Irishembi - Because I Said So

You Know You're a Mom When...

2010-05-05T21:03:00.001-04:00

...You find a Dora Backpack and Wolverine claw hand residing in your bathroom.

You know you are a weary Mom of three when you push them aside with your foot and proceed to the toilet without bothering to pick them up.

I Threw My Bottle of Metamucil at Her

2010-04-06T16:08:00.004-04:00

I realize at age 40, I am an older Mom. I accept that. I'm okay with it.

But when I am mistaken YET AGAIN for my daughter's Grandmother, well, a girl gets a little self-conscious.

I wasn't even terribly offended when the nice woman at the playground who obviously WAS there with her two granddaughters asked me if Meredith was my Granddaughter.

It was the way she emitted a surprised "OH!" when I said, "No she's my daughter."

Really? Is it REALLY that shocking?

Time to dye the no-longer-prematurely gray hair.

Six

2010-03-26T05:00:00.002-04:00

Most of the time I hear from people, "Wow she looks just like you!"

And my girls do look like me. It make sense since they are, in fact, girls, and I happen to be one myself. My husband has often bemoaned the fact that he apparently got very little genetic input when our kids were conceived.

But I have personally always thought that Jamie looks more like me than my girls do. Other than the pink dress, the Kindergarten photos look remarkably similar.

Happy Birthday Little Man. I am grateful every day that you tell me you will ALWAYS be my little boy.

Lesson of the Day

2010-03-22T14:34:00.002-04:00

Despite using half a roll of toilet paper per poop, the boy obviously has not mastered the art of wiping his own bum.

Note to self: Grab lightly from the laundry pile.

I Dreamed a Dream (No Not That One)

2010-03-01T11:14:00.005-05:00

Sometimes I think dreams have meaning. Sometimes I think it is our unconscious mind allowing us to work out things while we sleep. Sometimes I think we see things we need to see in our dreams. And sometimes I think they are just our brain's way of entertaining itself while we are busy sleeping.

Last night I dreamed I was learning to drive a big rig in Alaska. Just like they do on Ice Road Truckers. I have never had any particular desire to drive a large truck, but last night I was pretty darn good at it.

And guess who was riding shotgun with me and giving me training as I learned to navigate the roads pulling a heavy haul? The late Phil Harris of Deadliest Catch fame was showing me how to park the enormous truck as we pulled into the parking lot of a Nevada brothel. It just happened to be The Bunny Ranch as featured in HBO's series Cathouse.

Seems he and some of his buddies wanted to get a little action in before we got some rest for the night. So I parked the truck and patiently waited for Phil and his crew to....er, do their thing.

After he was done I joined the girls so I could borrow a shower and catch some shut-eye.

But I spent most of the time trying to shave my legs with a VERY dull disposable razor. And not one of those hookers would loan me a razor.

I conclude three things from this dream.

One, I should not have had pizza for a late dinner.

Two, Maybe, just maybe I watch too much Reality TV.

And finally, Three, I really need to shave my legs.

Three

2010-02-22T05:00:00.001-05:00

Three years ago on this day, I gave birth to my last baby. It was a wild ride. Her heart stopped beating, my blood pressure plummeted, and at one point it looked like an operation was inevitable. But as babies have their own ideas about how or when they will be born, she decided to just come on out in a bit of a hurry.

My baby girl turns three today. She's still such a baby to me. It's hard to remember, that at this age both her older brother and sister were already the "big" kids. In many ways she is a big kid. She is completely weaned, she walks, she talks, she has a mind of her own and is not afraid to express it (and does she ever!), she no longer wears diapers (that was one milestone I was not sad to see pass) and can even dress herself.

But today she cried and told me "I don't want to be three! I want to be a baby!"

Luckily, she will always get to be my baby.

Yeah. What She Said.

2009-12-18T11:39:00.006-05:00

I love this. One of my friends (thank you Misty!) used this as her Christmas Card this year. You may have seen it before (if you have, DEAL WITH IT!) but I thought it was worth ~~plagiarizing~~ sharing.
Dear Santa,

I've been a good mom all year. I've fed, cleaned and cuddled my children on demand, visited the doctor's office more than my doctor and sold sixty-two cases of candy bars to raise money to plant a shade tree on the school playground. I was hoping you could spread my list out over several Christmases, since I had to write this letter with my son's red crayon, on the back of a receipt in the laundry room between cycles, and who knows when I'll find anymore free time in the next 18 years. Here are my Christmas wishes:

I'd like a pair of legs that don't ache (in any color, except purple, which I already have) and arms that don't hurt or flap in the breeze, but are strong enough to pull my screaming child out of the candy aisle in the grocery store.

I'd also like a waist, since I lost mine somewhere in the seventh month of my last pregnancy.

If you're hauling big ticket items this year I'd like fingerprint resistant windows and a radio that only plays adult music, a television that doesn't broadcast any programs containing talking animals, and a refrigerator with a secret compartment behind the crisper where I can hide to talk on the phone.

On the practical side, I could use a talking doll that says, 'Yes, Mommy' to boost my parental confidence, along with two kids who don't fight and three pairs of jeans that will zip all the way up without the use of power tools.

I could also use a recording of Tibetan monks chanting 'Don't eat in the living room' and 'Take your hands off your brother,' because my voice seems to be just out of my children's hearing range and can only be heard by the dog.

If it's too late to find any of these products, I'd settle for enough time to brush my teeth and comb my hair in the same morning, or the luxury of eating food warmer than room temperature without it being served in a Styrofoam container.

If you don't mind, I could also use a few Christmas miracles to brighten the holiday season. Would it be too much trouble to declare ketchup a vegetable? It will clear my conscience immensely. It would be helpful if you could coerce my children to help around the house without demanding payment as if they were the bosses of an organized crime family.

Well, Santa, the buzzer on the dryer is calling and my son saw my feet under the laundry room door. I think he wants his crayon back. Have a safe trip and remember to leave your wet boots by the door and come in and dry off so you don't catch cold. Help yourself to cookies on the table but don't eat too many or leave crumbs on the carpet.

Yours Always,

MOM...

P.S. One more thing...you can cancel all my requests if you can keep my children young enough to believe in Santa.

We Now Return To Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

2009-12-03T16:55:00.005-05:00

Meredith was staying at Grandma's over night for the first time on Monday night so I could chaperon Sabrina's field trip to the Carnegie Museum on Tuesday.

Apparently she did not sleep well. Correction. They did not sleep well. It is a well-known fact that when a two year old does not sleep well the rest of the household is not permitted to sleep well.

I think my Mother-in-Law fussed too much. I told her to put her in her jammies, give her her books and animals, leave a nightlight on and close the door.

Meredith kept telling her she couldn't see and needed a light on. So Grandma, being a Grandma (read: SUCKER) put the dresser lamp on which is a full blown light up the room style lamp.

Well of COURSE she didn't fall asleep with that on! Around 10:00 p.m. Meredith cheerfully announced "I'm all done sleeping now!"

My Mother-In-Law is a bit of a throwback to pre-feminism. She feels compelled to pick up after, cook, clean and generally wait on the males in her life. (My husband tried expecting me to wait on him hand and foot once. He's still waiting.) Therefore when her significant other arises to work in a bakery at 5:00 a.m. my Mother-in-Law feels compelled to go and make him breakfast.

My Mother-in-Law SWEARS she was quiet as a mouse (she slept in the bedroom with Meredith) and she SWEARS she did not wake her up. But it just seems awful coincidental that Meredith also just happened to wake up at 5:00 a.m.

You might say she was a wee bit overtired last night which may or may not have contributed to her antics here at home. She was in bed by sound asleep at 8:00p.m. when I got back from taking Sabrina Christmas Caroling with her Girl Scout Troop (Chaperoning a school field trip AND Christmas Caroling in one day - do I get Mother of the Year Award or what? Where's that Supermom cape?).

At precisely 1:19 a.m. (yes I looked) I was woken out of a sound sleep by Meredith SCREAMING, not requesting, not demanding, not even merely shouting at me: "I WANT MILK WITH ICE!" (This is how Dave drinks his milk and he's inflicted it on Jamie and Meredith).

Dave got up (she even overcame the Daddy Powers of Superhuman Lack of Night Hearing) and offered her a drink of water which she batted away and continued to demand milk with ice. At which point Dave stated (yelled) "NO!" and "BE QUIET!" which of course just made her freak out more. Big help Dave thanks. And why is that? Why is it that Daddies can simply raise their voice and reduce a child to tears but I can stand and bellow at them at decibels to make ears bleed and they all just continue on as if I were merely commenting on the weather?

So he moves downstairs because it's not fair that he got up with them for all the night waking for the past eight and a half years. Oh wait no. That was me.

I just ignored her terroristic threats as best as one can when one is sharing the room with a small version of Mussolini, until she calmed down enough and said "But I'm thiiiiiiiiiiiirsty." I asked her again if she wanted a drink of water and she said yes so I got her one and she laid down and went immediately back to sleep.

She has no memory of any of it this morning that I can tell.

I am currently setting up the IV line with coffee.

And On The Eighth Day, God Created Starbucks

2009-09-21T13:31:00.004-04:00

I apologize for the crappy photo quality. I own what is affectionately called a "welfare phone." It is strictly pre-pay and completely lacking in bells and whistles. Which is just fine with me. I've never found the need for a portable phone that can take movies, play music, speak in 5 languages, cook dinner and walk the dog.

Well, the cooking dinner part might be okay.

I promise you I have made the photo as big as possible without losing all resolution.

Meredith loves this water fountain. She adores this water fountain. It's in a beautiful courtyard in a park-like setting. You can take a short walk down a beautiful brick pathway to a nearby trail where you can walk along the river.

All I have to do is ask "Meredith, do you want to go to the fountain?" and she has a Pavlovian response of cheering, smiles and shouts of "Hurry up Mama! LET'S GO!"

I confess I have my own Pavlovian response to thoughts of this water fountain for a slightly different reason. Oh it's a beautiful place and I love our quiet mornings together (I'm starting to get used to this 2 older kids in school thing) and it's so pretty and relaxing to walk along the river's edge. But if you look closely at the background you will discover my true motivation for visiting this fountain a little too regularly lately.

Yes boys and girls, that's a Starbucks. Coffees, and Frappucinos, and Lattes, Oh my!

This morning we pulled into a parking space and as we got out of the car, Meredith told me, "Mama, I don't want to go to the Fountain House first."

I'm thinking this might be an indication we've been there a little too often.

I Can Channel Martha AND The Three Stooges Simultaneously

2009-09-15T09:02:00.005-04:00

We love waffles around here. And for Mommy's benefit, they're relatively low-fat and you can add some yummy fruit to them.

