Aurgh, I had more typed for the last post but Blogger just ate it.
Anyway, Natalie is cruising along just fine on her charts, weighing in at about 11.5 pounds and measuring about 23 inches. I have to laugh looking back at pictures of Molly from the same timeframe - about 10-12 weeks old - because the same outfits that Molly was literally swimming in now barely fit around Natalie's ample baby chub. Which isn't surprising, since the kid eats about 49 times a day. Apparently a maternal diet high in PopTarts and caffeine free diet coke does wonders for early childhood development. She came into the world at a nice 6 lbs 6 oz and a highly uncomfortable 20 inches - that is almost ONE THIRD of my height!!! That's like Dan birthing something over 2 feet long, which actually is greater than the size of grinder sandwich than even he can safely consume without causing organ damage.
My two goals for the coming months are to take lots of photos of Natalie (who is already getting shafted in the photo department) and to record Molly so that we can preserve the insanity that is this child's barely 3 year old vocabulary and speech for when she is 15 and hates our guts and is writing Avril Lavigne-esque songs and poems of horrid angst about what moronic parents she has and we need something to remind us not to sell her to the circus.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Stats
For someone who spent a considerable number of years working in professional sports, statistics were an intergral part of my daily existence. At one point I could tell you what batting average someone who just went 7-for-39 over a 15 game hitting streak would have or how to calculate slugging percentage- which was fascinating, considering that I can't even make change for a dollar. Upon entering parenthood, I learned that parents are obsessed with a whole new set of stats - those relating to your child's growth rate.
When Molly was born, she wasn't exactly "on the charts." If an average newborn these days is around 8 lbs, then Molly was "about 47 miles under the chart, living in a nuclear bunker." Her 3 lbs 1 oz of birth weight made her smaller than most packages of chicken I defrost in the microwave (not that I ever really tried to compare this, as she was really snarky about it the one time I tried to put her in there. ha ha.) She was 15 1/2 inches long at birth - which actually was pretty long for a 31 week baby, and REALLY DAMN LONG if you are the person harboring a 15 1/2 inch long alien being in your uterus and you yourself are only 62 inches long.
Anyhow, in her early weeks of life, I was a wee bit obsessed with how she was doing on the "growth charts" that doctors and more importantly evil competing mommies follow to see how incredibly bad of a parent you must be if your child is not as high up on the charts as the most recent Fergie tune. My child was about as high up on the charts as "American Idol Presents: Bucky Covington with Special Guests 2 Live Crew - the Remix Album!"
At her two month checkup, Molly was still not "on the charts" but she could at least see them without the aid of a highpowered telescope. By four months (when she actually should have only been two months old) she was in the 1-2% range for weight, I think, and the 5th percentile for height. I could breathe a bit - I mean heck, I'm only in the 5% range for height myself without heels on, right?
As I chronicled intermittently on this blog, Molly was always a squirrely eater and with every meal I fretted that if she didn't eat that ONE LAST CHICKEN NUGGET, she was surely going to plummet off the charts again and someone would call CPS on me because my child looked like a 2 foot tall Brazilian runway model with a chain smoking habit.
And then, she started to eat a bit better. And we discovered the joys of Pediasure, caloric nectar of the gods. And she began drinking milk like the Dairy Council of America was bankrolling her. And I begat a new little monster to fret over, and stopped worrying so much about miss Molly, as she sure seemed to be burning through her clothing sizes with frightening speed.
Last week she had her 3 year checkup at the doctor, and she was 32.5 pounds and 38.75 inches. For those keeping score at home, that's roughly the 65th percentile for weight and the 80TH PERCENTILE for height!! At some point in the last 3 years, her genes realized that she is, in fact, daddy's girl after all. I no longer have a toddler - I have a what looks like a 6 year old who is going to start getting scouted for the WNBA or women's arena football. She comes up well past my WAIST now. It is actually painful for me to lug her around, although I do it anyway because despite an abundance of nearby parks and climbing structures and gymnastics lessons, mommy is still the BEST jungle gym. And I have the bruises to prove it.
While at the pediatrician, Molly's doctor who has been seeing her since she was literally palm-size for Dan asked her some questions to test her language and comprehension skills. HA HA HA. As Dan pointed out, perhaps he should have asked them in Spanish if she wanted a real challenge.
Dr. S: "What's your name?
M: "Molly!"
Dr. S: "Do you know your whole name?
M: "My name is MOLLY. MOO. CAFFRIN. HEARSCH!" (At some point, we have GOT to stop calling her "Mollymoo," as she really does think that is part of her given name. Oops)
Dr S: "OK Molly, if you were hungry, tell me, what would you want?"
M: (thinking about it for about .00000001 seconds) "CHICKEN."
Dr S: "If you were cold, what would you want?"
Answer he was probably looking for "coat!" Answer he got: (thoughtful pause)..."I would want to ZIP UP MY JACKET."
Dr S: "And if you were tired, what would you do?"
M: "Lay down and take a nap!"
He asked her if she could put her shoes on by herself - velcro sandals, which she usually can do. She struggled with getting her heel to go in correctly, but the doc was pleased with what he saw. He started talking to me about something else, and a few seconds later Molly stomps her foot down, flings off her shoe and says "Well I'm TRYING TO but these shoes are NOT COOPERATING!!!"
One day last week a car drove past us and she said "Mommy why that car has no roof on it?" I said "that kind of car is called a convertible, honey. It doesn't have a roof! So if it rains, you would get wet. You only drive a convertible when it's sunny out." She says "and if it snows, you would get SNOWFLAKES ALL OVER your seats!!"
Now, anytime she sees a topless car she yells out "HEY!!! DERE'S ANOTHER CONVERTIBLE MOMMY!!" with perfect enuciation. "
When Molly was born, she wasn't exactly "on the charts." If an average newborn these days is around 8 lbs, then Molly was "about 47 miles under the chart, living in a nuclear bunker." Her 3 lbs 1 oz of birth weight made her smaller than most packages of chicken I defrost in the microwave (not that I ever really tried to compare this, as she was really snarky about it the one time I tried to put her in there. ha ha.) She was 15 1/2 inches long at birth - which actually was pretty long for a 31 week baby, and REALLY DAMN LONG if you are the person harboring a 15 1/2 inch long alien being in your uterus and you yourself are only 62 inches long.
Anyhow, in her early weeks of life, I was a wee bit obsessed with how she was doing on the "growth charts" that doctors and more importantly evil competing mommies follow to see how incredibly bad of a parent you must be if your child is not as high up on the charts as the most recent Fergie tune. My child was about as high up on the charts as "American Idol Presents: Bucky Covington with Special Guests 2 Live Crew - the Remix Album!"
At her two month checkup, Molly was still not "on the charts" but she could at least see them without the aid of a highpowered telescope. By four months (when she actually should have only been two months old) she was in the 1-2% range for weight, I think, and the 5th percentile for height. I could breathe a bit - I mean heck, I'm only in the 5% range for height myself without heels on, right?
As I chronicled intermittently on this blog, Molly was always a squirrely eater and with every meal I fretted that if she didn't eat that ONE LAST CHICKEN NUGGET, she was surely going to plummet off the charts again and someone would call CPS on me because my child looked like a 2 foot tall Brazilian runway model with a chain smoking habit.
And then, she started to eat a bit better. And we discovered the joys of Pediasure, caloric nectar of the gods. And she began drinking milk like the Dairy Council of America was bankrolling her. And I begat a new little monster to fret over, and stopped worrying so much about miss Molly, as she sure seemed to be burning through her clothing sizes with frightening speed.
