream and scream and scream and scream?

Yes.

Well.

APPARENTLY THAT WAS NOT A PHASE.

Here is what I get to listen to ALL. DAY. LONG:

He makes this noise CONSTANTLY.

He is not hungry.

He is not tired.

He is not wet.

There are no tears in his eyes.

He is just EXTREMELY FOND of hearing his own voice.

OH, bonus! Here's one with growling:

(And for the record, after quite a bit of growling and fussing and acting like he was starving to death he would not eat ONE BIT OF HIS FOOD, but instead decided that the thought of eating was DISGUSTING TO HIM, IT WAS DISGUSTING, HOW DARE YOU ATTEMPT TO FEED FERNANDO GREEN BEANS?!! I DEMAND APPLESAUCE! Squawk squawk peevish squawk!)

I'm starting to think he is... ...a little bit spoiled.

I blame this ENTIRELY on the children, because I can't put him down for even a second without one of the kids swooping in to rescue him from his hellish life of Playing On A Blanket With A Toy.

What I say: "Don't pick him up. He's changed, fed and happy - let him play."

What Megan hears: "The baby will die of a broken heart unless I pick him up in 3.5 seconds."

What I say: "GUYS. FOR THE LOVE. Leave him be. He's content. He needs to practice sitting. DO NOT PICK HIM UP."

What Emma hears: "Pick up your brother and play rocketship with him. HURRY before he is completely traumatized by all of the sitting."

What I say: "I want to get the noises the baby is making on tape, EVERYONE LEAVE HIM ALONE for a second so I can get him in his natural state."

What Jake hears: "Surely five seconds is far too long for a baby to be left to his own devices. I MUST PROVIDE HIM WITH ENTERTAINMENT IMMEDIATELY."

And what is the result? A baby who is COMPLETELY INCAPABLE of entertaining himself for even ten second increments.

The baby is kind of a little con artist already, which makes me wonder what exactly we are in for in over the next few years.

"What, you want me to play by myself down here? Seriously?"

"What if I make the sad face? Will someone pick me up if I make the sad face? No?"

"Oh, FINE, I ADMIT IT, I'm HAPPY."

(heaven help us)

PS: (Don't even get me started on his nightly 3AM social hour. After he's eaten and back in his crib, he likes to stay up for a good 45 minutes, yelling joyfully and squealing. "HELLOOO? MOTHER?? I'M JUST CHECKING IN TO SEE IF YOU ARE HAVING A GOOD EVENING? HELLOOO? FATHER? FATHER? PERHAPS IT IS TIME FOR SOME BABY NINJA WRESTLING? YES? NO? HELLOOO?")

PPS: Did I mention that this Friday's giveaway, among other things, will include tickets to A CERTAIN EVENT that some of you might want to attend, with the intials C. B. and C.?  Did I mention that?  BECAUSE IT WILL. Wheeee!

PPPS: My friend Kristina is doing something pretty awesome this month. Go check it out.

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I AM STILL PREGNANT!

Pin It I haven't been slacking and holding out on you, I've just been gestating for a very, very long time.

In fact, I'm getting ready to live-blog the birth any second now!

...
...

Alright, FINE.

I am not still pregnant.

I am actually de-pregnant. I have been de-pregnatized.

See?


(I have also been heavily Photoshopped. In real life I do not actually glow, and I have an additional chin.)

(Or two.)

The baby made his appearance on 09-09-09 - NOT on the 14th as I'd been promised.

Since I was not quite finished with my maternity leave preparations I was quite put out.

(I highly intend to write a strongly worded letter.)

At about 2:00 in the morning on the 9th I woke up out of a dead sleep. Usually when I wake up from a dead sleep it's either due to a) imaginary spider bites, or b) imaginary noises in the house, but on this occasion it was imaginary contractions. At least I was fairly sure they were probably imaginary. I mean - on the one hand there was freakishly painful pain every seven minutes or so. On the other hand - blood clot.

My husband was groggily convinced that I was just being dramatic. This is probably why he went along with me, when after about an hour-and-a-half, still feeling certain this would all be a false alarm, I decided to drive myself to the hospital. I told him that I would call him if it turned out to be real labor, which I doubted it was, because a) it's me we're talking about here, and b) I was giving birth on the 14th, and it wasn't the 14th yet, dammit.

At 4:00 AM I arrived at the hospital. At 4:30AM the nurses established that I was having actual, non-imaginary contractions. At 4:45 they finally believed my "story" (about labor = danger/exploding uterus) and called my doctor, who flipped out and scheduled a 6AM c-section.

I called my husband, feeling slightly hysterical. “Come down here now! They’re operating in an hour. AN HOUR! Call Karen, she’ll watch the kids until my mom can get there!”

He told me not to worry – he would be there in twenty minutes – twenty-five tops. I wept, feeling sure my husband was going to miss the birth of his fourth child. THE TRAGEDY.

Of course, then I pictured my immaculate neighbor seeing the condition of our kitchen floor and called my husband back. “Wait! Don’t call Karen! Do the dishes first, then call Karen. And sweep the floor under the table. And wipe off the table. Do that and THEN call Karen.” I figured if he missed the first part of the operation, no big deal. After all, you’ve seen one c-section, you’ve seen ‘em all. Small price to pay.

I texted him seven times with various instructions – all related to making sure he cleaned the house before calling Karen. I was texting him about wiping down the outside of the fridge when he walked in the door. He swears he “picked up a little” before Karen got there. (I am sure he is lying.)

Our baby boy was born at 6:07 AM on 9-9-09.

Internet, I give you...

FERNANDO THE BREASTMILK VAMPIRE!


Fernando likes to NURSE. He likes to nurse, and nurse, and nurse. Also? He likes to nurse. His sole mission in life is to chew off my left nipple. I feel like my brain juices have all melted and been sucked right out of my milk ducts. (That spot on the front of my t-shirt? That's not breastmilk, it's what was left of my frontal lobe.)