I love waffles, mostly when someone else makes them!

But I am positively allergic to mornings and I do NOT cook before noon, so if my kids want something hot, it's frozen waffles popped in the toaster. If I'm feeling REALLY earth-motherly and have had a cup of coffee, I'll boil some water for instant oatmeal (but that's pushing it).

So I think I want a waffle iron. I want to start making my own waffles and stop supporting Eggo frozen waffles. I'd rather just make a batch of my own to freeze. This way I could make them ahead of time and have my OWN frozen waffles. Hell I could even make them all healthy and stuff and add flaxseed and wheat germ and other things that I'm sure would taste disgusting not covered in syrupy goodness.

Did I just say that??? Has Martha Stewart taken over my brain? I told that woman to knock it off. Every time she tries I end up buying expensive gadgets and/or craft supplies that gather dust or get eaten by the dog. Sparkly dog poop decorating the yard just isn't the festive touch Martha had in mind.

Anyway, Martha Stewart Exorcism notwithstanding I still persist in looking at them. However as usual when I research ANY product, I start looking on Amazon, see all the negative (and positive) reviews on all of them and get paralyzed by indecision.

My Dad has a nice one and he makes very good waffles (before you get impressed with the idea of my Dad as Gourmet Chef, I must disclose that waffles is pretty much the extent of his culinary repertoire. Oh, and he can heat up a mean bowl of soup in the microwave.), but it's a round waffle iron.

I don't have one of them there fancy-schmancy toaster ovens, just a standard top loader toaster. I think I need a square waffle iron despite Martha's probable disapproval. Round peg, square hole and all that.

I was looking at this one, but it's EXPENSIVE. However, if it makes good waffles and 6 at a time it might be worth it. As usual, some people love it, some people hate it.

So, what do you love about yours? Hate about yours? Would you buy it again? Oh and of course what kind is it?

Because I still just can't decide on a waffle iron. I'm........................
.
.
.
.
wait for it............
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
WAFFLING

about it.

Nyuk Nyuk Nyuk!

I'm such a comedian.

Loss And Remembrance

2009-09-11T08:35:00.004-04:00

September 11th, 2001.

I had a 10 week old baby and was still suffering from the shell-shock of new Motherhood and lack of sleep. Little did I know I was about to receive a new blow on that gorgeous September day.

It was to be my first major outing with my bundle of uncertainty. I had a good friend that was a Landscaper with a Greenhouse in Monroeville. We were driving ALL THAT WAY to the wilds of Monroeville (when you have a new baby, a half mile drive can loom large like a journey of 1,000 miles) to meet for lunch and he was going to let me pick out some lovely chrysanthemums to plant in my yard.

It was the perfect day for such a journey; one of those skies that are crystal clear blue, not even a whiff of a cloud. There was a chill in the air that promised a lovely comfortable dry day that would slowly warm with the sun, allowing you to shed your jacket some time around noon. I barely had time for showering back then let alone television. So when my mother called me from work a little before 9:00 a.m. frantically asking if I was alright, I was completely clueless and still blissfully unaware of the terror about to unfold.

All thoughts of journeys were immediately forgotten and I sat cross-legged on the living room floor cradling my child and saw a sight that was so surreal and so unbelievable that it was difficult for the mind to comprehend what it was watching. Planes don't actually fly into buildings on purpose do they? But the fact that this was the second one began to indicate that this was no tragic accident and that indeed something evil was afoot.

My husband was currently working on a roof on a very tall building in downtown Pittsburgh and this brought a feeling of terror into my heart as the horror threatened to become unbearably personal as speculation flew that yet another plane was headed for Pennsylvania.

My phone rang and it was my best friend Melissa in England. We stayed on the phone. A link, a life raft, stretching over an ocean keeping each other afloat as we received blow after crushing blow of bad news. We often sat simply in silence watching the evil unfold. As we tried to absorb the thoughts and terror of the people inside as we watched buildings impossibly fall to the ground.

I continued to hold my child close throughout that day, doing what mothers do and the only thing I could do to make her world safe at that moment. At that moment it was enough and yet not enough in a world that was surely changing right before my eyes.

Blogland will be filled with 9/11 tributes today I'm certain. Mine is just a tiny piece of our collective whole. But we all went through it together. It's one of the things I was most proud of. We as a nation.

We were, in every true sense of the words - United. States. of America.

Republican, Democrat. White, Black, Purple, or Green. Rich, Poor, Middle Class. Didn't matter. We flew our flags from every car, rooftop, flagpole, window, and skyscraper. We were one.

My flag flies again today from my porch. I will hold my children close and remember.

I Don't Think I Can Clean That Up With The Swiffer

2009-09-05T09:29:00.006-04:00

We have survived the first entire week of school. There was a little crying, screaming, kicking, begging, and anxiety.

But hey. That was just me. Jamie's having a blast.

You may recall Jamie has a severe tree nut allergy. It's severe enough that we have to provide an injectable Epi-Pen to the school in the event of an emergency. So as not to ruin his "First Day of School" experience, and because really, the kid thinks riding the school bus is the coolest thing since Bakugans, I put him on the bus, then raced up to the school in my van to deliver all his necessary medications to the school nurse.

I handed her his Epi-Pen, Inhaler and spacer, all properly and obsessively compulsively labeled in Sharpie marker with his name and Grade, contained in a Zip-Loc baggie ALSO labeled with name and grade. And no. I did not sterilize it. Much.

To be able to deliver this little packet of medication I had to fill out several reams of paperwork; signed, dated, approved by his allergist, pediatrician, dentist, mailman, Notary Public, next door neighbor, paternal and maternal grandparents, five references not related by blood, and quite possibly the President of the United States.

But you know, I'm Super-Mom so this isn't a problem. Emily is even making me a cape. Just need to decide on colors and lettering.

The substitute nurse in the office made me a bit nervous when I heard her tell another Mom that she never works at this school and isn't quite sure where to put things, but I cross my fingers and hand it off.

That day Jamie comes home with two envelopes for me.

The first one says, "Your emergency health contact card indicates your child has a severe allergy response to bee sting, food or other allergen. We do not have medication on hand to treat this allergy. Please provide medication and proper paperwork" with all those same REAMS of papers attached.

WHAT THE FARKETY FARKLE??????

(This is a family show folks, I may have used slightly stronger language in real life)

The second envelope has a second ream of paper with all those forms for the allergist to fill out with a happy little sticky note attached saying "We need Jamie's Dr. to sign these so we can give him his inhaler in school."

Excuse me. My brains just exploded all over the floor.

Does anyone have a paper towel?

It's Okay Mom. I Got This.

2009-08-31T10:00:00.000-04:00

And off he goes.

Just Off The Face Of The Internet

2009-08-30T06:21:00.000-04:00

Okay I'm pulling with all my might. I think I have a handhold.....Eeeeenh...PULL!

Ahhhh. Okay. I've pulled myself up out from under that rock. Ahem. Ready? Here I go.

Tomorrow I'll Just Serve Candy

2009-07-22T12:58:00.005-04:00

Did you ever have one of those days where the lack of the proper amount of syrup on the waffles becomes a major tragedy? Complete with tears, snot, and protestations of "But I asked fiiiiiiiiiiiiirst!"?

Honestly those kids would argue over a piece of used chewing gum. The kind you scrape off your shoe and is now gray and has bits of hair and fuzz and grass stuck in it. Can't you just hear it now?

"Moooooooom! It's not faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaair! I wanted a wodge of dirty chewing gum tooooooooooooooooooo! You NEVER let me have what I want!" [cue hysterical sobbing, followed by stomping retreat, completed with slamming of door]

I was thisclose to taking my friend Jackie's advice and sticking three straws in the syrup bottle and telling them to have at it.

But we have averted tragedy and diabetic comas for today.

All in a day's work for SuperMom.

I want a cape. Can I get a cape? It would make the job so much cooler.

My Village Called. They Want Their Idiot Back.

2009-07-14T21:10:00.003-04:00

My little boy is registered for Kindergarten in the Fall. *sniff*

No really, I'll be okay. I'll stock up on Kleenex though just in case.

In a previous post I explained how our school district conducts a lottery to determine which school kindergartners will attend. I was especially concerned about the school Jamie would attend due to his life-threatening nut allergy. I wanted to be sure there would be a trained nurse on site to keep his Epi-Pen and (God forbid) administer it if necessary.

When I was told, not so nicely, that this condition did not give him any special consideration, and he would not be exempted form this lottery, I got, shall we say, testy? And when I get "testy", I write letters. To the Superintendent of Schools. Who doesn't like to get letters about how his staff is being unresponsive. And let's just say it makes the staff a bit more responsive when I request they put it in writing that they have complete confidence that my child will be 100% safe should he experience (again, GOD FORBID) anaphylaxis at their school.

Responsive enough that I am now in possession of the Assistant Superintendent's personal cell phone number to discuss any and all concerns at any time of the day or night. Well, she might get a little cranky if I call her at midnight the night before the first day of school to tell her I'm feeling a bit weepy about Jamie starting Kindergarten. But you get the idea.

Tonight was the auspicious lottery. I received my letter over a week ago, on official school district stationery, telling me the Who, What, When and Where of the occasion. I immediately pretended to be the keen, organized Mom that I'm not, and noted the particulars on my official Mom's planning calendar. You know, the kind with a column for each member of the family so I can forget to keep track of all their appointments, and instead spend my life searching through my purse for tiny little handwritten appointment cards.

I dashed out of the house tonight at 5:40 p.m. to be at the local High School Auditorium by 6:00 p.m. I wasn't sure exactly where the Auditorium was, but I noticed a cluster of cars in the parking lot and figured that would be a good entrance to try. A pimply faced kid perched on a handrail trying to look cool kindly directed me to the proper entrance and I walked toward the doors.

When I walked into the auditorium and found it dark I was perplexed. I pulled out my cell phone to check the time but it was switched off. I pushed the button to turn it on. Nothing. When WAS the last time I charged that thing? I walked toward a pay phone, not even knowing how much a pay phone costs these days, dug in my purse for the fifty cents (FIFTY CENTS!!! I am officially a geezer by telling you I remember when it cost a DIME!) and came up with four nickels and three pennies.

Sigh. Walked back to my van and plugged the phone into the car charger only to find that my husband did not take the phone with him when he took the kids outside.

So I of course took the logical step of using the super secret personal cell phone number of the Assistant Superintendent. The one whom I had exchanged several polite and some slightly threatening letters with this past Spring. The one whom I wanted to realize that I was an intelligent adult that knows my stuff and won't be pushed around. The one who informed me that the lottery is being held TOMORROW at the High School Auditorium at 6:00 p.m.