Last week she had her 3 year checkup at the doctor, and she was 32.5 pounds and 38.75 inches. For those keeping score at home, that's roughly the 65th percentile for weight and the 80TH PERCENTILE for height!! At some point in the last 3 years, her genes realized that she is, in fact, daddy's girl after all. I no longer have a toddler - I have a what looks like a 6 year old who is going to start getting scouted for the WNBA or women's arena football. She comes up well past my WAIST now. It is actually painful for me to lug her around, although I do it anyway because despite an abundance of nearby parks and climbing structures and gymnastics lessons, mommy is still the BEST jungle gym. And I have the bruises to prove it.
While at the pediatrician, Molly's doctor who has been seeing her since she was literally palm-size for Dan asked her some questions to test her language and comprehension skills. HA HA HA. As Dan pointed out, perhaps he should have asked them in Spanish if she wanted a real challenge.
Dr. S: "What's your name?
M: "Molly!"
Dr. S: "Do you know your whole name?
M: "My name is MOLLY. MOO. CAFFRIN. HEARSCH!" (At some point, we have GOT to stop calling her "Mollymoo," as she really does think that is part of her given name. Oops)
Dr S: "OK Molly, if you were hungry, tell me, what would you want?"
M: (thinking about it for about .00000001 seconds) "CHICKEN."
Dr S: "If you were cold, what would you want?"
Answer he was probably looking for "coat!" Answer he got: (thoughtful pause)..."I would want to ZIP UP MY JACKET."
Dr S: "And if you were tired, what would you do?"
M: "Lay down and take a nap!"
He asked her if she could put her shoes on by herself - velcro sandals, which she usually can do. She struggled with getting her heel to go in correctly, but the doc was pleased with what he saw. He started talking to me about something else, and a few seconds later Molly stomps her foot down, flings off her shoe and says "Well I'm TRYING TO but these shoes are NOT COOPERATING!!!"
One day last week a car drove past us and she said "Mommy why that car has no roof on it?" I said "that kind of car is called a convertible, honey. It doesn't have a roof! So if it rains, you would get wet. You only drive a convertible when it's sunny out." She says "and if it snows, you would get SNOWFLAKES ALL OVER your seats!!"
Now, anytime she sees a topless car she yells out "HEY!!! DERE'S ANOTHER CONVERTIBLE MOMMY!!" with perfect enuciation. "
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Actually still alive
All of us are, that is. I don't know how - I am cursing EVERY person I've ever met with more than one child who didn't forewarn us that two children is NOT "just like one, only a little extra time needed to get out the door!" Oh my Lord, it is just like trying to get a herd of elephants to board a plane backwards while singing "Copacabana." IN-FREAKING-POSSIBLE!!!!
The baby is cute and all, but she would be a hell of a lot cuter if she learned to sleep for more than 3-4 hours at a stretch. So far she is very attached to her 3 am wakeup routine and I am getting very attached to the bags under my eyes that are now the size of a Louis Vuitton garment bag.
Molly just turned 3-going-on-14. I need to start chronicling some of her conversations and observations - I seriously wonder what she will be saying when she is, like, eight years old.
Example: My sister in law was involved in a car accident - no injuries, other than to the car - but told Molly about how someone "bumped" her car and that's why she was driving an unfamiliar loaner.
The next day, Molly was GRILLING me on the intricacies of the legal system - "Mommy, why that man bumped Aunt Kari's car? Was he not paying attention? Why not? What was he doing that he wasn't paying attention? Was he reading a book like that lady was that time we were at the green light and she didn't go and you honked your horn and said 'HEY, GO!!!!' Why a policeman came and yelled at that man who bumped Aunt Kari's car? Did he say 'sorry?' Mommy, if your car gets bumped a POLICEMAN comes and brings you a NEW CAR from the CAR STORE!!!!!!"
Seriously. Verbatim.
It is hard to discipline her because most of the time you just want to laugh. She is too smart to pull reverse psychology on...the other day I threatened to give her chicken nuggets (yes that is STILL the only meat product she will consume, save for pepperoni, which hardly counts as meat since you don't know what pig parts get squished and smashed to put in that particular delicacy) to her friend to eat if she wouldn't finish them. She goes "OK Mommy, Mairin can eat them. See? I'm doing a GREAT JOB sharing!!! Now can I have some more chips?"
Sigh.
The baby is cute and all, but she would be a hell of a lot cuter if she learned to sleep for more than 3-4 hours at a stretch. So far she is very attached to her 3 am wakeup routine and I am getting very attached to the bags under my eyes that are now the size of a Louis Vuitton garment bag.
Molly just turned 3-going-on-14. I need to start chronicling some of her conversations and observations - I seriously wonder what she will be saying when she is, like, eight years old.
Example: My sister in law was involved in a car accident - no injuries, other than to the car - but told Molly about how someone "bumped" her car and that's why she was driving an unfamiliar loaner.
The next day, Molly was GRILLING me on the intricacies of the legal system - "Mommy, why that man bumped Aunt Kari's car? Was he not paying attention? Why not? What was he doing that he wasn't paying attention? Was he reading a book like that lady was that time we were at the green light and she didn't go and you honked your horn and said 'HEY, GO!!!!' Why a policeman came and yelled at that man who bumped Aunt Kari's car? Did he say 'sorry?' Mommy, if your car gets bumped a POLICEMAN comes and brings you a NEW CAR from the CAR STORE!!!!!!"
Seriously. Verbatim.
It is hard to discipline her because most of the time you just want to laugh. She is too smart to pull reverse psychology on...the other day I threatened to give her chicken nuggets (yes that is STILL the only meat product she will consume, save for pepperoni, which hardly counts as meat since you don't know what pig parts get squished and smashed to put in that particular delicacy) to her friend to eat if she wouldn't finish them. She goes "OK Mommy, Mairin can eat them. See? I'm doing a GREAT JOB sharing!!! Now can I have some more chips?"
Sigh.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Brilliant second-time parent observation #1
It is not recommended that you wash a disposable diaper in your washing machine. Especially with other laundry in there. The result is hundreds - no, thousands - of tiny gel pellets that stick to EVERYTHING. And your laundry smells Pampers-fresh all day.
By the way, we have a new baby. Natalie Elise was born as scheduled on April 5 via repeat maternal slice and dice, aka c-section. She weighed in at a whopping 6 lbs 6 oz - one ounce less than I weighed at full term, and she was born at 36 weeks!! She was more than double what Molly weighed at 31 weeks (3 lbs, 1 oz). I bounced back a lot faster this time than with Molly's c-section - probably the result of 6 weeks of couch arrest, I was ready to run laps the day after the delivery! Anything to finally be up and around.
Big sister Molly has been utterly fascinated with the whole process. She knows all about the "big ouchie on Mommy's tummy - they have to CUT her to get baby Natalie out!!!" and she is willing to tell you ALLLLL about the "milk from Mommy's BOOBS!" She helps us give bottles of breastmilk; helps hand us wipes and diapers during changes; and has appointed herself captain of the Pacifier Patrol, following us all over the house going "does she want her pacifier NOW??? How about NOWWWW? is she AWAKE??? Awwww, I think she wants her PINK pacifier not the GREEN one!!!!"
So far Molly has not impaled the baby, although she does like to pat her on the head and check that the soft spot is still there -- so if Natalie grows up to front an all-girl Megadeth cover band or do something equally inane like go to Michigan or Michigan State, that will explain it all.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
If anyone is still reading...