(Man, I hate breastfeeding. The La Leche League folks can suck on it.)

("It" meaning - something that is not my nipple. That's already being utilized.)

(I wonder how many times I can say nipple in this post? Nipple, nipple, NIPPLE.)

(Am I making you uncomfortable?)

(Let's talk about something else, shall we?)

In honor of having the baby, I am having a GIVEAWAY! I am giving away:

A Fussy Six Week Old Who Is
Suffering from Reflux and a Double Ear Infection!

(To enter this giveaway, simply leave a comment letting me know how soon you could get here.) (I'm really tired.)

I MEAN - WHO COULD RESIST THAT FACE??!

AND THE SCREAMING?!?

THE CONSTANT, CONSTANT, SCREAMING.

...
...

O.k., FINE.

I am not giving him away. I would never in a million BILLION years give him away.

...
...


I'd SELL him.

...
...


OK, FINE, I won't sell him either. The children would revolt. They sort of like him. He has them under his vampire mind control, obviously. See that satisfied little smile? That's the smile of a baby vampire who is plotting to destroy his evil human overlords.



I am trying very hard to recapture normal - to get back into some semblance of a routine. But this baby does not recognize routine, he spits upon our routine, he POOPS upon our routine. Routines are for mortals, not breastmilk vampires, he says.

He is a very sweet, dear baby when he is not feeling horrible. He's had a really rough start here on planet earth. He celebrated his two week old anniversary by coming down with a cold, double ear infection, and a nasty case of reflux. He's been in so much pain - for weeks, if he was awake, he was crying. His little baby voice is hoarse from stomach acid washing up and down his throat. (Ever heard a newborn with laryngitis? It's the most pathetic sound in the world.)



When he isn't in pain, he is an above average baby in every way - sweet and round and adorable and wonderful and ours. And of course, he is our last baby, so everything he does has special significance - sure, we are up walking the floor with him, but we are doing it for the Last Time, with our Last Baby Ever. Somehow that makes it all a little easier. It's amazing how much love you can feel for someone you've known so briefly.

He has the same medical issues his sister just had surgery for (the condition runs in sibling groups) and has a test scheduled for next week at Primary Children's Hospital. We're hoping to hear his condition is less severe than his sister's, and that he'll grow out of it with no surgery necessary. We'd appreciate your thoughts and if you are so inclined, your prayers. My little one could use a very large break.

I was hoping for a more clever ending for this post, but alas, the baby is crying so I must sign off.

(Somehow that seems fitting.)

Off I go.

PS: Please ignore that creaking noise you may hear as you read this post. My blogging chops are a bit rusty.

The Mysterious Case of the Continually Evolving Due Date

Pin It NO BABY YET. I REPEAT: NO BABY YET.

Some people were confused about how I could be twelve weeks along in February, and yet STILL BE PREGNANT IN SEPTEMBER. Well. That is certainly VERY easy to explain.

This is possible because I am a moron.


January 2009

I call my old OB's office.

Me: "I took a pregnancy test and it says I'm pregnant."
Nurse: "When was your last menstrual period?"
Me: "December 2nd?"
Nurse: "Are you guessing?"
Me: "Kind of."

We settle on a due date of September 10th. I tell her what the OB said after my last c-section - that my uterus was shot and that I should take steps to make sure I NEVER GET PREGNANT AGAIN. She leaves a message for the doctor, who reads his old notes on the chart and calls me back. We have a ten minute conversation all about DANGER and RISK and TAKING PRECAUTIONS. I am officially scared to death.


February 12, 2009

We discover our insurance no longer covers the old OB, and I reluctantly find a new one.

NEW, COMPLETELY CAVALIER NOT-TAKING-ME-SERIOUSLY OB: "Sometimes when we're performing c-sections we see a paper thin uterine scar and get a little freaked out. But we really don't know very much medically about how much stress the uterus can actually take. The uterus is an amazing thing. You'll probably be fine."

Me: "Uhhhh....."

OB: "Listen, we'll keep an eye on things. If we start seeing signs of tearing or rupture, we'll take the baby a little early - in August or possibly July."


February 24, 2009

Me: "I'm twelve weeks now."
Husband: "Nine weeks."
Me: "No - I think I got pregnant on December 13th. That makes me..."
Husband: "That would make you ten weeks."
Me: "Ten-and-a-half. That's practically twelve."
Husband: "Is this because you want to tell people, and you think you aren't allowed to tell people until the first trimester is over?"
Me: Yes. "NO."


April, 2009

At a party, talking pregnancy with a friend who is due in September:

Friend: "When is this baby coming?"
Me: "I'm not sure. Maybe August. Or July. It sort of depends." I ramble on for a few minutes about possible complications and early babies.
Friend: "But what's your official due date?"
Me: Huh. When IS my due date? Surely this knowledge was in my brain at some point in time. "August 20th?"

Later on that night, I realize this is NOT actually my due date but the date of the Project Runway premiere.

(HEY, IT WAS AN IMPORTANT DAY.)


April 2009, again

Ultrasound tech: "So according to what we can see on the ultrasound, your corrected due date is actually September 28th."
Me, grumbling: "Yeah, like THAT's accurate."


June 2009

My friends throw me a baby shower. Because as they all know, I'm due ANY DAY NOW. The baby could come at ANY SECOND. In JULY. Or maybe in AUGUST. Or maybe on September 10th. Or the 28th. Or maybe NEXT YEAR. NOBODY KNOWS.


July 2009

The OB tells me everything looks fine so far, and barring any problems we'll plan on a September 14th c-section.

Me: "Like what kind of problems? Because last night I bent over and I felt tearing and I was looking at wikipedia and I wondered - "
OB: "You didn't rupture."
Me: "Right, but - "
OB: "Severe pain. Severe uterine pain and bleeding. Call us if there is SEVERE UTERINE PAIN AND BLEEDING."


August 2009:

I have somehow gotten September 10th stuck in my head. Approximately twenty people ask me when I am due. I tell all of them September 10th.