Two out of three ain't bad.

They Know Me So Well

2009-07-08T12:32:00.002-04:00

Sabrina: Jamie! Mommy just has to finish her refried bean burrito and then we can go open our Lemonade Stand.

Jamie: Oh no. That's terrible.

Sabrina: Why? She's almost done.

Jamie: Because then she'll fart and chase all our customers away.

How Was That Vacation Anyway?

2009-07-07T19:49:00.002-04:00

Like most things in life it can be summed up as "Good, bad, and not long enough." But that doesn't make for a very good blog entry now does it?

The drive itself was not as bad as expected. That's not to say it was pleasant. It helped that Dave accepted that he was handling the bulk of the driving, and I didn't have the anxiety of worrying about possibly driving. Besides, the one time that we switched off, which I agreed to because it was two lane roads, we discovered that he stinks as a navigator and he kept missing turns.

I did not take the Xanax. I didn't get to test drive it before I left. I was far too busy packing up five people's belongings. Everyone had underwear when we got there so we'll call it a success. I did however feel a little better having the Xanax on hand as an insurance policy.

I got through the drive with a few prayers to St. Christopher (thank you Eileen for reminding me) and text messages to my own personal saint, Jeannette, who gave up most of four days to keep me occupied sending messages to and fro. We arrived in Myrtle Beach and back home again, in one piece and mostly sane thanks to my two patron saints. They couldn't really help out with the general tendency toward insanity I possessed beforehand.

The beach was, as expected, fabulous. I adore the beach, the sea, the sun, the sand, the surf, the sights, the smells, the sounds. I sat on a balcony sipping wine at night watching the waves practically beneath my feet. We were THAT CLOSE. I watched dolphins breaking the surface of the water every morning from the living room window. I took a walk every morning on the beach and allowed whim to decide if I should turn right or left that day.

On the third day there I discovered my 8 plus year old bathing suits were beginning to lose their, um, OOMPH. I dragged my eight and five year olds to the Beach Shop under the pretense of getting them body boards while I shopped for a new bathing suit. The suit in question could be paired with a skirted bottom or a regular brief bottom. When I chose the skirted bottom the saleslady agreed with my choice and commented that it looked much nicer, plus, "You've got the baby."

Baby? What baby? I left her in the condo napping. How does she know about..........?

Oh. I get it.

There goes my new found self-confidence in my recent weight loss.

I paid for my suit and skulked out of the store instead of reminding her of that classic piece of advice from comedian Sean Morey,

"I do not assume a woman is pregnant unless I see an ACTUAL LIVE BABY emerging from her vagina in front of me."

Maybe A Little Ragged Around The Edges

2009-07-03T08:59:00.004-04:00

Eleven years, three kids, one dog, two cats, one and a half fish, two trucks, five cars, and one waaaaaaaaaay too small house later, we are still standing.

Happy Anniversary Dave!

Eight

2009-06-30T09:45:00.005-04:00

We had a rocky start you and I.

Of all the life changing events that have happened to me; death of a loved one, moving, changing jobs, divorce - none of them altered me so thoroughly as the birth of my first child.

I once described the way I felt after having a baby as feeling like I was in one of those fun houses with all the crazy mirrors everywhere and I wasn't sure which one was actually me. In one fell swoop I went from being a person who identified herself by her mate, her job, her age, to being utterly rudderless in an unfamiliar sea of emotions and responsibilities and (literally) constant wakefulness. I was no longer sure who I was.

I tried reaching out to a few people who might be able to help me and felt even further isolated because it seemed the way I felt wasn't the experience they had. Some women seem to take to motherhood like ducks to water. I was sure I was one of those women. I had been waiting for this baby most of my life. So the fact that I didn't only added to my feelings of desperation.

I know now that my experience was not all that uncommon.

But just like forging metal, our trial by fire made our bond that much stronger.

Happy Birthday Sabrina Beena!

One Of The Many Things We'll Disagree On Over The Years

2009-06-29T19:14:00.002-04:00

I could have stayed for another week or five.

Meredith, not so much.

We're Off To See The Wizard

2009-06-18T16:52:00.003-04:00

We are leaving early tomorrow morning for Myrtle Beach.

I am armed with:

a portable DVD player
three - count 'em, THREE iPods
a Nintendo DS
snacks
doodle pads
books
more Wiggles CD's than my sanity can withstand
and most importantly a prescription for Xanax.

I have no idea if we will have wireless there, so you may or may not hear from me.

I'll Give You Thirty Xanax If You Promise To Leave The Building Now

2009-06-16T15:12:00.005-04:00

We're leaving for Myrtle Beach on Friday. I can't wait to be there. It's the getting there I'm not real thrilled about. Two days, locked in a car with a seven, five and two year old is enough to drive anyone over the edge. Last year we didn't even get out of Pittsburgh before someone was whining they were hungry and bored.

Just to make things a little more exciting this year, Sabrina has developed something called Daytime Urinary Frequency Syndrome. I'm not making this up. God knows I wish I was. It's pretty self-explanatory. Basically it means she feels the need to use the bathroom 30-40 times a day, sometimes as often as every 10 minutes. And it's more intense when she's in the car.

I've also developed anxiety attacks while riding or driving on a highway.

Two day car trip. Frequent Urination. Toddler. Panic attacks. Yeah. Good times.

So today was my appointment to see the doctor to discuss the upcoming trip in hopes of some chemical assistance. I'm not sure why I thought it was a good idea to make the appointment for a Tuesday afternoon right in the middle of nap time, when I had no hope of a babysitter. I've taken all three of them out before, but for my sanity and the benefit of all mankind, I try really hard not to loose the Triumvirate of Terror on humanity. But no choice today, so along they went.

It went well at first. My Doctor has a small children's area in her waiting room with an activity table and two shelves of books. This seemed to do the trick until Meredith announced, "I pooped."

Why oh why, would a doctor's office provide a children's area, but no available changing table in the bathroom? I was called back to the examining room about when I made this discovery, so I figured, "fine, I'll change her on the examining table." Except in an unusual turn of events, the doctor appeared to see me promptly. Alright, other than a suspicious fragrance wafting from Meredith's general vicinity, things were still under control. The children were mostly quiet and well-behaved, charmed by my uncharacteristic willingness to allow them to touch my iPod.

As I sat discussing my anxiety and stress levels and the possibility of a prescription, Meredith quietly walked up to me and reminded me gently that she pooped. I turned to acknowledge her statement.

She brought me evidence.

On her thumb.

Which was now grasping my shirt.

Luckily my doctor possesses both a sense of humor and two children of her own.

She immediately sat down and wrote a prescription; there was no further proof of my need for drugs required.

Excuse Me I Have To Get The Phone. LORD STANLEY IS CALLING!

2009-06-12T22:53:00.003-04:00

In the eternal words of Howard Cosell, "When you play Pittsburgh, you play the whole city."

And Pittsburgh played well tonight.

Congratulations Pittsburgh Penguins, Stanley Cup Champions!

She Keeps Her Halo Well Hidden

2009-06-10T15:59:00.003-04:00

When Life Hands You Lemons, Go Find Someone Whose Life Has Handed Them Vodka

2009-06-08T14:30:00.002-04:00

The three ring circus that is my life has been particularly chaotic lately in ways both good and bad.

My friend Melissa left today to return to her home in England. It was a whirlwind week filled with laughter, family, love, laughter, way too much food, and a little more laughter. Wine was drunk, knees were scraped, birthday candles were lit and blown out, Ollie's 90th birthday was celebrated with gusto. I will miss seeing Melissa daily and the ability to simply make a local call and talk as long as we like. But on the other hand, the laundry and dishes are piling up around my ears and it will be good to get back to our regular routine. After all, it feels weird when my kids aren't sniping at each other and complaining of one or the other committing the unspeakable act of BREATHING on the other.

At the same time a nastier problem was brewing. Dave alerted me to a small lump on his inner upper arm on Monday night. Since he also had a smallish abrasion on his elbow that appeared to be infected, I was fairly certain it was a swollen lymph node responding to the infected elbow. Dave seems to be one of the few people I know who actually likes Emergency Rooms, so I had to talk him down and remind him he had a regularly scheduled appointment with the General Practitioner the next day and since his arm showed no signs of falling off at that very moment, it was probably safe to wait until tomorrow afternoon.

I forgot to take into account the general incompetence of the Nurse Practitioner that usually sees Dave at his appointments.

Dave and I used to see the same G.P. until Nurse Ratched showed up on the scene. She regularly insulted, patronized, and belittled me at every turn until I had had enough abuse hurled upon me, and sought out a new doctor. The first time we met, she simultaneously hurt my son's feelings and insulted me when she walked in and two-year-old Jamie, being as good as gold sitting nicely on a chair reading a book, looked up and greeted her with a polite "Hi!" She replied, "Tell your Mommy you need a haircut."

She once told me she'd "humor me" when I requested she do a throat culture on the painfully sore throat I had had for three weeks. You know, I don't normally pray for Strep Throat, but in that instance I offered up a Hail Mary for a positive result just to take her down a notch or two.

The final straw for me was when Dave waltzed in to see her with a sniffle or two and waltzed back out with a full course of antibiotics that of course will do diddly-squat for that cold virus he had. When I went to see her a few weeks later with every color of the rainbow coming out of my nose, and a sinus cavity that threatened to explode right then and there all over the examining room, having had said symptoms for close to a month, she coldly informed me I had a virus and she doesn't prescribe antibiotics for viruses. When I expressed that I agree wholeheartedly, and I've never once before requested an antibiotic until I had reached near-death-by-Ebola-sinuses, she actually sniggered at me. I'm pretty sure that's the first time I saw someone snigger.

So I should not have been surprised by her dismissal of Dave's arm. But since she previously generally dispensed medication like candies any time Dave walked in, I was shocked when she stated, without even touching said arm, "That's not an infection. There aren't any lymph nodes in that part of the arm. You have a cyst. We don't treat that here."

By yesterday, Dave's arm was swollen, red and hot to the touch. This time when he expressed a desire to visit the Emergency Room, I was all in favor. He was admitted last night for I.V. antibiotics to treat a severe infection. According to the Infectious Disease Control Doctor, most likely introduced by the small abrasion on his elbow causing the lymph node to swell. You know, the ones that don't exist according to Nurse Wretched, or Ratched.

But you can just call her Stupid for short.

The Reality Of Unreality

2009-05-29T15:41:00.005-04:00

I'm not a big fan of Reality Television.

I'll pause a moment and wait for you all to ready your rotten tomatoes to fling at me for what I am about to disclose.