...it is 1:20 am on Wed morning so technically "today" I am 34 weeks and 6 days...8 more days to go!! Frightening that we are in the single digits. It was 81 degrees here today, so I bedrested much of the day on a lawn chair and have a fantastic sunburn to show for it! It's at least an improvement over my gray-mask-of-death look that I've been sporting for quite some time.
Nothing new to report. If you ever have the chance to watch the movie "Bee Season," please flee rapidly in the opposite direction. Horrible.
Also, do not eat Wendy's at 11 pm and expect that you aren't going to get heartburn or reflux. Oops. My mom reminded me that Wendy's at 11 pm was EXACTLY what I ate the night before my water broke with Molly at 4 am the next morning. I'll let you know if we make it to safety tomorrow following the consumption of Combo #1, ketchup only on the burger, medium sized fries and large Pepsi.
Nothing new to report. If you ever have the chance to watch the movie "Bee Season," please flee rapidly in the opposite direction. Horrible.
Also, do not eat Wendy's at 11 pm and expect that you aren't going to get heartburn or reflux. Oops. My mom reminded me that Wendy's at 11 pm was EXACTLY what I ate the night before my water broke with Molly at 4 am the next morning. I'll let you know if we make it to safety tomorrow following the consumption of Combo #1, ketchup only on the burger, medium sized fries and large Pepsi.
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Day 26.
My almost 3 year old has chicken pox.
Why me.
I am not at risk, I had it THOROUGHLY when I was in the 3rd grade. But it's just one more level of adventure.
Baby ETA: 14 days from tomorrow!!!!
Why me.
I am not at risk, I had it THOROUGHLY when I was in the 3rd grade. But it's just one more level of adventure.
Baby ETA: 14 days from tomorrow!!!!
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Day 23. Ish.
My length of time on couch arrest has now surpassed the number of days remaining!!! We are at T-minus...18 days until scheduled delivery! I am 33 weeks and 3 days pregnant. I know this really excites me more than anyone and that you will all be happy when I am done counting numbers and days and minutes and seconds.
I have been very busy...watching enough televised basketball to rot the eyeballs off the most hardened couch potato. Luckily (or unluckily I guess for them) I have two other friends who are also bed-confined this week so we have been exchanging multiple daily emails about missed 3 pointers and bad calls and commiserating about the garbled status of our once-proud brackets. YES I AM AWARE that Notre Dame got knocked out in the first round by a school who sounds like a Dickens character with a lisp (where the hell is Winthrop?!?). On the plus side our hockey team beat stooopid Michigan for the CCHA title this weekend and we are ranked #1 in the country. So....nyah. Our WOMEN are still hanging in there in THEIR NCAA tournament.
18 days til delivery also means 15 DAYS UNTIL TIGERS OPENING DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Right now I have wheelchair accessible tickets and have been cleared by my doctor to attend the game provided I sit my butt in a wheelchair and some poor schmuck schleps me around. (that schmuck will be my dad, who is rolling his eyes at my devotion). Pregnant on Opening Day really sucks, as this is the second time I have been in that position and unable to drink beer. Plbllblblbblblb. I guess a big preggo in a wheelchair with a 97 oz Budweiser in one hand would look pretty bad. Sigh.
I finally had some in-person entertainment as an also-pregnant friend came over for a few hours to hang out and watch horrible chick movies. She chose "Stick It," a gymnastics flick that makes "Mean Girls" look like Academy Awards fodder. It was so bad it was actually enjoyable in its pure and utter hideosity. She also provided cookies, chips and bean dip so Dan was THRILLED to see me stuffing my face.
We had a slight incident last night in which my lovely husband graciously agreed to trim my pterodactyl-esque toe nails lest I sever his leg arteries in my sleep...he was SO meticulous about the process, but perhaps was leaning in a bit too closely - he ended up ricocheting a piece of toenail right into his eye. It took until this afternoon to get it out. THAT would have been a fun one to explain in the ER.
I have been very busy...watching enough televised basketball to rot the eyeballs off the most hardened couch potato. Luckily (or unluckily I guess for them) I have two other friends who are also bed-confined this week so we have been exchanging multiple daily emails about missed 3 pointers and bad calls and commiserating about the garbled status of our once-proud brackets. YES I AM AWARE that Notre Dame got knocked out in the first round by a school who sounds like a Dickens character with a lisp (where the hell is Winthrop?!?). On the plus side our hockey team beat stooopid Michigan for the CCHA title this weekend and we are ranked #1 in the country. So....nyah. Our WOMEN are still hanging in there in THEIR NCAA tournament.
18 days til delivery also means 15 DAYS UNTIL TIGERS OPENING DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Right now I have wheelchair accessible tickets and have been cleared by my doctor to attend the game provided I sit my butt in a wheelchair and some poor schmuck schleps me around. (that schmuck will be my dad, who is rolling his eyes at my devotion). Pregnant on Opening Day really sucks, as this is the second time I have been in that position and unable to drink beer. Plbllblblbblblb. I guess a big preggo in a wheelchair with a 97 oz Budweiser in one hand would look pretty bad. Sigh.
I finally had some in-person entertainment as an also-pregnant friend came over for a few hours to hang out and watch horrible chick movies. She chose "Stick It," a gymnastics flick that makes "Mean Girls" look like Academy Awards fodder. It was so bad it was actually enjoyable in its pure and utter hideosity. She also provided cookies, chips and bean dip so Dan was THRILLED to see me stuffing my face.
We had a slight incident last night in which my lovely husband graciously agreed to trim my pterodactyl-esque toe nails lest I sever his leg arteries in my sleep...he was SO meticulous about the process, but perhaps was leaning in a bit too closely - he ended up ricocheting a piece of toenail right into his eye. It took until this afternoon to get it out. THAT would have been a fun one to explain in the ER.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Day 17. Or 18. Or somethingteen.
Day 18 I think. I really felt like crap today, which is convenient because I already LOOK like crap so it's nice to be consistent. Went on my biweekly field trip to the doctor today - incredibly uneventful. Measuring right on schedule, gained back one of the three or so pounds I lost (how, I have no idea. We are having food wars in this house - me against everyone else. I AM NOT HUNGRY and eating and then laying down for 23 hours makes me SICK. I digress). We are slated to welcome this little monster 3 weeks from Thursday. Repeat after me - YIKES.
As I mentioned, Dan is still on a mission to have me gain at least a pound a DAY at this point. He forced me to eat a double Wendy's burger tonight, finish ALL my fries AND eat most of a Frosty (minus the portion that Molly used to paint on her placemat with, using a french fry as her brush of choice and then concerned about why I wouldn't eat her soggy french fry of pollution when she was done. BLEGH!!!). Too bad Tums don't have calories - I eat about 10 a day. If you have never experienced the joy of heartburn or acid reflux, chug some jagermeister or goldschlager FAST for the burning sensation in your chest, then stand on your head to make some of it come back up, then belch uncontrollably for an hour, then choke, then gag up your food JUST prior to the point of puking yet where you can still taste the nastiness in your mouth...then repeat all day long. IT'S AWESOME.
I have been diligently working on my NCAA tourney research tonight. I did 5 brackets on espn.com, two in my "friend pool" at $10 each, and will do one at cnnsi.com as well. I have to pick ND to win it all in at least one pool (albeit one I am not putting my own money behind. I'm not that dumb).
Note to fiction fans, if you have the chance to read "A Private Hotel for Gentle Ladies," save your brain cells for something more deserving like American Idol or anything on MTV. Wow, it SUCKED. And that is as high-brow of a literary assessment as it deserves.