August 2009, Again:

I get in an argument with my husband about my c-section date.

He insists it is September 14th.

I insist it is the 10th, after all, "I should know, I mean, it's MY body getting cut open. Geez."

He gets out the calendar and I slink away in defeat.


August 2009, Some More:

I am having contractions. In all of my previous conversations with the OB, she has emphasized that I should NOT worry about uterine rupture because we really only need to worry if I start having contractions.

I call her office in a dither, all "RUPTURE - RUPTURE WILL ROBINSON." She tells me to lie down and drink a glass of water and the contractions will probably stop.

They do.

(It is very anti-climactic.)


September 2009:

I realize that for all of my complaining ("I HAVE BEEN PREGNANT FOR FORTY-SEVEN WEEKS" and "PLEASE JUST GET IT OUT OF ME" and "MY STOMACH IS BREAKING OFF") I am now too busy with work and the kids' activities to have this baby.

I ask my OB if we can move it back to September 28th again because I have three user manuals to finish before I can possibly afford to take a few days off to have the baby. The 14th is just not going to work for me.

Shockingly, she does not go along with this.

----------------------------

So there you have it. September 14th. D-Day.

I am actually looking into outsourcing the birthing process to my husband. He gets paid time off from work, so it would make way more sense for him to just go ahead and have the baby.

(I'll keep you posted on how that works out for me.)

-------------------

PS: I didn't forget about the Thanksgiving Point giveaway - I just never bothered to announce who won. I did pick a winner and deliver the tickets last month though - they went to Debbie, who commented at 10:11 PM.

I See London, I See France...

Pin It There is a robin that sits outside of our window every morning and sings its sweet little heart out. It's very Mary Poppins. Eeeeevery single morning at 5:30 AM.

I freaking hate that bird.

The other morning the bird started singing at precisely 5:17 AM and I was so mad that I got up and went outside intending to do something about it, something involving rocks and a few pointedly stinging remarks. Unfortunately, as soon as I got outside it flew up onto the roof of the neighbors house, right above their master bedroom window where it just knew I'd be scared to throw something, and then it resumed singing. MOCKING ME.

Me, whisper-yelling: "SHUT UP BIRD."
Bird: "Tweedle tweedle twee."
Me, full of impotent rage, jumping up and down: "Go away! Go away! You suck! I hate you!"
Bird: "Tweety tweet tweet."

It was very frustrating.

(One of my neighbors has very mischievous six and ten year old boys, and I cannot for the life of me understand why she has failed to furnish them with BB guns. This seems a tragic oversight.)

(Do you think that would be an unfortunate present for someone to leave at their doorstep?)

The bird's early morning singing leaves me plenty of time for rage-fueled tossing around in bed before it is time to get up. I do this with quite a bit of irritation and loud sighing, since in my sleep deprived haze I feel quite certain that my husband ought to be Doing Something About It, although I'm not sure what that would entail. Just something. I think I would like to hear him out there screaming at that bird, really giving it the what-for. Maybe throwing something heavy, like a patio chair or the swing set.

Despite my bird fueled rage, my attitude about all things baby is finally starting to improve. It helps to have ultra-sound proof that it's a boy and not actually a demon from the netherworld as I was beginning to suspect. Unfortunately the only thing I've really done to prepare for the baby's arrival is whine a lot.

When I found out I was pregnant I walked around the house moaning about how stupid we were to give away all of our baby stuff, stupid, stupid, HOW COULD WE BE SO STUPID - thoughts I cagily kept to myself when my sister-in-law generously offered to give me some of her old baby stuff. She sweetly said she didn't need any of it anymore, because they were Done, and I did my best to nod gratefully instead of mumbling "famous last words SUCKAH," under my breath.

(Actual conversation with doctor this morning after ultrasound: Doctor: In a few weeks we can start talking about whether or not you'd like to have a tubal ligation after your c-section. Me: TIE THEM! TIE THEM NOW! I WANT THEM TIED. WITH DOUBLE-KNOTS! DO YOU DO DOUBLE KNOTS? Doctor: Uh....)

Anyway, thanks to my sister-in-law the baby will sleep in an actual crib instead of a laundry basket, and will have a stroller instead of the conveyance I was mocking up - a trained Labrador with a saddle.

We don't have a stitch of baby clothing in the house, and I'm dreading the inevitable trip to Target, where we will lay down all of our pennies as a sacrifice to the baby apparel gods. Most weeks lately I feel like Alexander, Who Used To Be Rich Last Sunday - payments from my tech writing clients come in the mail and at first I dance my wild dance of crazy glee, and then I realize the dishwasher is broken, and we owe fifty-seven million dollars to the IRS, and Carter grew two sizes over the winter and needs new pants, and the mortgage is due in three days.

I can't bring myself to spend money on maternity clothes. It seems such a waste to buy new clothes that I will use for four months. I have decided to forge ahead with wearing pajama pants and stretching out my existing shirts for the next few months, and if my underwear happens to show, well then it JUST HAPPENS TO SHOW.

All in all, I expect that I will be quite grumpy this summer, what with the pregnancy and the extreme wardrobe, and if anyone says a word about my non-conventional maternity wear, they will RUE THE DAY, because I swear if it is the last thing I do I will find a way to sic that freaking bird on them.

So... The News

Pin It This is karmic payback for all of the times my teenage self scoffed at my mom over my youngest brother and sister’s “accidental” entry into the world.

“How can you have an accidental baby, Mom? Sheesh. Just use birth control. It’s not that hard."

NEVER TEMPT FATE, PEOPLE.

I'm very accidentally pregnant - just past the first trimester.

We are still adjusting to the reality of it all. We're a little shell-shocked, because we were done. DONE. We gave away every last baby thing a long time ago.

And of course, there's stuff making me nervous.

For one thing, I’m old. Thirty-SEVEN. (How is that possible?!)