I do not like Survivor. Dancing With The Stars bores me to tears. I have never in my life watched a single full episode of American Idol. Extreme Makeover - Home Edition has occasionally caught my interest, but usually only because I happened to be a captive audience on an elliptical machine at the gym. I do not watch Amazing Race, The Bachelor, or its feminine counterpart, The Bachelorette.

American Idol is so pervasive that some of it penetrates my perception. I know Kelly Clarkson won one of the contests. And one of the guys that was on it "came out" a few years ago much to nobody's surprise. But when my friends begin to bandy about names like Kris and Adam I get completely confused, until someone stops and patiently translates AI-speak to me. The only time my fingers might pause on the remote for a moment is to listen to a bit of Simon Cowell snarkiness. If there's one thing I appreciate it's snark. And he does it so well.

There is little to no reality in these shows. I mean come on. If those Survivor contestants were TRULY on that deserted island or swamp or desert or whatever locale they're sticking them in these days, with no modern conveniences or comforts of home, the girls would have armpits like men, dreadlocks on their legs, and those bikinis they regularly compete in would be sporting some untamed bushes.

While I generally don't participate in American Pop Reality Television Culture, I have a few guilty exceptions. I like Paranormal State even though some of the ghostly occurrences are a tiny bit staged, and Ryan narrating sotto voce is often more humorous than suspenseful. I also appreciate What Not to Wear (speaking of snark.....), and I've even been known to tolerate an evening with the Duggars.

But my true love of Reality TV has always been Jon & Kate Plus Eight.

Unless you live under a rock, you know that Jon & Kate Gosselin are experiencing some well publicized marital problems. It seems everyone has an opinion on this from their families, to former employers, right down to maintenance guys at the local Motel. Every single person that has ever passed them on the street has an opinion. There seems to be a growing movement of "Team Jon" or "Team Kate".

Just for fun I'm going to toss my hat into the ring and let everyone be entitled to my opinion also.

Does Kate come off as a shrew sometimes, reprimanding her husband as if he was one of her many children? Yes she does. Have I ever done the same thing? Absolutely. Are either one of us proud of it? No. She's stated this publicly.

Does Jon come off as lazy, clueless, or inattentive sometimes. Sure does. And I'll bet he's not real fond of some of his flaws either.

But the reality of their relationship is not what we see on television or in the tabloids. Remember a reality show isn't actually reality. If you saw them all day long going about normal business and nobody ever blew a gasket, or had a temper tantrum, or slammed a door, or walked away from a conversation, it would be a REALLY BORING SHOW. So what we see on television is carefully edited for maximum viewer retention.

Trailers that say, "Tune in for the next Jon & Kate Plus Eight, where we see Kate clip her toenails and Jon wash the van, and the kids all mull around looking in the refrigerator all day to see if something has grown there since last time," just don't pique the public interest.

As for the tabloids reporting Jon cheated, Kate cheated, he's done with the marriage, she spends all her time on the road - let me remind you of an old saying. Don't judge a person until you've walked a mile in their shoes.

This is someone's real Mom & Dad. EIGHT someones. These are two real people that fell in love with each other, faults, farts, leaving the toilet seat up, compulsive organization and all - just like you or me. I suspect neither one suddenly developed a new personality since they took their vows. This is a real married couple having real marital problems. And those shoes I have walked in. And they hurt. It doesn't matter what he did or she did, it takes two to make or break a marriage. I've worn the shoes of the betrayed wife. And believe me, those ain't no Jimmy Choo's. But at the same time I cannot say I was 100% blameless in the break up of my marriage either.

All I can say is that in this case, there are Eight Little Faces behind the unreality of this reality show. For their sake, let's give this couple a break and hope they can work it out.

NOT on television. In reality. Where we don't see it.

In Memory

2009-05-25T05:00:00.002-04:00

I am fortunate to have never lost a member of my family to a war. Although we certainly have plenty of veterans in my family. In fact I have a family member to represent every branch of the military.

In memory of those who have served, and made the ultimate sacrifice for their country, and most especially for the wives, husbands, children, mothers and fathers they left behind, I dedicate this entry.

I may not support our wars, but I unconditionally support every soldier that serves this country.

Thank you.

Eternal rest grant them O Lord.
And let perpetual light shine upon them.

Glutton For Punishment

2009-05-20T21:36:00.004-04:00

It's official. We've decided to return to Myrtle Beach again this year. I made the final payment today on a three bedroom oceanfront condo. We decided it was actually cheaper to go to the beach than visit nearby Hershey, PA, which was our original plan. While calculating all the admissions fees for a family of five at the various Hershey Attractions, I realized we would need close to $1,000. And that's just the parks, zoos, and attractions. That doesn't include the lodging and if we wanted to do other spontaneous things, like, oh...say, EAT. At Myrtle Beach, we pretty much just go to the beach every day all day and play in the sand, sun, and surf. Which conveniently enough is free.

Most of you are probably thinking "If this is punishment, bring it on!"

The beach itself is fantastic. I love the beach. Everything about the beach. I crave the beach all year long. I am a child of the water who had the misfortune to be born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, nowhere near the sea. The Mon is great and all, but for swimming? Well. Ick. And we're a little short on beach.

The trouble with being born in Southwestern Pennsylvania is that to reach the ocean, one must either drive very long distances or fly on an airplane. I am not fond of flying on airplanes. Nor is my wallet.

That leaves the Very. Long. Drive.

With three small children. That pee. A lot.

But beyond that, I suffer from panic attacks. I began having these panic attacks when I was about 24 years old right after I plowed my 1989 Pontiac Grand Am into the rear end of someone's Buick on Dravosburg Hill. It wasn't too hard to figure out the trigger for these panic attacks. Every time I traveled down Dravosburg Hill, I had a panic attack. The panic attacks bring on a feeling of not being able to breathe, my arms and legs and face begin to feel strangely numb as if they're being deprived of oxygen and I am certain I will pass out at any moment.

Now the typical advice for someone who suffers a panic attack is to let yourself experience it. Go through the entire panic attack and allow yourself to see that you do not, in fact, die.

The problem with this logic however, is that if I am driving a car at 65 MPH and I pass out, I will, in fact, DIE.

The Dravosburg Hill panic attacks eventually passed (good thing since my son attended Pre-School in Dravosburg three days a week) and I had been pretty much panic attack free until last year on the way to Myrtle Beach.

I had too much caffeine, had been driving way too long already, and as I approached a tunnel somewhere in Virginia, I pulled into the left lane to pass a slow eighteen-wheeler in front of me. I felt confident doing this as there was a big sign at the entrance to the tunnel stating "LEFT LANE NO TRUCKS" Whereupon another eighteen wheeler decided that didn't apply to him and he began to barrel down on my ass at 70 MPH.

I suddenly remembered all about panic attacks.

I got through the tunnel and immediately pulled over on the shoulder of the road much to the surprise of my husband who (quite rightly) pointed out what a stupid place I had chosen to pull over. I explained it was either pull over or pass out and die, and he wisely shut up and got in the driver's seat.

I could not drive the rest of the trip until we reached two lane roads.

Since then, any old highway can set me off. Driving 279 North, which is as familiar to me as the back of my hand, is now a serious challenge. I recently drove Jamie to a birthday party in Monroeville and the Squirrel Hill Tunnels, which are pretty darn tame, set me off so badly I had to fight not to pull over then and there and call Dave to come pick us up. I'm grateful I've managed to avoid the Liberty Tubes since I'm fairly certain the police get cranky when they have to rescue the crazy bitch that parks her car in the middle and refuses to move.

We're leaving June 19th so I think therapy is out of the question. Unless anyone knows of any super-charged ultra turbo head shrinker that can work miracles in 30 days or less (Hey if Domino's can do it 30 minutes or less......), I think I'm going to need to experience better living through chemistry.

Do they make tranquilizers that taste like M&M's?

The British Are Coming! The British Are Coming!

2009-05-19T11:46:00.006-04:00

I met Melissa when she transferred to my small Catholic Elementary School in Third or Fourth Grade (she'll correct that detail I'm sure).

Our friendship began in Fifth Grade when the yearly Talent Show was approaching and I could find no one else willing to participate in my goofy dance routine with me. Not only was Melissa willing, she had a big living room, stereo equipment, and a piano playing big brother named Derek.

And so began a friendship that has endured for 30 years, several moves - further away each time (strictly on her part), 3 weddings (mostly mine), 1 divorce (that's mine too), 7 pregnancies (I claim the majority on that one), 2 miscarriages (we split that one evenly), and countless hours of talking, whether in person or via several thousands of dollars worth of long distance phone bills.

When we were in High School, I pretty much lived at her house and did in fact live there most weekends and great parts of summer vacations. Every plane trip I have taken has involved Melissa and/or her family. Her parents graciously invited me to accompany them to Disneyworld when I was 15. When I was 23 I flew to Seattle and stayed with her and her oldest brother Chris and nephew Joshua in their home. When I was 24 and getting divorced we flew to Key West together and had a "Girl's Night Out" that lasted 7 days.

I helped to renovate a house owned by her sister Becky and her husband Kris. I still remember having a "blast" sandblasting the walls of their home. I'm pretty sure we were cheap help - we worked for lunch, but it was a good time nonetheless. We paddled in a blue plastic baby pool with her niece Amy, and her other niece Lisa was probably the first baby I saw as a newborn infant.

Her oldest sister Kathy was and is an AMAZING artist, and I enjoyed her paintings and sketches through the years and was delighted to meet her when she visited occasionally from the Seattle area.

Derek, the brother closest in age to Melissa and I, became a good friend and sometimes over-protective big brother over the years as well. He is a superb piano player and I definitely acquired a love of piano music from innumerable hours of listening to him play piano, sometimes while we all belted out renditions of Emerson Lake & Palmer, Pink Floyd, Billy Joel, and countless others. With and without liquid courage.

I began calling her Mom, "Mom" years ago and my kids refer to her as "Grandma Kathy".

So you see Melissa is not only my friend, she is my family. When she moved to England to attend Graduate School, then met a native named Chris (there is some fundamental attraction to the name "Chris" in that family) and planned a wedding, it was assumed I would attend. When I was unsure how I would manage to find the funds (I was single and living in an apartment at the time), Mom and Hank assured me it wouldn't be a problem. Translation = Mom & Hank generously paid my way across the Atlantic and back.

As the date of her (and my adopted) beloved Grandma Ollie's 90th birthday approaches, she and her entire family have made plans to gather from all over the globe. The last time I saw Melissa, Jamie was 3 weeks old. He is now 5, I have another baby, she has an almost 2 year old daughter named Leone, and another baby on the way. It has been FAR too long since we got to gab and laugh 'til the tears run down our faces in the same continent, let alone IN THE SAME ROOM.