As I mentioned, Dan is still on a mission to have me gain at least a pound a DAY at this point. He forced me to eat a double Wendy's burger tonight, finish ALL my fries AND eat most of a Frosty (minus the portion that Molly used to paint on her placemat with, using a french fry as her brush of choice and then concerned about why I wouldn't eat her soggy french fry of pollution when she was done. BLEGH!!!). Too bad Tums don't have calories - I eat about 10 a day. If you have never experienced the joy of heartburn or acid reflux, chug some jagermeister or goldschlager FAST for the burning sensation in your chest, then stand on your head to make some of it come back up, then belch uncontrollably for an hour, then choke, then gag up your food JUST prior to the point of puking yet where you can still taste the nastiness in your mouth...then repeat all day long. IT'S AWESOME.
I have been diligently working on my NCAA tourney research tonight. I did 5 brackets on espn.com, two in my "friend pool" at $10 each, and will do one at cnnsi.com as well. I have to pick ND to win it all in at least one pool (albeit one I am not putting my own money behind. I'm not that dumb).
Note to fiction fans, if you have the chance to read "A Private Hotel for Gentle Ladies," save your brain cells for something more deserving like American Idol or anything on MTV. Wow, it SUCKED. And that is as high-brow of a literary assessment as it deserves.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Tales....day...oh, hell, I don't even know.
I think it's day 12. More importantly, today marks 32 WEEKS of pregnancy, so from here on out, every day is the most pregnant I have ever been in my life ;) And probably the heaviest. DEFINITELY the roundest. I look like someone seriously stuck a beach ball on my body but I don't see a lot of other weight spots (like, four chins or fat armpits) so I guess that's good. Then again, would any of my friends actually say "WOW!!! You are just getting huge ALL AROUND!!!" They probably do. Just not to my face. Or I might sit on them. And they would die. ;)
I have finished 2 books since yesterday afternoon - man I love chick lit, when I can read without worrying about having an exam on something or writing a 35 page paper. Yesterday - read "Confessions of a Shopaholic" by Sophie Kinsella (thanks Wendy!!) - very cute, AND educational - I had to have Dan look up the British pounds to US Dollar conversion rate before I really understood what the heck was going on. Today I read "The Secret Life of Bees" by Sue Monk Kidd (thanks grandma!). Good stuff. Depressing. But good.
Now any remaining brain cells I may have had are slowly seeping out of my facial pores watching "American Idol" - thank GOD they got rid of the talentless Jersey bimbo. Sorry if that offends any Jersey readers. Or bimbo readers.
Watched ND beat Syracuse in the 1st round of the Big East tournament today - my male friends (and Cara) are positively oozing with jealousy that I can watch literally a thousand straight hours of pre-NCAA tourney coverage, conference championships, bracketology specials, bubble specials, bubble bursting specials, in-depth investigations into what hair products the greasy coaches use and whether any of them can be linked to heart attack; and EVERY. SINGLE. NCAA. TOURNEY. GAME. ON. TV!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! However, I will still lose all the money I gamble on tourney pools. Why should this year be any different?
I have finished 2 books since yesterday afternoon - man I love chick lit, when I can read without worrying about having an exam on something or writing a 35 page paper. Yesterday - read "Confessions of a Shopaholic" by Sophie Kinsella (thanks Wendy!!) - very cute, AND educational - I had to have Dan look up the British pounds to US Dollar conversion rate before I really understood what the heck was going on. Today I read "The Secret Life of Bees" by Sue Monk Kidd (thanks grandma!). Good stuff. Depressing. But good.
Now any remaining brain cells I may have had are slowly seeping out of my facial pores watching "American Idol" - thank GOD they got rid of the talentless Jersey bimbo. Sorry if that offends any Jersey readers. Or bimbo readers.
Watched ND beat Syracuse in the 1st round of the Big East tournament today - my male friends (and Cara) are positively oozing with jealousy that I can watch literally a thousand straight hours of pre-NCAA tourney coverage, conference championships, bracketology specials, bubble specials, bubble bursting specials, in-depth investigations into what hair products the greasy coaches use and whether any of them can be linked to heart attack; and EVERY. SINGLE. NCAA. TOURNEY. GAME. ON. TV!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! However, I will still lose all the money I gamble on tourney pools. Why should this year be any different?
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Tales...day 9
I think it's day 9. I pretty much judge what day it is by what is on primetime TV so for most of the daylight hours when the same shows are on, I have no idea what day it is whatsoever.
So far I have watched a lot of movies. North Country with Charlize Theron - highly recommended if you are in a great mood and want to become suicidally depressed. Yikes. But good flick. Blow stuff up space movies - Star Wars (twice, part way through each time), Armageddon (how inaccurate can we be with NASA procedures? Let me count the ways). What else...Chicken Little (or as Molly calls it "the little chicken movie"); Mad Hot Ballroom; part of Sense and Sensibility; part of CB4 (IDDDDDDDIOTIC Chris Rock movie from years ago); Memoirs of a Geisha (no I didn't read the book); In Her Shoes; the Birdcage (one of the single funniest movies EVER made) ...I think that's it. I have Walk the Line, Flightplan, Clueless and a few others "in queue" for other days.
Other than that - I sleep. A lot. At weird times. Dan is so hyper about me gaining weight that he now won't get me refills of my water or juice unless I agree to eat something too. Nice.
God, I am even boring myself with this post.
So far I have watched a lot of movies. North Country with Charlize Theron - highly recommended if you are in a great mood and want to become suicidally depressed. Yikes. But good flick. Blow stuff up space movies - Star Wars (twice, part way through each time), Armageddon (how inaccurate can we be with NASA procedures? Let me count the ways). What else...Chicken Little (or as Molly calls it "the little chicken movie"); Mad Hot Ballroom; part of Sense and Sensibility; part of CB4 (IDDDDDDDIOTIC Chris Rock movie from years ago); Memoirs of a Geisha (no I didn't read the book); In Her Shoes; the Birdcage (one of the single funniest movies EVER made) ...I think that's it. I have Walk the Line, Flightplan, Clueless and a few others "in queue" for other days.
Other than that - I sleep. A lot. At weird times. Dan is so hyper about me gaining weight that he now won't get me refills of my water or juice unless I agree to eat something too. Nice.
God, I am even boring myself with this post.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Tales...Day 6
Daytime TV really sucks. thank god for TiVo. Molly thinks this bedrest deal is GREAT - the only way I can really spend time with her doing something she likes is watching movies, so today we watched Chicken Little and Sleeping Beauty back to back...and then, the little couch potato goes "OK Mommy! now YOU go potty and I will get the Simba movie out, and then we can watch Simba next!!" I give it a few more weeks before she can work the VCR on her own. We did not watch Simba, as I feared CPS might come over if I let that child watch any more consecutive television.
Potty training also sucks. A lot. Don't even ask, it's a disaster. It's very hard to potty train from the couch, so poor grandma has to deal with most of the chaos. All the synapses are just not firing at the right time in the little toddler brain, which frustrates me to no end but I will just go ahead and blame that on her father's genes. then again, these days my own potty refluxes are working overtime, particularly after 1 am when I seem to have rampant angry bladder disease.
I'm sure I should be using this time to explore religion or reach deep into my psyche and solve my mental issues and neuroses but instead I am reading up on the 2007 Tigers and will soon be spending hours a day researching college basketball stats in my annual effort to make any progress whatsoever in the 14 NCAA tourney pools I enter and then lose to people who pick teams based on the cuteness of their mascot. GAH.
Potty training also sucks. A lot. Don't even ask, it's a disaster. It's very hard to potty train from the couch, so poor grandma has to deal with most of the chaos. All the synapses are just not firing at the right time in the little toddler brain, which frustrates me to no end but I will just go ahead and blame that on her father's genes. then again, these days my own potty refluxes are working overtime, particularly after 1 am when I seem to have rampant angry bladder disease.