For another, my uterus is shot. Two different OBs warned me numerous times not to get pregnant and strongly encouraged me to do something to ensure that I didn’t.

(You know, I kept meaning to take care of that…)

The current plan is to take the baby about six weeks early to avoid uterine rupture. (Yeah, if you thought I was a hypochondriac BEFORE...) Apparently this isn't all that uncommon and they know how to handle it, so (insert melodramatic tone here) WE WILL SURVIVE.

We’re trying to work our way into being excited about it, but right now, even though we’ve known for a while, it still seems like something we made up, like a little joke we are telling each other. SURE we’re having another baby. Right. Good one.

I'm a little worried about the kids. I have three good kids and I usually feel somewhat equal to the task of being their mother. But four? I don’t know. I don't know if I can do it and still be the kind of mom I want to be.

Some women have the patience for a large family - the natural knack, the talent for handling crowds. My next door neighbor has seven, and she's a fantastic mother. But if I had seven I'd end up on the news. "Local mother barricades herself inside shed with shotgun, refuses to come out until the children are all asleep."

I know four kids isn't necessarily a large family. (I have eight brothers and sisters. THAT's a large family.) But four kids feels like a lot for me. I'm nervous.  Wish me luck people of the internet.

I'm Raising My Kids Amish

Pin It For the most part, I'm not a strict mom. I tend to be pretty lackadaisical about discipline. I'll send them to their rooms for a punishment sometimes, but then I forget I've done it. They usually come out after a few minutes and tell me "I'm ready to be good now," and I nod and smile and try to remember what on earth they are talking about. (I tried using a timer, so that when it rang I would have to remember - oh yes, Abby is sitting on her bed. But mostly it would just ring and then I'd stare at it for a while, completely flummoxed about why I'd set it in the first place.)

Luckily they're pretty well behaved kids, other than being somewhat slow to listen and a little distractable. (My husband is very quick to point out that I don't get to complain about that, because it's totally genetic). Sarah's last report card said she was "a joy to teach," but needed to stop humming during class. That pretty much says it all.

Despite my somewhat absent-minded parenting, we've managed to mostly dodge the naughty children bullet. I mean, they're normal kids - they fight and get irritable and have periodic meltdowns - but it's mostly just normal stuff. (Although when my kids are tired - hooooo boy. The tears! The drama! The inexplicable rage!)

(Man. I wonder where they get it from! Ha. Ha ha ha!)

(Awkward silence.)

There ARE some things I'm completely a mean mom about though.

I only let them watch a half-hour of TV a day, and only on the channels I pick. My husband and I only watch TV after they're in bed, so for a long time they had no idea what commercials were. When my husband finally convinced me to unclench a little and let them watch something on Nickelodeon (Commercials! SpongeBob! The path to irreversible brain meltage!), Abby would cry whenever there was a commercial break. "They're stopping the show AGAIN mom! I don't like this show about Moon Sand."

Of course, this means they're complete suckers - they believe everything they hear on commercials. Abby and Sarah are constantly copying down toll free numbers for toys they see on TV, and then reminding me to hurry so we can qualify for free shipping. "We're not buying that." "But it's just three easy payments Mom!"

It also means that they have no idea how to use the remote. To them it's a magical stick that unleashes the power of the TV, but ONLY FOR MOM. Sarah's tried to figure it out a few times on the sly, but she never gets anywhere because she doesn't know the secret - you have to press the satellite button first or you're totally hosed.

In the car we mostly listen to the IPOD. When I lost it for a few weeks we had to listen to the radio. They had no idea what was going on. They'd hear a song and ask me to play it again.

Me: "I can't, it's the radio."
Abby: "Put on Nobody's Perfect!"
Me: "I can't. We just have to listen to whatever is on."
Them: (generally perplexed expressions)

I gave them a rambling and perhaps somewhat technically inaccurate explanation about the concept of radio - there's a guy sitting in a room somewhere who chooses what we get to listen to, then sends magic space waves out through the air until the song eventually arrives in our car - but all that did was freak them out a little.

We don't have video games either - I'm not morally opposed or anything, I just figure we have enough ways to waste time already. When Sarah went over to a friend's house a few months ago, the friend didn't understand how this could possibly be true. You would've thought she'd said she was an orphan. The friend bought her a Webkinz for her birthday with a note that said, "I hope your parents will let you use this. Tell them to call my mom and she will talk to them." (Because those Amish, they don't like Webkinz.)

I'm never going to win any awards for parenting - I'm a terrible cook, a very marginal housekeeper, and I get entirely too distracted.

Sarah: "Mom. Listen to me."
Me, staring off into space thinking about ponies: "Yeah."
Sarah: "Do I have to practice the piano? Or can I go play?"
Me: "Sure honey."
Me (two minutes later, noticing she's outside): "Hey - what are you doing? Get in here and practice the piano."
Sarah: "ARRRRRGHHHH!!!!"

So it's nice to feel like there is SOMETHING I'm doing rightish, even though I fully recognize there is nothing particularly magical about the half-hour limit we've set. Back when I had a 3 year old, 2 year old and an infant, PBS Kids was on constantly, and nobody was scarred for life, not even a little bit.

Anyway, I'm curious about what your TV/video game rules are? Where do you draw your lines?

Confessions of a Sneaky Mom

Pin It 1. Sometimes when my kids and I are sitting at the piano singing together, I'll get irritated because I want to sing the princess part and they just want me to be quiet and play the piano. (Little princess part hoggers.) They have zero interest in hearing me sing. I might as well be dead. Or more accurately, I might as well be an electric piano.

2. When my kids are irritable and bored and at each other's throats, I sometimes like to help them bond by pitting them against me. I tell them to go clean the playroom and not to come out 'til it's sparkling clean. They'll angrily trudge in there, but a few minutes later I'll hear whispering and the sweet sounds of plotting. Every so often I'll bellow out "You'd better be cleaning!" and I'll hear them giggle because they are SO not cleaning. They get along independently for hours because, hey, THEY SURE PUT ONE OVER ON MOM.