I always wanted a big family with lots of brothers and sisters and spent a large part of my youth wishing I had that.

As the time approaches for Melissa and her family to converge and I have reconnected with some of those brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews, and realize that Grandma Kathy and Grandpa Hank have been there for every birth, birthday, wedding and funeral, something has occurred to me.

I have had that big family all along.

Happy Mother's Day!

2009-05-18T16:24:00.003-04:00

What's that you say?

That was last week?

Let's just say thank goodness for electronic greeting cards so that at least my stepmother got a Mother's Day card on the proper day. My Dad hand delivered her paper card when I met him for breakfast Tuesday morning.

So in keeping with my tardiness, here's my Mother's Day post. It's just a little bit late. Didn't your mother teach you that saying "Better late than never"?

Mine wishes she never taught me that saying.

My Kitchen Smells Funny - And Other Tales Of A Domestic Diva

2009-05-07T09:24:00.003-04:00

This is going to be the title of my book. The one I write someday. Of course then that would be sort of like work and that takes all the joy out of it.

In between reading blogs, checking my email, checking my OTHER email, refreshing Facebook (I undoubtedly have Internet ADD) I ventured into my kitchen to fetch a glass of milk and noticed something smells odd in there.

It is a tribute to my domesticity that I ventured right back out and sat down to blog about it.

Next I think I will tackle the yearly Spring Ant Invasion. I have the world's dumbest ants in my house. They blithely ignore the dog and cat food. They don't even seem interested in any of the crumbs from the kids' breakfast. I have actually watched them walk AROUND a large crumb in their path. In fact they seem to mull aimlessly back and forth every morning until I suck them up with the vacuum cleaner. Perhaps they are suicidal ants?

The truth is, I do clean up in a haphazard lackadaisical manner. My house is neither roach infested (ant invasion notwithstanding) nor dirty, but I do believe that expending any further effort than is absolutely necessary is a waste of my time. I have three small children and to quote Phyllis Diller, "Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing up is like shoveling the walk before it stops snowing."

Besides I have that ever-needy Internet to attend to.

Caution: Contents Under Pressure

2009-05-04T21:02:00.008-04:00

Sabrina made her First Holy Communion yesterday and there was a dress. A beautiful dress. A dress made of material exploiting several small caterpillars. An expensive dress.

Yeah Sabrina's dress was pretty too.

As I mentioned previously my dress was ordered in a slightly smaller size. And it thankfully did fit, but the dress required a bit of "assistance." When I ordered the dress, the photo showed it on a model that probably had less than 2% body fat and was badly in need of a cheeseburger. I on the other hand display no such deprivation. So while I knew it had a deep "V" front, I didn't realize quite how much cleavage would be displayed on someone who currently wears a "D" cup.

This dress required some serious undercover engineering.

My current bra wardrobe consisted of 3 nursing bras of varying sizes, none of which fit properly, and a piece that can only be referred to as a Granny bra. Not to be confused with Granny panties. Of which I own several.

Plunging silk dresses and graying Granny bras go together about as well as pickles and ice cream. Which sometimes DO go together, but that's what got me stuck with the nursing bras in the first place.

I considered going braless, but untethered, the girls sometimes have a life of their own. And I figured it would probably be a bad idea to flash a booby at Father John what with that whole Vow of Celibacy thing going on. Instead, I went in search of a bra that would provide support without quite so many yards of fabric as my current bras posessed. Comfort is generally last on the list when looking for one of these bras.

I found the bra I was looking for and was in search of something to smooth out the landscape as well. I tried on an all-in-one type deal that was both body smoother and bra that promised to eliminate visible panty lines and back bulges. It was true that I had no visible panty lines, and no bulges underneath where a bra would normally create them.

Have you ever seen those people that take long skinny balloons that are about 4 feet long and twist them into poodles or other balloon creatures? Well this garment had the effect of rolling any excess fat up to the top so that it looked like someone had wrapped one of those long balloons under my armpits.

Instead I settled on a corset. An honest to goodness old fashioned, 500 hooks up the front corset. And it looked great! I was smooth and bulgeless!

I had high hopes for the day of the Communion. I strapped myself into my new Lycra gear and slipped the dress on. There was some serious porn star cleavage going on. I used no less than 4 safety pins to pin the dress TO the bra as well as pinning it shut. There wasn't a darn thing I could do about the cleavage but at least I knew nothing was going to come busting out at an inopportune moment.

On the way to Church I had a peculiar sensation in my midriff. It felt like the darn corset was getting TIGHTER. As I stood in the pew I felt a sudden snapping sensation and realized it had flipped upward upon itself. So I was now essentially wearing two corsets.

My liver was located somewhere around my throat. Breathing was purely optional as my lungs were now stuffed into my armpits. I tried to discreetly push it back down. But pushing that amount of Lycra back into place requires the strength of an ox and looks a little bit like wrestling an alligator. Neither of which are seemly while your child receives a Blessed Sacrament.

To add insult to injury, I realized my pantyhose were also falling down.

I survived the day with several trips to the bathroom for adjustments and the resolution that from now on, I will wear pants to all dress-up occasions. I have sworn off pantyhose, high heels, front hook bras and all forms of Lycra foundation garments.

On a positive diet note, I was unable to eat a thing, since my stomach was squashed into the size of a pea and relocated behind my spine.

The Serenity Prayer - Extended Dance Remix

2009-05-03T03:30:00.002-04:00

God,

Grant me the SERENITY to accept the things I cannot change, such as the fact that it is statistically normal for a 5 year old boy to still wet the bed,

The COURAGE to change the things I can; specifically the sheets at 3:15 a.m - Preferably without swearing,

And the WISDOM to remember to surreptitiously feel the boy's butt to detect if he's wearing a Pull-Up or trying to get away with big-boy underwear again.

Amen

Random Rambling

2009-04-28T12:41:00.000-04:00

I'm hot. And not in the Cindy Crawford, Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue, Playboy Bunny sort of way.

To quote the Wicked Witch of the West, "I'M MEEEEELLLLLLLTING! I'M MEEEEEELLLLLLTIIIIIIINNGGGG!

The good news is I'm obviously compensating for the 30 pounds of lost sweat with plenty of food and drink because I've not lost one single ounce in the past two weeks. This is some sort of twisted Murphy's Law of diets.

"When one purchases an expensive dress in a slightly smaller size for an upcoming event, one can be certain they will either maintain or gain weight."

Murphy needs to kiss my ass. I'm tired of him sitting on my roof all the time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As I mentioned, it's hot. Unseasonably hot. We've reached the high 80's for the past 4 days. This is unusual for April in Pittsburgh, but certainly not unheard of. But Pittsburghers, even ones like me that have lived here all their life, have a limitless capacity for complaining about the heat, the cold, the snow, the sun, the rain, the clouds, the wind, and every other normal climate change that occurs with frequency and regularity in this region.

We also seem to have a need to comment on and discuss said weather ad nauseum.

Obviously.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One of my favorite stupid weather comments (I promise after I write this I'm done telling you about weather - assuming I haven't bored you into a coma by then) occurred in 2001. We had a Spring very similar to this one (which of course every Pittsburgher has forgotten about since we also have a limitless capacity for weather amnesia and marvel at the weird weather every year). The reason I remember this particular Spring is because I was pregnant with my first child and pregnancy has a tendency to make me......shall we say, "temperamental" when the mercury rises?

I had just lumbered up the stairs to my office, dragging all 500 pounds of bloated baby belly with me, looking as if I had just left the shower when in fact it was just the sweat that had sprung from my pores the very second I left the serenity of my air-conditioned car. I was greeted by a cheerfully chipper, dry and smiling co-worker, weighing in at approximately 98 pounds, commenting on the heat wave.

Then she said to me with a completely straight face, "You're lucky you won't have to be pregnant through the summer when it's hot."

HELLO? It's hot now, and I AM STILL PREGNANT.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sabrina makes her First Holy Communion this Sunday. We purchased the requisite sparkly white dress, but on the night we tried on 500 different dresses I was too tired to go through yet another 2 hours of choosing an appropriate veil with Her Royal Pickiness. So I, ahem, "suggested" we come back another time to choose one.

Except I waited until yesterday and the stores have cleared away all their First Holy Communion Merchandise, no doubt so they can get a jump on putting out all the Winter Coats.

When I "suggested" we go with a simple white head band or a sparkly barrette, Sabrina calmly and politely informed me that this would ruin her life forever and cause her to be the laughingstock of the class, and spend several expensive years in therapy. Or something along those lines. It was hard to understand through the weeping and melting to the floor.

Did you know that for more than the cost of the actual veil you can have one overnighted right to your door?

Now you know. I'm nothing if not helpful.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As soon as it cools off, I'll wring the sweat out of my brain and resume writing about something that is hopefully interesting and entertaining. Otherwise,

HOT ENOUGH FOR YA?

Just Call Me An Ancient "Mummy"

2009-04-24T08:38:00.000-04:00

Overheard last night as my Mom put Jamie to bed (my kids call my Mom "Gee." Not as in "gee whiz", but a hard "G" sound as in the horse command) :

Gee, It's okay if I kiss you goodnight really. Because I'm not too old for goodnight kisses. Cause really Gee, Mama still kisses you goodnight and she's REALLY old.

Like, Twenty One Hundred years old or something!

Who Is This "Perry" Guy Anyway?

2009-04-22T08:00:00.000-04:00

I've tried to find him in the White Pages. He's not listed in any Directory Assistance.

So why does this Perry Menopause dude keep bothering me?

Up until recently I had never even heard of perimenopause. Everyone's heard of the "Change of Life." "The CHANGE." "Men-o-pause." But this "perimenopause" seems like the cruel joke before you get to the punch line. Nobody told me the fun started approximately 10 years before actual cessation of menstruation.

At 39 I thought I had a long way to go before I worried about this stuff. But it turns out that menopause is a process. A loooooooong process. And all the fun side effects of menopause that people typically think of, such as hot flashes, night sweats, loss of, um, lubrication - all start during perimenopause.

One of the first symptoms I experienced was yet another symptom I'd never heard of. Apparently in preparation for menopause, your ovaries will start firing off like an AK-47. I can almost hear the little chants of "LEFT. LEFT. LEFT-RIGHT-LEFT," coming from my nether regions. I can only imagine this is like a general housecleaning before they close up shop for good.

What this translates to is that I get a period roughly every 20 days now instead of the traditional 28. Which also translates to two periods a month.

Do we not put up with enough shit what with the whole boobs feeling like they will spontaneously explode while they "bud"? What about the cramps and the headaches once a month that make you feel like someone stuck their fist in your uterus and twisted? And that's just puberty.