I'm sure I should be using this time to explore religion or reach deep into my psyche and solve my mental issues and neuroses but instead I am reading up on the 2007 Tigers and will soon be spending hours a day researching college basketball stats in my annual effort to make any progress whatsoever in the 14 NCAA tourney pools I enter and then lose to people who pick teams based on the cuteness of their mascot. GAH.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Tales from the Tylosand
(That would be the name of our super Swedish IKEA couch monstrosity).
It has begun. I am officially chained to my couch on bedrest, having reached the 30 week mark in this pregnancy. Today is Monday, Feb. 26 and I am at 30 weeks and 4 days. For those keeping score at home, my water broke with Molly at 31 weeks exactly and I had her 5 days later. This time around, my doctors are not taking any chances. For one thing, they would actually like to DELIVER this baby, as opposed to my out-state business trip delivery adventures from last time. So, for several weeks I have been asked not to be more than an hour from home. Now, my freedom consists of one shower per day (preferably 5 minutes - HA) and trips to the potty. I drink a lot, just so I have more excitement in my day. It's thrilling.
I am on day 3 of full bedrest. Wow. It really bites. I don't watch soaps. I don't knit. I am not allowed to work. So far I have watched a lot of TV, praised God for inventing TiVo, and been very grateful that Molly is ENGROSSED with Disney movies and will watch anything that Disney has ever produced with rapt attention, snuggled next to me on the couch. My mom is staying with us to help - aka do all the work - thank god.
I am currently scouring the "guide" function on TiVo, looking into all the Discovery Health slice and dice shows I can tape and backlog for later. I also do a lot of crossword puzzles. I am giving birth to a future kick boxer - you would not beLIEVE the X-Files-esque alien life form movements and visuals going on in my stomach. I can't keep the laptop on my LAP as the child can actually MOVE it off of me.
Right now we (why do I say we??? ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I!!!!!) are scheduled for a c section on April 5 at 36 weeks exactly with an amnio the day before to check the baby's lung maturity. hopefully we will be cleared to deliver the next day as I am at risk for internal bleeding due to the type of csection I had with Miss Molly.
that's all for now. the dog is on the couch with me, releasing periodic deadly gas attacks. good times.
It has begun. I am officially chained to my couch on bedrest, having reached the 30 week mark in this pregnancy. Today is Monday, Feb. 26 and I am at 30 weeks and 4 days. For those keeping score at home, my water broke with Molly at 31 weeks exactly and I had her 5 days later. This time around, my doctors are not taking any chances. For one thing, they would actually like to DELIVER this baby, as opposed to my out-state business trip delivery adventures from last time. So, for several weeks I have been asked not to be more than an hour from home. Now, my freedom consists of one shower per day (preferably 5 minutes - HA) and trips to the potty. I drink a lot, just so I have more excitement in my day. It's thrilling.
I am on day 3 of full bedrest. Wow. It really bites. I don't watch soaps. I don't knit. I am not allowed to work. So far I have watched a lot of TV, praised God for inventing TiVo, and been very grateful that Molly is ENGROSSED with Disney movies and will watch anything that Disney has ever produced with rapt attention, snuggled next to me on the couch. My mom is staying with us to help - aka do all the work - thank god.
I am currently scouring the "guide" function on TiVo, looking into all the Discovery Health slice and dice shows I can tape and backlog for later. I also do a lot of crossword puzzles. I am giving birth to a future kick boxer - you would not beLIEVE the X-Files-esque alien life form movements and visuals going on in my stomach. I can't keep the laptop on my LAP as the child can actually MOVE it off of me.
Right now we (why do I say we??? ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I!!!!!) are scheduled for a c section on April 5 at 36 weeks exactly with an amnio the day before to check the baby's lung maturity. hopefully we will be cleared to deliver the next day as I am at risk for internal bleeding due to the type of csection I had with Miss Molly.
that's all for now. the dog is on the couch with me, releasing periodic deadly gas attacks. good times.
Monday, November 20, 2006
The little monster is on vacation for a few days at my parents' house in Cleveland. I went home this weekend and Molly and I went to visit a friend; I came back yesterday and Molly will continue to hang out with grandma and grandpa for a few more days. So far during her short visit, she has decided to go on the potty ALL THE TIME (today at least) - two pees and a poop by nap time and the SAME DIAPER ALL MORNING!!! Of course, all this excretory excitement had to come when they were 1) at the mall and 2) at a restaurant. The child has impeccable timing. But whatever works. She had to call both daddy and I at work to tell us alllll about it so I pity my coworkers who have to listen to me exclaiming "REALLY??? How MUCH poopy??? That's SO EXCITING HONEY!!!!"
She also sat on Santa'a lap, rode the Christmas train at the mall, and learned how to walk up steps backward. All today. She helped grandma and grandpa decorate their Christmas tree by putting about 45 ornaments on two low hanging branches, all in a very concentrated mass but dammit she DID IT HERSELF, she told me about 100 times this weekend. Too funny.
I am still pregnant, and crabby. I've been having some braxton hicks contractions, I think - and for the non mommy readers out there, those are very annoying little "fake" or "practice" contractions wherein your uterus suddenly turns into the consistency of titanium and you feel like it's having steel-coated seizures. You know what? I had plenty of REAL contractions last time. I don't need any damn practice. GO AWAY stupid contractions. You are freaking me out. I drink enough water to fill a fish tank already, so it shouldn't be a sign of dehydration. We are just a few weeks away from finding out what the little alien is sporting genitalia wise, so that I know if I should curse "him" or "her" for making my existence miserable, my bladder depressed, my sleep schedule disastrous and my face the consistency of a land mine that has just been run over by obese elephants wearing cowboy spurs.
Argh.
She also sat on Santa'a lap, rode the Christmas train at the mall, and learned how to walk up steps backward. All today. She helped grandma and grandpa decorate their Christmas tree by putting about 45 ornaments on two low hanging branches, all in a very concentrated mass but dammit she DID IT HERSELF, she told me about 100 times this weekend. Too funny.
I am still pregnant, and crabby. I've been having some braxton hicks contractions, I think - and for the non mommy readers out there, those are very annoying little "fake" or "practice" contractions wherein your uterus suddenly turns into the consistency of titanium and you feel like it's having steel-coated seizures. You know what? I had plenty of REAL contractions last time. I don't need any damn practice. GO AWAY stupid contractions. You are freaking me out. I drink enough water to fill a fish tank already, so it shouldn't be a sign of dehydration. We are just a few weeks away from finding out what the little alien is sporting genitalia wise, so that I know if I should curse "him" or "her" for making my existence miserable, my bladder depressed, my sleep schedule disastrous and my face the consistency of a land mine that has just been run over by obese elephants wearing cowboy spurs.
Argh.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
I just spent half an hour attempting to play Dora Candyland with a not quite 2 1/2 year old. The game is for 3+ but that did not deter miss Doraobsession, who spotted the box and wanted to do NOTHING else but "play wif my Dora game pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease!!!!!!" She can get the color thing down, where you draw a card and move your piece onto the corresponding colored square. What's missing is the ability to understand that you are following this colored path to and END POINT; that you only get to be one piece at a time; that no, Murphy does NOT want to be Boots this time; that you cannot walk on the board "like a balance beam mommy!", that you do in fact have to take turns with the other person (or dog) playing with you, etc.