3. Sometimes I put them to bed really, really early. There are days when it's either put them in bed early or completely lose my mind. It works out great because a) I'm not yelling, b) they aren't that great at telling time yet, and c) they're happy as clams playing in their rooms, thinking they've tricked me into believing they're asleep. If I need to walk by their rooms, I just stomp my feet extra hard so they have time to jump in bed and pretend they're snoring. (It almost makes me proud, what good fake sleepers they are. They do the slow breathing and everything.)

4. Cereal for dinner is not a rare occurrence, but that's ok, because it has 14 essential vitamins and nutrients. Or so I've heard.

5. Once, I read this article about how they are starting to think soft plastic toys might actually be dangerous, so I went around the house and bagged up all of the Polly Pockets and My Little Ponies and put them away in a closet until I could do more research. They found the bag when we moved and they were so excited about it that I've just - let them play with potentially carcinogenic toys. Because, wheeeee, cancer is fun!

So spill in the comments, por favor. What are your true mom confessions?

I feel like throwing up right now...

Pin It

All of the times I’ve imagined getting rid of the dog, it never went like this.

He’s been irritable and growly lately, his behavior moody and unpredictable, trying to run away each and every time we let him go out to pee. He's been snapping at the children, nipping them and growling. A visit to the vet revealed nothing, his vaccinations are up to date, and I’ve been at a loss as to what to do with him.

Suddenly this morning, he bit Abby, hard, unprovoked. It wasn’t a gentle warning nip. It was a hard, deep bite, leaving deep bleeding puncture wounds and a bloody scrape on her forearm where he swiped her with his paw after he bit her.

I agonized for a while, then called Animal Control. I didn’t do it lightly. I hate the dog, but my children LOVE him. But biting and hurting my kids? That’s where the line is.

They told me they would quarantine him for ten days, then give him to the county shelter, where he would undergo temperament testing (whatever that is). If they determined that he wasn't a danger, they would adopt him out to a child-free home.

I talked to the kids about it, but they’ve heard me threaten the dog so frequently that they didn’t really take me seriously. When the animal control officer showed up at the door, they all started to cry.

They were totally devastated.

I tried to explain it to them, how we couldn’t risk having a dog who bites, how I could never forgive myself if I kept a biting dog and something more serious happened, how my friend’s son was unexpectedly mauled by the long-time family dog and permanently disfigured.

They didn’t understand. All they understood was that the dog they loved so much was leaving, being taken away in the back of an animal control truck.

Abby tore away from me. She ran down the block after the truck, screaming for him to come back, please come back. It was awful - one of the most heart wrenching things I’ve ever seen or heard in my life. I carried her back into the house, inconsolable.

She loves that dog so much. She hugs him and loves him and carries him around and pets him and talks to him. She draws pictures of him and tells him stories and sneaks him treats and sings to him.

She was (and is) beyond heartbroken. She sobbed, “Mommy, please don’t let them take Wicket, please, please, it doesn’t even hurt at all anymore, he’ll be so good, I promise.”

They choked out questions in between sobs. “Is he coming back?” “Is he gone forever?” “Mommy, I love him, I love him, I love him.” “Please let him come back, Mom.” “Is he gonna be happy?” “Will they take care of him?” “Can he come back if he’s good?”

All I could do was hold them and stroke their hair and cry with them and tell them how very, very, very sorry I was. And I am. I’m so sorry. I'm devastated for my children, and especially for my Abby, who I found sitting by his crate tonight, weeping.

When she said her prayers before she went to sleep, she said, "And please bless Wicket to be happy and good and..." and then she started to cry again, and I had to lie down next to her and hold her until she fell asleep.

The horrible thing is that I don't know if I did the right thing or not. I tried to err on the side of caution, on the side of protecting my kids from harm. But I don't know if it was wrong or right. I just don't know, and I can't stop crying about it, knowing how much they are hurting, how deep of a gash I've inflicted on their tender little hearts.

Outwit, Outlast, Outplay

Pin It Me: "Listen, I'm tired of telling you girls to clean up your room. If you don't clean it up in the next FIVE MINUTES, I'm gonna get a garbage bag and whatever I find on the floor, I'm gonna keep. I'm not kidding."

Sarah: "So what if I put my stuff on the bed?"

Me: "Whatever I find on the floor OR your bed."

Sarah: "So what about my pillow? Are you gonna take my pillow?"

Me: "Whatever I find on your bed that doesn't belong there."

Abby: "What if I leave my piano book on the floor?"

Me: "Anything EXCEPT your piano book."

Sarah: "What about my shoes? What if I don't get them cleaned up in time? You can't take my shoes. I need them for school."

Me: "Ok. Anything but the piano book and the shoes and --"

Abby: "I'm gonna leave my blue shirt on the floor for you Mom. I don't want it. It's itchy."

Me: "No, you need to pick it up --"

Abby: "But I don't want it."

Sarah: "Oh, and Mom, I'm gonna leave Carter's stuff on the floor. 'Cuz we don't want it."

Me, possibly yelling just a tiny bit loudly: "JUST CLEAN IT UP."

Abby, in a quavering voice: "We're just askin' a question."

Sarah, in tears: "You don't have to yell."

(They both collapse in a heap of sobbing, because their mean, mean, mean, borderline abusive mother yelled at them.)

...

...

DURFWAD. You know what I mean? Just - slimey hockeypuck freakin' DURFWAD.

HONESTLY.

...

...

(Times like this, I wish I knew how to scrapbook.)

100 Great Picture Books

Pin It Yesterday, we went to the library around the corner. The car was out of commission, so the girls grabbed their scooters and Jake hopped in the wagon (his bike is in the courtyard, which is currently being invaded by hornets). I had this bright idea that I would pull the wagon while rollerblading.