Then you move on to childbirth and, well, let's just say every time my husband told me his vasectomy actually did hurt, I informed him that after he produces a watermelon size object either from his butt or his vasectomy incision, then we'll chat about "hurt". At least I can honestly say the pain of pregnancy and childbirth is worth it because it actually produces a baby.

But all this other female crap? What does it produce other than mess and sweaty sheets that have nothing to do with an orgasm?

Boys on the other hand! When they reach puberty just have to put up with a little voice cracking and hair in new places. Which actually makes them MORE interesting to the opposite sex. We in turn have to SHAVE OFF all that new hair we get. And we all know that their contribution to childbirth involves 15 minutes of actual FUN (well, if we're being honest, it's probably closer to 5 minutes around here).

So much for equality of the sexes.

Another side effect of perimenopause is obviously a desire to bitch and moan about it.

Stellan

2009-04-21T08:41:00.001-04:00

Some of you may or may not have noticed the link I have posted at the right, that looks like this.

You can hardly be a Mom Blogger without hearing of MckMama. She's sort of a Mom Blogger celebrity as it were. Up until recently I didn't really "follow" her blog. Not because I didn't like it or didn't think she had anything to say to me, but mostly because, as my one reader Kim pointed out, I have a real life, after all, with real kids, and a real husband. And much as I try to stretch out those hours in a day, they remain firmly fixed at 24. So I only have so much time in a day to keep up with my blog and my friends' blogs and the laundry and the kids and the homework and the laundry and the doctor's appointments and the laundry and the dog wanting out again and the laundry and the dog wants back in again and hey just for a change let's go do some laundry.

But I found a link somewhere to her blog a few weeks ago because her youngest MckMuffin has been having some health issues. This poor little guy had health issues before he was even born and nobody was certain he'd make it back then.

But he did.

But now he's fighting a battle for his life again.

Right now even as we speak, beginning at 8:30 a.m. EST, he is undergoing a serious and delicate heart surgery to attempt to wipe out electrical pathways in his teeny tiny (but MIGHTY) heart that are causing his heart to stay in an extremely rapid and abnormal rhythm most of the time.

Every time I think about this, my own heart accelerates in response and leaps into my throat. Because once you have your own child, you can empathize all too well.

So if you are a praying sort of person, offer up a thought or prayer to your God, Goddess, Higher Power or the Universe that this little boy will pull through this operation. And peace for his family.

They are definitely in need of it.

Thinking of you and praying for you right now Stellan.

***UPDATE***
Stellan came through the surgery well. If you click the link you can get all the medical details. The procedure was what the doctor called 65% successful as there were some other issues, necessitating further surgery at another time. But for now, Stellan is alive and resting.

I will keep praying.

The Replacement

2009-04-20T11:29:00.000-04:00

Sabrina got a stuffed bean bag dog for her first birthday from her Uncle Gary. Since Uncle Gary owned a Beagle at the time named Peanut, and this stuffed doggie was decidedly "beagle-ish" he was christened Peanut.

And that was pretty much the last time Sabrina ever thought about Peanut.

She owned the requisite 9 million stuffed animals. I'll admit, as annoying as they can be (they take up so much ROOM!), I was guilty of buying at least half of them. Though Sabrina always seemed to like each and every stuffed animal when it arrived, she rarely played with them or cuddled them, or even cared if they were there.

Jamie on the other hand, adored stuffed animals and would insist on having them ALL in his crib (a trait I'm sorry to say his little sister also has) so that some mornings we were unsure where JAMIE was for all the surrounding plush and fluff.

As a toddler, he filched Peanut from Sabrina's bed one day and in a rare act of sibling generosity, Sabrina graciously said Jamie could keep him.

It was true love. They rarely spent a moment out of each other's company. Jamie, much like Linus and his blanket, took Peanut everywhere. Every now and then Peanut got too grubby for my taste and he took a bath, causing Jamie to fret and worry and ask for 10 billionth time in 2 hours, "Where Peanut?", up until the very second they were reunited.

True happiness is one boy still slightly grubby, and one doggie, freshly washed and fluffy warm from the dryer.

I read a story once about a little girl who had lost her lovey. Her lovey was a cheap stuffed animal made by Carter's. This animal probably cost $5.00 originally. But when the little girl lost her lovey and was heartbroken and spent many sleepless nights, her beleaguered (and exhausted) Dad went in search of a replacement.

Except this lovey had been discontinued by Carter's. He did locate it on eBay for the bargain price of $100. Because it was now considered a "Collectible".

This story was enough to give me nightmares. Not so much the $100 replacement cost, but more so the thought of those sleepless nights listening to that child cry for her lost lovey. We all know how I value my sleep. Any parent can understand why that Dad actually went ahead and paid $100 for that replacement lovey. You just cannot put a price on sleep.

Besides, I know for certain, had someone told me sometime during Sabrina's first two (sleep-free) years, "If you give me $100, I can guarantee she will sleep through the night from now on," I would have simply said "Cash or check?"

So when I saw a doggie identical to Peanut, in a Motherhood Maternity store of all places, I snapped him up. Twin Peanut has been residing in a green plastic Motherhood Maternity bag on the top shelf of my closet for the past three years.

Jamie's five now. He still loves his stuffed animals and there is a rotation that goes on in his bed. Favorites come and go. But a few weeks ago, Peanut inexplicably disappeared. We're not sure where. Jamie no longer absolutely needs Peanut to go to sleep, but he sure did miss him. And last night, most likely because he was a bit overtired, he decided he was NO WAY, NO HOW going to sleep until SOMEONE found Peanut.

Out came Peanut's twin from the closet. I wish I could have seen the look on his face when he grabbed him and squeezed him and said, "He's all soft and he smells so GOOD!" Dave had the pleasure, as I was busy putting Meredith to bed at the time.

But I had the privilege of checking on him before I went to bed and finding him happily snuggled with Peanut Jr., sleeping deeply and contentedly, knowing all was right with his world.

Undoubtedly the best $10 I've ever spent.

I Promise I'm Not Seeing That Skanky Blog Down The Street

2009-04-19T19:02:00.000-04:00

My poor little Blog. I've neglected you. Really it's not you, it's me.

Yeah, yeah, we've all heard THAT line before.

But I swear I'm ready to kiss and make up.

If you'll have me back.

Biggie Size That Wine Please

2009-04-03T08:30:00.000-04:00

I may have mentioned that I don't like needles. I would be a very very bad heroin addict. I have no tattoos, not because I don't approve or dislike them, but because they involve needles. Hell I passed out getting my ears pierced. All two and a half times. Including the one I did myself. Which is why it's two and HALF times pierced. It's hard to pierce the other side when you're semi-conscious.

And it's not even a pain thing. I'm pretty tough. I gave birth three times, only one of which had a successful epidural (But I sure as heck didn't want to see that needle they put in my spine). Something in my brain cannot tolerate the thought of an object penetrating or slicing skin. Once you're through the skin I'm cool. I can watch operations on television. Blood doesn't faze me. In college Biology I cut a deal with my lab partners. When it came time to do a Nephrectomy or Hepatectomy on our lab rats, I handled all the surgical details. As long as someone else made the incision.

When I was a child, my Pediatrician (Dr. Milton G. Tall, may he rest in peace) called me "Tiger Mary." Only half affectionately. The other half was genuine fear for his life and limbs. When he would walk in the examining room, he would immediately put his hands up in the classic "I surrender" gesture and say "No shot today." Of course this backfired when he walked in and didn't say it and I commenced to shriek and hide under the table necessitating a nurse to come in and assist my mother in pinning me down to the table.

I have passed on the gene.

Yesterday was Jamie's yearly check-up. I won't give my kids too much information ahead of time. No sense having them anticipate longer than necessary. But when asked the direct question, "Am I getting a shot?" I will not lie. I didn't appreciate being lied to as a child and won't do it to mine.

So he knew it was coming. And he held it together pretty well for most of the appointment, even loosening up enough to tell the Pediatrician about his recent pirate themed birthday party. But as soon as the good doctor left and sent the nurse back in, all bets were off. And as if one crying, shrieking child wasn't enough, Meredith decided to get hysterical in sympathy.

When the nurse instructed me to hold him on my lap with his legs tucked and locked between mine, and a bear hug around his arms holding his left arm as still as possible, I had sudden flashbacks to being on the receiving end of this situation. The nurse offered to get someone to hold Meredith, but I knew that in her current state, a perfect stranger picking her up would only increase the decibels coming from her mouth, so I made the decision to let her cry while I attended to the child with the more immediate needs.

Of course everyone survived, with a bright blue Band-Aid, small dents to my sanity and one minor bruise to my shin.

Happy Meals will wash away a multitude of perceived wrongs. And an Iced Mocha for Mom doesn't hurt either.

If only we could get McDonald's to serve alcohol, the world would be complete.

There's Always Another Poop Story

2009-04-02T14:00:00.000-04:00

I will admit this story was inspired - or rather I should say the memory was triggered - by my friend Jackie at The Other Side of the Fence. She's got a toddler and an infant right now so she's knee deep in it right now. So to speak.

We used to have "Poop Day". Sabrina has always had problems with pooping regularly even though she was a completely breastfed baby. For those of you that find that remark puzzling, breast milk has a natural laxative effect. Breastfed babies usually poop often. VERY often. As in after every feeding. Considering a breastfed newborn will generally eat approximately twelve times a day, that's a lotta poop.

But Sabrina's usual schedule was to poop every third day.

As in, "Is today Poop Day?"

"No, she's not due until tomorrow."

Every now and then she would stretch it to four, and once it was five days. Talk about your mudslide! Once she literally had poop from her neck to her toes. The sheer volume of poop was astounding for a roughly 7 to 8 pound baby. I was seriously beginning to wonder if she didn't store that stuff down a hollow leg.

She also liked to do it in her car seat for some unknown reason. So "poop day" inevitably also meant "disassemble car seat and excavate poop from molded plastic crevices day" as well. Since the cloth cover to her car seat was listed as hand wash (which I promptly ignored) and line dry (which I didn't since I once shrunk a sweater literally down to doll size) that also meant we were grounded for one day in between while we waited for her seat to dry.

I hereby declare it mandatory that all baby accessories should be machine wash and tumble dry. Up to and possibly including the baby.

Another myth those baby books imprinted on my brain was that breastfed baby poop didn't stink. While it is true that breastfed baby poop does not smell like formula fed baby poop (that stuff can clear a room faster than a Tarantula at an Arachnophobe Convention) it is not the rose petal scented stuff I must have been imagining. In fact it was one of the many things I had on my "Mama List" to discuss with the pediatrician at an early appointment. When I worriedly told him that her poop smells bad, he looked at me perplexedly, blinked a few times, and probably thinking this was the punch line to the other 35 odd questions I had just asked him, he chuckled and said, "Well that's because it's POOP."