Unrelatedly amusing moment from this week's adventures in Pottyland...we have been able to get her to at least AGREE to sit on the potty lately, but only on the BIG potty - no more potty seats, thank you very much. Despite the fact that her skinny little butt fell right in a few days ago, she is undeterred. She holds onto the big potty porcelain seat with both hands and reminds me "I am NOT falling in dis time Mommy!!"
She accomplished a great big poop on the potty the other night (by coincidence, not by telling us she had to poop or anything helpful like that) and we did the whole routine - "now we wipe! and now we get a STICKER!!" I reminded her that we had to flush the poop away so I pulled the handle and she sticks her head over the bowl watching the poop go away and yells "BYE BYE POOPY!!! HAVE A NICE WEEK!!!!!!!!!"
She is nothing if not polite.
Unrelatedly amusing moment from this week's adventures in Pottyland...we have been able to get her to at least AGREE to sit on the potty lately, but only on the BIG potty - no more potty seats, thank you very much. Despite the fact that her skinny little butt fell right in a few days ago, she is undeterred. She holds onto the big potty porcelain seat with both hands and reminds me "I am NOT falling in dis time Mommy!!"
She accomplished a great big poop on the potty the other night (by coincidence, not by telling us she had to poop or anything helpful like that) and we did the whole routine - "now we wipe! and now we get a STICKER!!" I reminded her that we had to flush the poop away so I pulled the handle and she sticks her head over the bowl watching the poop go away and yells "BYE BYE POOPY!!! HAVE A NICE WEEK!!!!!!!!!"
She is nothing if not polite.
Friday, November 10, 2006
I came, I saw, I scoffed...I shut up.
My own personal kiwi/avocado/kumquat/4 oz beef patty was obviously not amused with my last post, and in the last hour has taken to kicking me in the damn belly button. Sorry, bloblet, if I offended you. I guess you can feel it at 15+ weeks. Or I need to lay off the chili, as it may be attacking from the inside out. But having been down this road before, I venture to say that the internal assault (well, ok, teenytinylittlepops, not exactly tae bo) is coming from the bloblet.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Doritos Dancing In Utero
I have a good friend at work who is also pregnant, about 2 1/2 weeks behind me. She told me this week that she has already been able to feel her baby kicking and moving...at 12 WEEKS. When I noted that I haven't felt a thing thus far, at 15 weeks, she reminded me that "you DO tend to feel it earlier with the second child - hmm!"
Now OK, I can buy that. But 12 weeks??? At 12 weeks your fetus is roughly the size of a DORITO. Unless it has detached from your uterus and lodged itself just on the other side of your belly button AND your skin is the consistency of Saran Wrap, you are not feeling a baby kick at 12 WEEKS!!!! Maybe you are feeling the effects of eating pickles and mountain dew simultaneously - it's called GAS. But whatever, maybe she is growing a monster in there.
I love that the pregnancy progress sites like to give you weekly updates as to the size of your little uterine alien, in terms of food. For example, at 15 weeks, my baby is apparently the size of a kiwi. This would be fantastic knowledge to possess, if I actually 1) cooked or 2) consumed any fresh produce. At 16 weeks you graduate to an avocado. I wouldn't know what an appropriate sized avocado looked like if it jumped up and bit my ass. All I know about kiwis is that they are little and hairy. But how little? Am I growing a mutant kiwi in there? Is it a California kiwi or an import?? When you tell me the thing is a size of an apple -- what the hell kind?!? Granny Smith? Red Delicious? Little sour green kind??
Could they not give you measurements that a more in tune with what the average pregnant woman might encounter -- say, at XX weeks, your fetus is roughly the size of a junior bacon cheeseburger! Or...at this stage, your baby is the length of an Oscar Meyer hotdog bun. The normal kind, not the footlong ones. Or the size of a deluxe Hershey bar. THESE things I can picture.
So far I have managed not to kill anyone, and more importantly, no one has (successfully) attempted to murder me, which is impressive given that I have been having mood swings and conniptions of cartoon-character proportions, complete with steam exiting cranial orifices and separation of head from body while it spins in circles before coming back to rest in proper location. I hate all my clothes, I hate work, I hate getting up, I hate trying to fall asleep, I hate food but if I don't eat it I still turn wretchedly green.
By this time next week, I will reach the "more than halfway" anniversary from Molly's 31 week birth. SCARY. We are hoping that halfway this time around will be 18 weeks, with a nice problem-free delivery around 36-37 weeks. However, we all know my history with problem-free (or "nice" for that matter) so we shall see!
Now OK, I can buy that. But 12 weeks??? At 12 weeks your fetus is roughly the size of a DORITO. Unless it has detached from your uterus and lodged itself just on the other side of your belly button AND your skin is the consistency of Saran Wrap, you are not feeling a baby kick at 12 WEEKS!!!! Maybe you are feeling the effects of eating pickles and mountain dew simultaneously - it's called GAS. But whatever, maybe she is growing a monster in there.
I love that the pregnancy progress sites like to give you weekly updates as to the size of your little uterine alien, in terms of food. For example, at 15 weeks, my baby is apparently the size of a kiwi. This would be fantastic knowledge to possess, if I actually 1) cooked or 2) consumed any fresh produce. At 16 weeks you graduate to an avocado. I wouldn't know what an appropriate sized avocado looked like if it jumped up and bit my ass. All I know about kiwis is that they are little and hairy. But how little? Am I growing a mutant kiwi in there? Is it a California kiwi or an import?? When you tell me the thing is a size of an apple -- what the hell kind?!? Granny Smith? Red Delicious? Little sour green kind??
Could they not give you measurements that a more in tune with what the average pregnant woman might encounter -- say, at XX weeks, your fetus is roughly the size of a junior bacon cheeseburger! Or...at this stage, your baby is the length of an Oscar Meyer hotdog bun. The normal kind, not the footlong ones. Or the size of a deluxe Hershey bar. THESE things I can picture.
So far I have managed not to kill anyone, and more importantly, no one has (successfully) attempted to murder me, which is impressive given that I have been having mood swings and conniptions of cartoon-character proportions, complete with steam exiting cranial orifices and separation of head from body while it spins in circles before coming back to rest in proper location. I hate all my clothes, I hate work, I hate getting up, I hate trying to fall asleep, I hate food but if I don't eat it I still turn wretchedly green.
By this time next week, I will reach the "more than halfway" anniversary from Molly's 31 week birth. SCARY. We are hoping that halfway this time around will be 18 weeks, with a nice problem-free delivery around 36-37 weeks. However, we all know my history with problem-free (or "nice" for that matter) so we shall see!
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Just Shoot Me.
Pregnancy is a glowing, mysterious, wonderful, joyous, magical, anticipatory time for many women. I am certainly glowing -- with sweat, brought on by non stop anxiety attacks from not being able to be properly nutcase-medicated. I am mysterious -- as in, it's a mystery to me how one person can gag and dry heave so many times in one hour and yet not actually throw up. I am joyous -- when I am asleep. Magical -- frosted Lucky Charms ARE magically delicious, with carbs and in particular, sugared breakfast foods accounting for 90% of my daily intake. I am anticipating a point in the future in which I do not want to spear my husband with a javelin soaked in arsenic for inflicting this on me.
I do not do pregnancy well. If there are any of you who don't yet know that I am pregnant, there you are. The land-mine ridden face full of 14 year old acne hell would be a good giveaway, as would the cumulative amount of hours a day I spend in a bathroom, either gagging, getting ready to gag, finishing up a gag, or trying to poop for the first time since the Reagan adminstration. I am on some lovely pills called Zofran to help with the nausea, but the side effect is that they basically turn your stomach into quik-dry concrete. Nothing comes up, but nothing goes out, either. For me this is a completely unfathomable phenomenon. things are ALWAYS coming out, hence the irritable bowel fun. Zero millimeters of my GI tract are currently functioning properly.