The thing is, I used to be an AWESOME rollerblader. I jumped on and off of sidewalks, I could do one footed turns and jumps like an ice-skater, and I was absolutely fearless. I would blade down huge hills at top speed without even blinking. (I was insane, basically.) Not so much anymore. (Insane OR fearless, take your pick.) Now I'm a lot more tentative and a whole lot less fast. The driveway seems very long and steep and scary.

I was trying to go fast enough to keep us moving, but slow enough to retain control over the wagon and myself if I needed to stop quickly. Jake was not happy with my slowish progress. "Mom, you are not going faster enough."

Oh, excuse me. I'm so sorry to inconvenience you as I huff along on my rollerblades of death.

On the way there, we saw a dead catfish on the sidewalk, which precipitated much screaming. From me. "You guys, you can look, but don't touch it. Don't touch it. Don't touch it! Jake, if you touch it, I'll - DON'T TOUCH IT! DON'T TOUCH DEAD FISH YOU FIND ON THE SIDEWALK!" (Advice for the ages.)

After that we made it there pretty quickly, despite the 170 degree heat. Unfortunately, when we got to the library I realized I'd forgotten my shoes. I wasn't about to haul everyone back home just to retrieve my shoes, so I ended up walking around the library wearing socks and rollerblade liners. (Hey, they were kind of shoe-like. Sort of. If you squint.)

We found our books, cooled down, checked out and rolled away. Back at home, I started cleaning the kitchen and looked over to see this:


YEEEEESSSSS. My DNA manifests itself at last.

Lastly, the local elementary school sent home a list of 100 great picture books. I love anything to do with books, and thought I'd post it for you. I thought my preschoolers were sort of well readish, but there are a lot of books on the list that we haven't read before. I'm excited to take this list with us to the library next time.

100 Great Picture Books, compiled by the New York Public Library

Abuela by Arthur Dorros.
Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day by Judith Viorst.
Animals Should Definitely Not Wear Clothing by Judi Barrett.
Anansi and the Moss-Covered Rock by Eric A. Kimmel
Andy and the Lion by Juan Daugherty
Ben's Trumpet by Rachel Isadora
Blueberries for Sal by Robert McCloskey
The Bossy Gallito: A Traditional Cuban Folk Tale retold by Lucia M. Gonzalez.
Bread and Jam for Frances by Russell Hoban.
Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?
Caps for Sale: A Tale of a Peddler, Some Monkeys and Their Monkey Business by Esphyr Slobodkina.
The Carrot Seed by Ruth Krauss.
A Chair for My Mother by Vera B. Williams.
Chicka Chicka Boom Boom by Bill Martin, Jr., and John Archambault.
Corduroy by Don Freeman.
Curious George by H.A. Rey.
The Day Jimmy’s Boa Ate the Wash by Trinka H. Noble.
Dear Zoo by Rod Campbell.
Doctor De Sota by William Steig.
Farmer Duck by Martin Waddell. The Fortune-Tellers by Lloyd Alexander.
Freight Train by Donald Crews.
George and Martha by James Marshall.
Go Away, Big Green Monster! by Ed Emberley.
Good Night, Gorilla by Peggy Rathmann.
Goodnight Moon by Margaret W. Brown.
Grandfather’s Journey by Allen Say.
Happy Birthday, Moon by Frank Asch.
Harold and the Purple Crayon by Crockett Johnson.
Harry the Dirty Dog by Gene Zion.
Henny Penny illustrated by Paul Galdone.
Horton Hatches the Egg by Dr. Seuss.
I Know an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly illustrated by Glen Rounds.
If You Give a Mouse a Cookie by Laura J. Numeroff.
Is It Red? Is It Yellow? Is It Blue? An Adventure in Color by Tana Hoban.
It Could Always Be Worse: A Yiddish Folktale retold and illustrated by Margot Zemach.
John Henry by Julius Lester.
The Judge: An Untrue Tale by Harve Zemach.
Julius by Angela Johnson.
Komodo! by Peter Sís.
Leo the Late Bloomer by Robert Kraus.
Little Blue and Little Yellow by Leo Lionni.
The Little Dog Laughed and Other Nursery Rhymes by Lucy Cousins.
The Little Old Lady Who Was Not Afraid of Anything by Linda Williams.
Little Red Riding Hood retold and illustrated by Paul Galdone.
Lunch by Denise Fleming.
Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile by Bernard Waber.
Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans.
Masie Goes Swimming by Lucy Cousins.
Make Way for Ducklings by Robert McCloskey.
Martha Calling by Susan Meddaugh.
Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel by Virginia L. Burton.
Millions of Cats by Wanda Gág.
Miss Nelson Is Missing by Harry Allard and James Marshall.
Mr. Gumpy’s Outing by John Burningham.
The Monkey and the Crocodile retold and illustrated by Paul Galdone.
Morris’ Disappearing Bag by Rosemary Wells.
Mouse Paint by Ellen S. Walsh.
Mufaro’s Beautiful Daughters: An African Tale retold and illustrated by John Steptoe.
Mushroom in the Rain adapted from the Russian of V. Suteyev by Mirra Ginsburg.
The Napping House by Audrey Wood.
Officer Buckle and Gloria by Peggy Rathmann.
Old Black Fly by Jim Aylesworth.
Over in the Meadow by John Langstaff.
Owen by Kevin Henkes.
Papa, Please Get the Moon for Me by Eric Carle.
Perez and Martina by Pura Belpré. Illustrated by Carlos Sanchez.
Pierre: A Cautionary Tale by Maurice Sendak.
The Polar Express by Chris Van Allsburg.
The Random House Book of Mother Goose: A Treasury of 186 Timeless Nursery Rhymes selected and illustrated by Arnold Lobel.
Rosie’s Walk by Pat Hutchins.
Round Trip by Ann Jonas.
Rumpelstiltskin retold and illustrated by Paul O. Zelinsky.
Seven Blind Mice by Ed Young.
The Snowy Day by Ezra Jack Keats.
Stone Soup retold and illustrated by Marcia Brown.
The Story of Babar, the Little Elephant by Jean de Brunhoff.
The Story of Ferdinand by Munro Leaf.
Strega Nona by Tomie De Paola.
Swamp Angel by Anne Isaacs.
Swimmy by Leo Lionni.
Sylvester and the Magic Pebble by William Steig.
The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter.
Ten, Nine, Eight by Molly Bang.
There’s a Nightmare in My Closet by Mercer Mayer.
The Three Billy Goats Gruff by P.C. Asbjfrnsen and J.E. Moe.
The Three Robbers by Tomi Ungerer.
Tikki Tikki Tembo retold by Arlene Mosel.
The True Story of the Three Little Pigs by A. Wolf as told to John Scieszka.
Tuesday by David Wiesner.
Two of Everything: A Chinese Folktale retold and illustrated by Lily Toy Hong.
The Very Hungry Caterpillar by Eric Carle.
We’re Going on a Bear Hunt retold by Michael Rosen.
The Wheels on the Bus adapted and illustrated by Paul O. Zelinsky.
When I Was Young in the Mountains by Cynthia Rylant.
Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak.
Where’s Spot? by Eric Hill.
Whistle for Willie by Ezra Jack Keats.
Why Mosquitoes Buzz in People’s Ears: A West African Tale retold by Verna Aardema.
Zomo the Rabbit: A Trickster Tale from West Africa retold and illustrated by Gerald McDermott.