Enjoy your Cocoa Puffs for breakfast.

Not Suitable For Moms

2009-04-01T10:36:00.000-04:00

Nyquil how I love thee. Let me count the ways. Thou takest away my snot, if only temporarily. Thou maketh me to, if not stop coughing, at least sleep through it. (This annoyeth the spouse, but he'll get over it - we'll calleth it "P-A-Y-B-A-C-K" for all the snoring) Thou art a magical elixir that can guarantee my sleep even on the worst nights of cold and flu season.

But underneath those warnings about high blood pressure and MAOI's and prostates of the large variety, they really need to offer a warning that you will become completely incapable of giving a shit about your sick children as well.

I was woken by Meredith at 12:00 a.m. when she threw up a little in her crib. But instead of my usual routine of changing her, stripping her bed and putting clean sheets on - I found it completely acceptable to wipe off her hands and face, strip the pillowcase that was the repository of the offending vomit, and turn the pillow over so the dry side faced up, and tell her to go back to sleep.

Oh yes I did.

And somewhere in my Nyquil induced fog, I recall my other daughter visiting in the wee hours to tell me her brand of stomach flu was producing rear emissions and she hadn't quite made it to the toilet. I told her to change her pants and go back to bed.

I'm telling you, I was aware these things were happening, I just couldn't be bothered to actually get up and do anything about it.

In other words, the label should read, "Warning, the consumption of this medication may temporarily turn you into a DAD."

Five

2009-03-26T21:03:00.000-04:00

My poor little man. Your birthday has thus far, been not very festive. You came down with an awful virus a few days ago and have been miserable and fevered ever since. But a shot of Ibuprofen with a Tylenol chaser seems to give you a few hours reprieve, and your brand new light saber, complete with lights, sounds and vibrations, went a long way to restoring your good cheer today.

Jamie you are a joy to your Father and me. There isn't a person alive that is not utterly charmed by your personality. The fact that you're also adorably cute doesn't hurt either.

I would never ever say that I didn't want to have a boy, but I was uncertain how to raise one. Since I am, obviously, not a boy I wasn't sure I could relate to a boy-child. But I am delighted to say that from the moment you were born and I inspected all ten of your fingers and ten of your toes, and held your hand, tiny beyond all belief, in the NICU, I have been completely besotted with you.

Happy Birthday Boogie-Boy! Try not to get big too fast okay?

Good Luck With That Budget Thing

2009-03-25T09:09:00.000-04:00

Sorry President Obama I can neither help nor criticize. I can't even balance my own budget. I can however relate to that whole deficit thing. We've been working with a deficit around here for some time now.

Seems I was a bit hasty to criticize last night. I got my weekly fill of Simon Baker deliciousness, my head did not implode, and no rocks were thrown at the television. You did however push it back an entire hour causing me to be very tired and cranky this morning.

Considering Bush made me feel that way 24/7, I'll let it pass just this once.

I'm A Little Irrational When It Comes To Simon Baker

2009-03-24T20:53:00.001-04:00

President Obama needs to address the American People during these "troubled times." I get that.

By the way is anyone else tired of that euphemism? Let's call a spade a spade people - it's called "Your investments have gone down the pooper and don't expect to get that nest egg back any time soon." That's the advantage to being poor like me. No money = nothing to lose.

But can't he pick a night like Friday when the television line up sucks and the worst thing we'll miss is Wife Swap? Which would actually be doing the American People a huge public service if you ask me.

If The Mentalist gets preempted one more time I'm rescinding my vote.

I Want A New Drug

2009-03-21T14:32:00.001-04:00

My husband is a recovering addict/alcoholic. This post is not about that - that's his story to tell. This post is about my addictions and how they relate.

I often joke about my food addiction, but truly it's no joke. The only thing in my life that comes close to being as addictive a substance to me is my books. And let's face it, an over-indulgence in books just makes you, well.....smarter. Even if it lightens your pocketbook, you can overcome that by buying used books or joining a book trade forum.

But food. Food has been my drug most of my life. Even before conscious memory. Baby crying? Give her a cookie. Problem solved.

I've tried to explain my food addiction to my husband in terms he can relate to based upon his experiences with addiction. But in many ways I believe my addiction is far more difficult to overcome. Not to belittle his achievements, or anyone else who has battled drugs or alcohol, but the first, simplest and most basic rule, and the first thing they tell you in Alcoholics Anonymous or Drug Rehab is "Just don't drink/do drugs."

Easy? No of course not. Simple? Yes.

But "Just don't eat," is not only impractical, it's a bit incompatible with life. If we want to continue enjoying this Earth, humans must consume sustenance. Daily. Three times or more per day.

If you told a crack addict that they had to consume crack at 8:00 a.m., 12:00 p.m., and 5:00 p.m. daily, and they were only permitted one hit of the substance, don't expect to see them or their money (or yours for that matter) ever again. It's impossible.

Is food equal to crack cocaine? Well it sure as hell doesn't make me as skinny as crack would, but it's every bit as alluring and dangerous to me. The detrimental effects of it may take a bit longer to kill me, but kill me they will. Everyone knows being overweight contributes to heart disease, circulatory problems, strokes, diabetes, the list goes on and on.

And besides the health issues, being overweight is one of the last remaining socially accepted prejudices. If someone's fat it's okay to call them on it. Make them the butt of jokes. Speculate on how much weight they've gained. And don't think I don't already know that half the people on Facebook are "friending" people just to see how fat they got since high school.

So it's literally been the fight of, and for, my life.

Today I have lost 10% percent of my body weight. This is a fantastic achievement for me, yet I still have a way to go. But my eyes were opened today to a similarity between myself and addicts/alcoholics everywhere. And I am amazed it has taken me this long to realize it.

I have to battle this every day, indeed every minute, of my life. I have to maintain my "sobriety." By losing weight and achieving a "goal", I have not been "cured." I will never, EVER be cured. And due to the nature of my drug, and the inability to avoid it entirely, I must accept that there will be relapses.

I have taken the first step. I admitted I am powerless over food and that my life had become unmanageable. I came to believe that a Higher Power (and the Almighty Weight Watchers) can restore me to sanity.

Someday I will rock a pair of expensive jeans. And I will run circles around my Grandchildren.

Even if it is in a wheelchair.

Every Day Is St. Patrick's Day In My World

2009-03-17T12:32:00.000-04:00

Today is the one day of the year everyone wants to be Irish regardless of their ancestry. And I'm okay with that. When you're lucky enough to be Irish 365 days of the year, it's easy to be magnanimous. A little advice from an authentic Irish lass when ye're celebratin' the wearin' o' the green today:

Skip the green beer and go straight for the Guinness. It's tastier and more authentic than that thin watery food colored Iron City.

Better yet, a wee drop of Jameson's is good for the constitution.

And yes, my son was named for an alcoholic beverage, wanna make something of it? We Irish are known to be quick tempered. They don't call them the "Fighting Irish" for no reason.

Or best of all, join me for a Bailey's. Is it a drink? Is it a dessert? Do I really care?

To all my friends on this St. Patrick's Day I leave you with this traditional Irish Blessing:

May those that love us, love us.
And those that don't love us,
May God turn their hearts.
And if He doesn't turn their hearts,
May He turn their ankles
So we will know them by their limping.

You've got to love a race that can pen a prayer involving bodily harm.

Éirinn go brách or póg mo thóin!

Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

2009-03-13T11:04:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite activities is checking to see who has visited me here on my blog. I don't always know exactly who. Feedjit gives me a location and I can sometimes guess who it was. For example Sheffield England is almost always my friend Melissa. Australia used to always be Boo at Discover Boo, but recently I've gotten quite a few visits from Australia, so I am lucky to have a variety of Aussie visitors.

I've also added an application that shows me the flags of the countries of my visitors. And just in case that isn't enough ways of stroking my own ego, I also have a hit counter that shows the total number of visits I've received.

Because this blogging thing really is at least a little bit about ego isn't it? After all what fun would it be to write it and put it out there if I didn't actually hope that someone would read it. So from the bottom of my heart I thank all of you that stop by here and read my musings, rantings, simple stories, and snippets of my life. From my followers that check in every day, to the casual reader, to the hapless soul that stumbles upon my corner of insanity on the World Wide Web, I offer my appreciation for letting me have an audience.

But I also get a great deal of enjoyment finding out HOW people find me when they find me completely by accident. And by this of course, I mean on the occasion I see that someone has found me by searching Google for a specific term or phrase. So for your enjoyment, I offer a few of the recent phrases that have landed some poor unfortunates on my (likely unhelpful) blog.

Letter to mother - Without a doubt, this is the number one way I get hits from people all over the world. This term has landed people from Latvia, Vietnam, Hong Kong, Philippines, Japan, North Korea, Kazakhstan, Indonesia, and Romania. Latvia alone arrived here 5 times using that search phrase. I am uncertain why Latvians need so much help writing a letter to their mother, but I wish them well. Tell Mom I said "Hi."

How do I convince my wife to swallow? - Dude, I'm no sex therapist, but I can tell you it's one of those things sort of like raw oysters, caviar, and Rocky Mountain Oysters. You either like it or you don't and you've just GOTTA be in the mood for it. And if you convince her to do it anyway, it's not going to be fun for anyone. Gagging and vomiting during sex just isn't a turn-on for ANYONE. I can tell you being reciprocal about the arrangement can go a long way toward encouraging her to try the "oysters" so to speak.

Swallow because my husband happy - We need to get these two together.

Constipated - I've been told on more than one occasion that I am completely full of shit. But I'm pretty sure that still won't help you with your problem. Eat more fiber and drink lots of water. A cup of coffee works nicely too. It hasn't improved my literary bullshit quotient, but it does keep me regular.

Peas and Carrots Story - I don't have one. I think you're meant to be looking here.

6 burgh sweater - The Steelers are the best Football Team in the world. And Pittsburgh is the best hometown I could ever hope to have the God given good fortune to be born into. I hope you found your sweater. Wear it proudly.

What does it mean if my testicles turn green? - It means you shouldn't be sitting in front of the computer reading blogs. And you might want to re-think your choice of sexual partner as well. And I hope you weren't planning on using those testicles anytime soon.

Or maybe you're just getting into the St. Patrick's Day spirit in new and interesting ways. In which case, I'm going to tell you a secret. I've never known a girl to get excited by genitals in any shade of emerald. Frat letters shaved into back hair is another turn-off, but that's another story for another day.

Either way, luck o' the Irish to you my friend. You'll need it.