I am also "living clean," completely devoid of my friends the "antis" -- antidepressants, antianxiety drugs, antihomicidal maniac suppression...this has been great fun for my immediate family, who I'm sure would like to find me a Victorian-era "home" for young mothers to wait out their "confinement period" in secret and where I would be less likely to lash out at people asking me IDIOTIC questions like "can you hand me that magazine?" or "have you seen the remote?" I even had to give up my beloved Diet Cokes (usually only about 6 a day) and switch back to regular coke, 2 a day! eeeeek.
If I had felt this horrible with my first pregnancy, you can bet that there would NEVER EVER EVER be a second little alien brewing in there right now (yes, we are sure there's ONLY ONE, THANK GOD IN HEAVEN). Due date is 5/3/07, but right now we just hope to make it to the month of April and see what happens! In the meantime, for your safety, please keep your hands, arms, valuables and small children away from the manic starving poopladen gaggy bitchy pregnant woman.
I do not do pregnancy well. If there are any of you who don't yet know that I am pregnant, there you are. The land-mine ridden face full of 14 year old acne hell would be a good giveaway, as would the cumulative amount of hours a day I spend in a bathroom, either gagging, getting ready to gag, finishing up a gag, or trying to poop for the first time since the Reagan adminstration. I am on some lovely pills called Zofran to help with the nausea, but the side effect is that they basically turn your stomach into quik-dry concrete. Nothing comes up, but nothing goes out, either. For me this is a completely unfathomable phenomenon. things are ALWAYS coming out, hence the irritable bowel fun. Zero millimeters of my GI tract are currently functioning properly.
I am also "living clean," completely devoid of my friends the "antis" -- antidepressants, antianxiety drugs, antihomicidal maniac suppression...this has been great fun for my immediate family, who I'm sure would like to find me a Victorian-era "home" for young mothers to wait out their "confinement period" in secret and where I would be less likely to lash out at people asking me IDIOTIC questions like "can you hand me that magazine?" or "have you seen the remote?" I even had to give up my beloved Diet Cokes (usually only about 6 a day) and switch back to regular coke, 2 a day! eeeeek.
If I had felt this horrible with my first pregnancy, you can bet that there would NEVER EVER EVER be a second little alien brewing in there right now (yes, we are sure there's ONLY ONE, THANK GOD IN HEAVEN). Due date is 5/3/07, but right now we just hope to make it to the month of April and see what happens! In the meantime, for your safety, please keep your hands, arms, valuables and small children away from the manic starving poopladen gaggy bitchy pregnant woman.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Click Clack Moo...
There are few things on this earth more empowering, more initmidating, more awe-inspiring, more...more...clackier -- than a new set of fake ones. Nails, I mean. If any other part of your anatomy is new and clacky, you may want to get a new surgeon.
I had abandoned regular manicures shortly after Molly was born out of fear that my little claws of power would claw her little eyes out. Subsequently, it took me til roughly last week to regrow completely normal, healthy nails that didn't look like they were pillaged off of a corpse. So what do I do? March right back to the nice little shop of indeterminable Asian descent and plop down $55 ($45 plus tip) for them to start the cycle of mucking my nails up all over again.
It feels GREAT. I am typing with wild abandon today (whereas usually I type with pretty domesticated abandon) just because it is EXTRA CLICKY CLACKY. "Hi. PERIOD. How are YOU BAM BAM BAM TAKE THAT YOU PIECE OF SHIT SPACE BAR!!! HA HA!!!!"
One thing I forgot about, though, when telling the nice man "yep, that looks like a good length" is that every night I am sort of required to stick my fingers in my eye to get my contacts out. oops. I figured this out last night at 11:45 after having already taken an Ambien and doing the little drunken-totter-maybe the dose should be a little less for small people-dance.
I tried with my thumb and forefinger. POKE. Thumb and third finger. JAB. Tried just smooshing the damn thing to one side of my eye. SCRRRRRAPE. Tried all of these things for 10 minutes before finally clawing one soft contact out of my right eye.
God damn it, I have two eyes. Repeat. Repeat. repeat. Finally get contact extracted from left eye.
Go to do one final round of business on the potty before bed -- poke nail through TP and almost partake in do-it-yourself episiotomy.
ARRRRRRGH.
Today I do appear to be all in one piece, and even managed to get both contacts in without ripping them in half or lodging my eyeball up into my sinus cavity.
I am woman. I have nails. Hear me roar. (I mean, in addition to the pain related roaring. just ignore that)
I had abandoned regular manicures shortly after Molly was born out of fear that my little claws of power would claw her little eyes out. Subsequently, it took me til roughly last week to regrow completely normal, healthy nails that didn't look like they were pillaged off of a corpse. So what do I do? March right back to the nice little shop of indeterminable Asian descent and plop down $55 ($45 plus tip) for them to start the cycle of mucking my nails up all over again.
It feels GREAT. I am typing with wild abandon today (whereas usually I type with pretty domesticated abandon) just because it is EXTRA CLICKY CLACKY. "Hi. PERIOD. How are YOU BAM BAM BAM TAKE THAT YOU PIECE OF SHIT SPACE BAR!!! HA HA!!!!"
One thing I forgot about, though, when telling the nice man "yep, that looks like a good length" is that every night I am sort of required to stick my fingers in my eye to get my contacts out. oops. I figured this out last night at 11:45 after having already taken an Ambien and doing the little drunken-totter-maybe the dose should be a little less for small people-dance.
I tried with my thumb and forefinger. POKE. Thumb and third finger. JAB. Tried just smooshing the damn thing to one side of my eye. SCRRRRRAPE. Tried all of these things for 10 minutes before finally clawing one soft contact out of my right eye.
God damn it, I have two eyes. Repeat. Repeat. repeat. Finally get contact extracted from left eye.
Go to do one final round of business on the potty before bed -- poke nail through TP and almost partake in do-it-yourself episiotomy.
ARRRRRRGH.
Today I do appear to be all in one piece, and even managed to get both contacts in without ripping them in half or lodging my eyeball up into my sinus cavity.
I am woman. I have nails. Hear me roar. (I mean, in addition to the pain related roaring. just ignore that)
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
crickets
I am sitting here watching the Tigers, again, as usual, which is par for the course for me every single day from April-OCTOBER (yeah baby, this year it WILL be OCTOBER) except the random Monday or Thursday travel day. It's best for all involved that I be left alone when undertaking this daily ritual, as I turn into Captain Tourette's.
"BLEEP BLEEP you BLEEPING sheep BLEEPING monkey BLEEP piles of BLEEP!!!!"
And that's when we're only up by a few runs. Tonight we started off down 7 RUNS after the FIRST INNING. It is now the 6th, and we are within one run (8-7 Indians winning).
Err...
BLEEPITY BLEEP BLEEP MOTHER BLEEPING BLEEPNUTS
9-7 Indians.
I am free to spew obscenities at the top of my lungs this week without fear that Molly-the-human-parrot will immediately pick one of them up and decide it should be the name of one of her stuffed animals. She AND Murphy are both on vacation this week, up north with Mamaw and Grampa Waters and Mamaw Hearsch, having a lovely time at the beach. Dan has class every night this week. This means that my house is totally. utterly. completely.
QUIET.