And Then I Bought A Five Gallon Drum of Purell

Pin It Earlier this week, I helped to chaperone a preschool field trip to the Las Vegas "Zoo."

Guys? I'm using the word zoo, very, very, very loosely, here. It has animals, but it is not affiliated with the city, and not accredited, and it is also just – NOT RIGHT.

I would describe the condition of the place, but when I googled “Las Vegas Zoo -SAD” it zipped me right over to a very funny post on this blog, which describes it perfectly:

Two words come to mind when trying to describe the Las Vegas Zoo
accurately:

1. Ghetto
2. Sad (so very, very sad.)

Yeah. What she said.

What I'm really concerned about though, is the little sanitation issue they seem to be having. If bird flu ever gets off the ground, this is where it will start, because the place is COVERED with pigeon poop.

Now I’m not a germophobe. If my kid drops a piece of his sandwich on the ground, I’ll sometimes pick it up, blow it off and hand it back to him. Good for the immune system and all that.

But when we walked toward the entrance and I saw hundreds of pigeons milling about, I started to get a bit nervous. We paid our admission and once we were inside the gates, I could see that 90% of the structures were made entirely out of pigeon crap.

I was a bit disconcerted.

“Oh look,” I cried, “There’s poo EVERYWHERE.” I laughed nervously, aware that my voice was just a little too loud. I looked at one of the other moms. “Look! Poo! All this poo! It’s on everything! Oh. Wow!”

I spent the next hour trying to make sure that my children didn’t touch anything and obsessive compulsively wiping Abby and Carter's hands off. "Did you get poo on yourself?" "How about now?" "How about now?"

At one point in time the pre-school teacher tried to get the kids to sit at one of the picnic tables to have a snack and I loudly objected.

“But look! There’s poo on it.”

“They can just not touch the top of the table,” she said calmly.

I laughed loudly. “Ha ha ha ha. Um.”

“They’ll be fine.”

I laughed again. “Ha ha ha ha. It’s on the benches." I pointed at one of the kids. "Look – he’s sitting on poo! That’s – that’s – really bothering me a lot.”

After snacktime, we walked around the zoo, all three acres of it, checking out the lion, the alligator, and the chimpanzee (who delighted my children my picking his nose and eating his boogers – they GOT that, it was their kind of comedy).

Did I mention that there was a lot of poo? Everywhere?

So basically? I do not think we will be coming back.

Here are some other fun comments about the zoo, also brought to you courtesy of Mr. Google:

• This is by far the worst "zoo" I've ever been to. I have no idea why they have so many chickens running around, except maybe to eat all the mice I saw.
• This zoo is a city haven...for the pigeons.
• This zoo is a real DUMP, and the folks that run it are to blame along with the city of Las Vegas. The poor, poor animals. May God forgive you all for this sick place!!!!
• I strongly suggest just not going.

Yeah, me too, buddy. ME TOO.

And now I must be going. So little time, so many things to bleach.

My Ears Are Broken

Pin It
Mom, can I play 'puter? Why not? Why not? I wanna. I wanna play it. I wanna play da guy who takes da word and shocks it POW and goes up high and makes a beep and you get a star and it goes bigger and da guy turns into a monkey. Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on. Let me do it. Mom, COME ON.

(Five minutes later, climbing on me) Oh, mom, I love you. Why you so sweet? Huh? Yous a sweet mommy. Let me hold yours face. Let me kiss yours nose. You so cute. Look at me. Look at me. I love you. I love you. I love you. Mom, I love you. I love you. I love you. Hey, mom, I’m gonna play 'puter. Why? Why? WHY? BUT I LOVE YOU! LET ME PLAY DA 'PUTER!

(Later) Oh Mom, I love you. Gimme me a hug. Gimme me a kiss. Gimme me anudder hug. Hold me. Hold me up. No, not sittin' down. Standin' up. Hold me standin' up. Standin' up. HEY, I SAID STANDIN' UP. Aaaaaaa! AAAAAAGH! STAND UP! NOW!

I don’t wanna go in my room. I won’t! No! Never! NEVAH! NEVAAAAAH! Hey, put me down. Put me down. HEY, I SAID PUT ME DOWN. I won’t stay in here. I won’t. I won't! NEVAH! LET ME OUT!

Hey, mom, I want lunch. Turkey sandwich wit crusts OFF. I didn't want it cut like that. NOT LIKE THAT. AAAAAAAH! Hey! Where you takin' me? Hey! Put me down!

(creeping out of room) Hey mom, look at this. Look at this picture. You like it? It’s for you. Hey mom, look at this. Look at this picture. You like that? Hey mom, look, another picture. Do you love it? Do you love it? Do you love it?