It is insane. And disconcerting. I have been away from Molly on business before, but having an entire house in which no one is snoring or muttering "dorrra...boooots...choc-ate millllk" in their sleep and in which there is no 115 lb lump of fur to trip over is just WEIRD. Even when Dan gets home from class around 10 or 11, we sit here and look at each other like "what exactly DID we do before we had a kid? or a dog? Or laptops? I mean, at some point, did we talk to each other?? Did we watch something on television during which neither of us was IMing someone or studying?"
I can actually hear crickets outside. Over my obscene mutterings of course.
One upside of this dependent-free week -- the poop quantity and responsibility is massively reduced. Each of the humans in this house is currently responsible SOLELY FOR THEIR OWN POOP THIS WEEK!!!!! I don't have to pick up dog poop! I don't have to feign excitement over toddler poop in the toilet and examine each piece like I'm checking out the prized jewels of the Nile and I don't have to explain to anyone that no, those are NOT raisins in the potty and I do not have to yell "BYE BYE POOPY!!!" every time I flush away a bowel movement!! (although I can if I want to. You can't stop me) And Dan can get his own candy if he wants a pooping reward!!! It is a thing of beauty.
So, I am off to scream at the TV some more and enjoy my eerily quiet night. Last night I ended up having to turn Molly's Baby Einstein CD on to try to help me fall asleep. Didn't work. Also -- I do not recommend that any human being try to watch "The Passion of the Christ" after 1) eating anything in the last 3 days that you don't want to see back up in your lap and 2) within 12 hours of trying to sleep. We started watching at 11:45 last night. Bad. Bad. Idea. Hopefully my nightmares tonight will be limited to misplayed grounders.
"BLEEP BLEEP you BLEEPING sheep BLEEPING monkey BLEEP piles of BLEEP!!!!"
And that's when we're only up by a few runs. Tonight we started off down 7 RUNS after the FIRST INNING. It is now the 6th, and we are within one run (8-7 Indians winning).
Err...
BLEEPITY BLEEP BLEEP MOTHER BLEEPING BLEEPNUTS
9-7 Indians.
I am free to spew obscenities at the top of my lungs this week without fear that Molly-the-human-parrot will immediately pick one of them up and decide it should be the name of one of her stuffed animals. She AND Murphy are both on vacation this week, up north with Mamaw and Grampa Waters and Mamaw Hearsch, having a lovely time at the beach. Dan has class every night this week. This means that my house is totally. utterly. completely.
QUIET.
It is insane. And disconcerting. I have been away from Molly on business before, but having an entire house in which no one is snoring or muttering "dorrra...boooots...choc-ate millllk" in their sleep and in which there is no 115 lb lump of fur to trip over is just WEIRD. Even when Dan gets home from class around 10 or 11, we sit here and look at each other like "what exactly DID we do before we had a kid? or a dog? Or laptops? I mean, at some point, did we talk to each other?? Did we watch something on television during which neither of us was IMing someone or studying?"
I can actually hear crickets outside. Over my obscene mutterings of course.
One upside of this dependent-free week -- the poop quantity and responsibility is massively reduced. Each of the humans in this house is currently responsible SOLELY FOR THEIR OWN POOP THIS WEEK!!!!! I don't have to pick up dog poop! I don't have to feign excitement over toddler poop in the toilet and examine each piece like I'm checking out the prized jewels of the Nile and I don't have to explain to anyone that no, those are NOT raisins in the potty and I do not have to yell "BYE BYE POOPY!!!" every time I flush away a bowel movement!! (although I can if I want to. You can't stop me) And Dan can get his own candy if he wants a pooping reward!!! It is a thing of beauty.
So, I am off to scream at the TV some more and enjoy my eerily quiet night. Last night I ended up having to turn Molly's Baby Einstein CD on to try to help me fall asleep. Didn't work. Also -- I do not recommend that any human being try to watch "The Passion of the Christ" after 1) eating anything in the last 3 days that you don't want to see back up in your lap and 2) within 12 hours of trying to sleep. We started watching at 11:45 last night. Bad. Bad. Idea. Hopefully my nightmares tonight will be limited to misplayed grounders.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Blogging only as a distraction
I am currently watching the Tigers and White Sox and if I don't do something with my hands, I may hurl the remote through our very expensive TV. I guess i could do laundry or something useful, but I'll update instead so that my 4 former readers have something to read later.
I can't believe I haven't been on here since May. Oops. Molly turned 2 on May 24 and is now 2 going on 17. WHERE in the world she gets her attitude and mouth I am sure I have NO idea. The child talks in monologues. Not just paragraphs. You can actually call her on the phone and have a conversation. Whether or not it makes sense is another thing, but you can try.
Me: "Hi baby!"
Her: "MOMMMEEE! What you doing mommy? Mommy? Mommy I on da TEL-FONE!"
Me: "I hear that! What are you doing?"
Her: "Ummmm...MUR-phy....STOOOOPID DOG!!"
Me: "Murphy is a NICE dog. Not a stoopid dog."
Her: "OK. Stoopid dog."
Me: "What did you do with Grandma today?"
Her: "I GO SWIIIIIMING MOMMY!! In da pool! I jump in and get ALL wet!!"
Me: "What else did you do?"
Her: "I GO POOOPY MOMMY!! In da POTTY!! YAAAAAY!"
Me: "That's great! And wh...
Her: "OK Bye"
drops phone on floor.
Lovely.
Potty training is a slow process indeed. I thought I was a supergenius, and would successfully bribe her with M&Ms for any poop or pee pee actually deposited in said potty and not on the floor, in the diaper, in the pull ups, etc. After a few months of limited success, we've lately been doing a lot better with actually going. Last week she would pee or poop and yell "WHAT I GET MOMMY???!!" before she was even off the toilet. She would get to pick an M&M and yell "I get CANNY!!"
This week, she pooped on the potty the other day and I said "YAY Molly!" She says "What I get?" and I said "CANDY!" and she looks at me for a second and goes "No thank you mommy. What ELSE I get?"
She got a sticker. I hope we train fast, or this is going to start costing me some serious bribe products.
I can't believe I haven't been on here since May. Oops. Molly turned 2 on May 24 and is now 2 going on 17. WHERE in the world she gets her attitude and mouth I am sure I have NO idea. The child talks in monologues. Not just paragraphs. You can actually call her on the phone and have a conversation. Whether or not it makes sense is another thing, but you can try.
Me: "Hi baby!"
Her: "MOMMMEEE! What you doing mommy? Mommy? Mommy I on da TEL-FONE!"
Me: "I hear that! What are you doing?"
Her: "Ummmm...MUR-phy....STOOOOPID DOG!!"
Me: "Murphy is a NICE dog. Not a stoopid dog."
Her: "OK. Stoopid dog."
Me: "What did you do with Grandma today?"
Her: "I GO SWIIIIIMING MOMMY!! In da pool! I jump in and get ALL wet!!"
Me: "What else did you do?"
Her: "I GO POOOPY MOMMY!! In da POTTY!! YAAAAAY!"
Me: "That's great! And wh...
Her: "OK Bye"
drops phone on floor.
Lovely.
Potty training is a slow process indeed. I thought I was a supergenius, and would successfully bribe her with M&Ms for any poop or pee pee actually deposited in said potty and not on the floor, in the diaper, in the pull ups, etc. After a few months of limited success, we've lately been doing a lot better with actually going. Last week she would pee or poop and yell "WHAT I GET MOMMY???!!" before she was even off the toilet. She would get to pick an M&M and yell "I get CANNY!!"
This week, she pooped on the potty the other day and I said "YAY Molly!" She says "What I get?" and I said "CANDY!" and she looks at me for a second and goes "No thank you mommy. What ELSE I get?"
She got a sticker. I hope we train fast, or this is going to start costing me some serious bribe products.
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