Hey mom, look at this. Look at my finger. Look at my car. Look at my army guy. Look at my shirt. Look at my eye booger. Look. Look. Look. Look. Hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom hey mom.

HEY MOM.

Why My Children Will Need Therapy - Reason #462

Pin It (Thanks to the foot post, I now know more about poop and fish eyes than I ever, EVER wanted to know. You're all DISGUSTING. Or rather, your children and animals are disgusting, but in a kind of awesome way. So there's that.)

I must preface this post by saying - I love my daughter and I am NOT AFRAID OF HER.

Still.

The other night I was sitting at my computer in the middle of the night, typing clickety-clack, clickety-clack and chortling to myself, when I felt this PRESENCE.

I looked to my left and the girl from The Ring was standing RIGHT THERE, two inches from my face and I screamed in terror. Except, OOPSIE, it was actually my six year old.

(See, she’s really pale, with long dark hair, and when she’s had a nightmare, she has crazy eyes. So you see how it could happen... Right? Um... Right? Hello? Is this thing on?)

For years I’ve worried about what kinds of things my children will say about me in therapy as adults, and I think for Sarah, it will probably stem from that moment, when I scared the living daylights out of her.

She cried, and I felt like a monster, and slapped myself several times because GET IT TOGETHER WOMAN, she’s your darling, tender hearted, sweet, kind, brilliant daughter. And then I took her back to bed and stayed with her until she fell asleep.

But then. BUT THEN.

Last night, there I was in my bed, innocently sleeping and minding my own business, when again, I felt this PRESENCE. I woke up and looked to my left, and sweet mother of a badger, there she was again, staring at me with the crazy eyes.

“I had a bad dream,” she whispered, in a creepy zombie voice. (Or possibly it was just a scared six year old voice. My imagination - now and then it tends to run up and down the hall, waving its arms and screaming in terror.)

I bit back my screams, held out my arms and she crawled into bed with me. I spooned her and patted her back while she told me about her dream about a poisonous snake in the house.

“How long were you standing there?” I whispered.

“A long, long, long time, mommy,” she whispered back.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

She turned around and looked at me serenely and yet still with the crazy eyes, then said, “I was trying to wake you up with my MIND.”

Um. Ahem. Well. I see.

You know, I love my child, but from 1AM until approximately 3AM (the premium creepy hours), I think I might be just a leeettle bit afraid of her.

Chagrin

Pin It My husband and I have been talking about money a lot lately - what to pay, who to put off, whether or not power and water are really all that necessary - you know, all of the fun stuff you have to weigh when money gets really tight. It all got kind of overwhelming for a while and we forgot to watch what we were saying in front of the children.

The other night when we were driving home from the grocery store, Sarah asked if we could go to McDonalds. I said something dismissive about not having enough money. I meant that I didn’t have the cash on me, but didn’t think about how it would sound to her.

When we got home, Sarah came and sat down next to me. Her six year old eyes solemn, she said, “Here mom, now you don’t have to worry about money anymore,” and she handed me a plastic bag. Inside were crumpled dollar bills, the ten dollar bill she got from her grandparents for her birthday and assorted quarters and nickels and dimes and pennies.

I gave her a huge hug while I pulled myself together, and then we had a long, reassuring (I hope) talk. Afterward, I went into the hallway and smacked my head against the wall a few times, just to make sure the lesson was well and truly knocked into my head.

And it is. They teach me stuff every single day, ya know?

I Call This Game Fun-In-A-Box

Pin It There are those days – days you play in the stream and build sandcastles and swing from trees – and then there are those other days. You know, those days where you sit in a box for three hours.

On Sunday morning my husband didn’t feel like going to church. This may or may not have had something to do with the fact that I sort of impulsively sent the link to my blog to my friends in book club, (who are also in my church congregation) on the same day I posted about bankruptcy and foreclosure, and he is now convinced that everyone in the neighborhood KNOWS OUR SHAME). I didn’t feel like wrangling them by myself, so we had a lazy day at home.

Lazy Sundays are nice and relaxing, except when they are long and unending and boring because you are trapped in the house with three restless children and a husband who keeps understandably shooting you dirty looks and rolling his eyes and sighing audibly. I did not feel like entertaining the children, other than pulling out the playdough and occasional tickling, and they were as stir crazy and irritable as I was. We would normally go for a walk or something but we didn’t, because it was cold and snowy – “Too wet to go out, And too cold to play ball. So we sat in the house. We did nothing at all.”

The children eventually decided that if there was NOTHING ELSE TO DO, (groan, sigh, whine) then they might as well use their imaginations, so they descended upon the boxes, which they used to make a secret hideout and then torture the dog. They put him inside, closed the lid, and pushed it around the room for a while, occasionally turning it on its side. The dog would run out confused, like, “HEY, who put me in that box? Abby, did you know someone put me in a box? Huh? Huh? Didya? Didya? Here, let me lick your face for a minute.” And then she’d pick him up and put him right back in again, giggling madly. (You know, my hatred for the dog is well established, but really, I’ll give him this – he puts up with a lot of crap.)

After a bit they hit upon the idea of getting inside themselves, armed with markers. They sat in those boxes for a good three hours, coloring the insides, savoring having permission to actually USE MARKERS without any consequences or time out. Possibly they were a little bit high on marker fumes, but it was a risk I was willing to take, in exchange for the quiet. (Hey, I checked their pupils! They looked fine!)

My three year old wanted me to close the lid, and so I did. His sisters wanted me to close THEIR boxes. And so I did. They sat in those closed boxes for a while. It was great – very quiet and conducive to large amounts of parental internet surfing. I highly recommend packing your children.

This morning, again, they are in their boxes, coloring and behaving rather like civilized schoolchildren in some alternate box oriented universe, so I’m rethinking this whole – we need a three bedroom house thing. Right now I’m leaning toward one bedroom and three very large boxes.