Quiet Scars

2009-03-07T07:00:00.000-05:00

March 7, 2006 was the due date of my third child. I don't speak of her much (I decided it was a she, nobody will ever really know). Some of my family members never even knew she existed.

When I was 9 weeks pregnant I had a scan to check that everything was alright. I had been bleeding lightly, not even enough to be alarming, but as a diligent follower of "What to Expect When You're Expecting," I was a good girl and notified the doctor. I just figured it would be exciting to get an extra early ultrasound. I dropped Jamie and Sabrina at my Mother's and went by myself, with nobody there to support me. Because it never even entered my mind that I would need support.

As she waved the magic wand over my belly she couldn't locate anything visibly. She assured me this wasn't unusual and proceeded to the INTERNAL magic wand. She asked if I wanted to do the inserting or if I preferred she do it. I laughed and made an inappropriate joke like I usually do when I'm extremely embarrassed and uncomfortable and said "Neither?" She ignored me and went about her business.

She moved and prodded and poked and twirled. I had met with this tech before and she's not a Chatty Cathy under the best of circumstances. But after several moments of silence and noticing she still hadn't moved the screen so I could see it, a creeping unease began to wash over me.

And then the words.

"I'm sorry. I should be seeing a heartbeat by now, and I'm not."

It was as if someone had shot my entire body, brain, and heart full of Novocaine. I wasn't sad, I didn't cry. She handed me a handful of Kleenex and I sat and wadded it in my fist, twisting it and passing it from hand to hand, uncertain exactly why she had given it to me. I was confused as she told me I could get dressed and speak to the doctor. I think I knew somewhere inside what her words meant, but all I could think was, "Why isn't she still looking if she can't find the heartbeat?"

When the young doctor who had delivered my son walked in, the one who looked closer to 12 years old than someone who should be catching babies, he also said, "I'm sorry."

Through the buzzing noise in my ears I caught phrases such as "genetic defect," "ceased to develop," and "D & C."

I said I wanted to think about how to proceed and managed to walk out of the office and waiting room looking completely normal. As if I was actually capable of thinking rationally about my options when my brain was so distracted by that buzzing sound. Were there bees in here?

Inside I was just..........nothing. To say I felt numb would be to say I was aware of the absence of feeling. And I wasn't. I was shut down and on auto pilot. The lights were on but nobody was home. The body performed it's locomotive duties without any apparent direction from the brain.

I refused to talk about it. I collected my kids and went home. I have no recollection of driving there.

I decided later that afternoon I wanted the D & C so I could be done with it. So I wouldn't have to think about it. So I wouldn't have to feel anything. I was almost frantic with the need to have it scheduled right away. I pleaded with the nurse to get it scheduled for the next day, and being the efficient soul that she was, she made it happen.

The procedure itself was painless. Some minor cramping afterward, nothing a little ibuprofen wouldn't handle. I got home and thought "How nice, people sent me flowers," not entirely sure I deserved them. I called those kind people and thanked them but again thwarted all efforts to talk about it.

The next day the psychic glue and mania that were keeping me tightly wound let loose their bonds, and like a Waterford vase dropped on a ceramic tile floor, I shattered into a million tiny cold bright pieces.

I had nowhere to pour my grief. She was never born so I was not supposed to miss her or mourn her or acknowledge her existence. I had no casket to weep over or headstone to visit. My child was carried away in a metal pan to be examined in a pathology lab like a cancer and disposed of as medical waste. It was as if a baby never existed.

I began a rabid pursuit of copies of the sonogram pictures. You know the happy little strip of thermal paper you're given as a badge of completion of a successful sonogram? I wasn't so successful but I wanted my badge anyway dammit. The same competent nurse said she would do what she could but wouldn't promise anything. Everyone told me there would be another baby, but I didn't want another baby, I wanted THAT one.

I needed proof. Something tangible to mourn. A picture to prove she was real.

Six weeks later I would be oddly comforted by the lab report that declared the findings "products of conception" and "necrotized tissue". Somewhere in the recesses of my mind lived a niggling thought, "What if they were wrong and that baby could have lived?" It was a relief to know definitively she had died quietly some time earlier with no knowledge or pain.

I remembered the due date that first year, and even by then the grief had muted, less a blistering wound and already fading into the scar it would become. The next two years I'm not sure I even noted that day's passing. Of course I did go on to have another baby. A beautiful baby girl. And while one baby can never replace another, new babies have a way of distracting us from our sorrow.

But she was real, and I loved her. She lived and she died. The scar remains.

I remember.

I Would Like To Thank The Academy....

2009-03-05T08:00:00.000-05:00

So maybe it's not really an Academy Award. Unlike Kate Winslet, I'm pretty sure I'll only be making my acceptance speech in the bathroom with a shampoo bottle for the rest of my life. It's hard to be discovered when you're almost 40 and more Frumpy than Fabulous.

But I am pleased and honored to receive the Kreativ [sic] Blogger Award from Mary at The Adventures of Mommy Maestro. Thank you Mary!

The rules of the award state that I must list seven things I love, and then to pass the award on to seven bloggers I love to read.

In no particular order:
Seven Things Irishembi Loves (besides husband, children and assorted pets):

1) Grocery shopping by myself - No joke. I enjoy grocery shopping solo. I'm not sure if that's because that is the rare place that I do sometimes get to be by myself, or if I really just enjoy grocery shopping. Maybe a little of each. When the kids are with me, it's a trip guaranteed to produce a nervous breakdown, tears and snot, and at least one temper tantrum. And then sometimes the kids have a rough time too. But when by myself, I stroll through those aisles. I read packages and labels. I check out new products. Look over all the items in the $1 bins just in case I might need a miniature size can of foot powder some day.

2) The smell of my kids' hair, clean or dirty - I'm sure that will change once they enter puberty and dirty hair smells less like the syrup they got in it at breakfast time, and more like sweaty teenager.

3) Music - I love music of all eras and genres. I have completely random taste. There are certain artists or genres I might be more familiar with or prefer, but for me it's all about the way a particular song makes me feel. Could be the melody, a certain turn of phrase in the lyrics, or even just that a particular song reminds me of a certain time in my life. A song can bring back a memory to me in such a way that I can feel that memory with all of my senses. I love music from Classical, to the cheesiest of Pop, to Disco, to Rockabilly, Jazz and Heavy Metal. There is a finely tuned string somewhere inside my soul and certain songs make it resonate. Music, especially played in a public forum such as a concert hall or marching band, can bring tears to my eyes. Not to be confused with making me cry, it just plucks that inner string and the emotion and sheer feeling overflows from my eyes. I also love to sing. I'm told I should never do this, but my singing always sounds far better inside my head than out of it.

4) Kennywood - I've promised a full blog entry about this local Pittsburgh Amusement Park in my post about Pittsburgh. But the short version is that I love the sounds, the smells, the foods (three words: POTATO PATCH FRIES). I love the build-up of anticipation to the annual Kennywood trip. It still feels almost the same as it did 30 years ago when I couldn't wait to go.

5) Really Good Coffee - Nuff said.

6) My friends - I am blessed to have wonderful friends that would do anything for me at the drop of a hat. Unfortunately those hats are mostly in different time zones to the tune of several thousand miles away. Even my BFF that I grew up with right here in Pittsburgh had the nerve to move to England. Hmmm, maybe I should shower more often......

7) Books - I have a love affair and passion for books. It's cerebral, it's sensual. The smell of a new book, the cracking feeling when you open it for the first time, the feeling of the paper pages; both smooth and slightly scratchy at the same time. The moment the book opens up I can escape to a world that is "other." I have looked at a Kindle on Amazon, and while I like it in concept, I am reluctant to give up my real books. I cannot understand people that don't enjoy reading. Cannot relate at all. It is a love affair that has not wavered since I learned to read approximately 35 years ago.

Seven Blogs I am passing this award on to (again in no particular order, and I love ALL my blogs on my bloglist) :

1) Welcome to the Snug
2) The Chronicles of Blackheart Lola (since giving her an award seems to be the only way I can induce her to write)
3) Been There - Done That - By Jo (because I haven't heard all her stories yet and I never get tired of them)
4) Say it Ain't So (because I'm waiting for her to tell ANY story ;-) )
5) The Other Side of the Fence
6) Confessions of a Mommy Blogger
7) Life's a Journey...Not a Destination

It's Tough To Apply Mascara With A Toddler Hanging On Your Leg

2009-03-04T09:00:00.000-05:00

It has crept up on me over the years. I didn't even see it coming. I have turned into a bona fide FRUMP. Don't get me wrong, I have never been a really high maintenance gal. I did grow up in the 80's so there was a time period where doing my hair took a minimum of two hours and carrying a lighter to assist in makeup application was something that never raised eyebrows. Hey did you REALLY think we achieved that raccoon look without actually melting a crayon on our eyes?

Who would think anyone would actually spend two hours to achieve triangular shaped hair with white stripes down the sides? For those of you unfamiliar with the 80's, people with far more money (but obviously no more fashion sense) were doing the same.

(You're welcome Dani, enjoy!)

But I've never been one of THOSE girls. You know the ones. They would sooner die than leave the house even to run to the mail box without applying full facial warpaint. And in their book, sweatpants are for pajamas, NEVER daytime wear.

I love What Not to Wear as much as the next girl, but with my apologies to you Stacy and Clinton, I have to state it really is acceptable to go to the grocery store in sweats and flip-flops. Try it some time. It's liberating. And those lovely little outfits you put together for Moms? Well, let's just say that Play-Doh and cashmere cardigans just don't mix.

But when you realize your entire wardrobe consists of sweats, or at least elastic waists pants, T-shirts and sweatshirts, you know you're just one flip-flop away from an ambush by Stacy and Clinton. In fact, you might say I'm the poster child for shows like What Not to Wear.

Don't get me wrong. I'll never be a MILF. I'm too old and after bearing three children, the boobs are less Pamela Anderson and more National Geographic. I don't even want to be a Yummy Mummy. You know who I'm talking about. That Mom that drops her son off at pre-school with hair done, manicure in place, creased jeans and a crisp white oxford shirt. Instead of the rest of us shlubs that look like we just rolled out of bed and put on our shoes.

Shhhhhhhh! I'll tell you a secret. We did just roll out of bed and put our shoes on.

So. I realized the other day that, while not striving to be a glamour-puss, I would like to look like an actual female instead of the shapeless, sexless, colorless, lump of gray I have begun to feel like.

Which is when I realized the makeup in my makeup case is at best two years old (I think I might have worn makeup to Meredith's Baptism) and at worst 15 years old! Do they even have Merle Norman Studios anymore?

Besides being out of date and style, the stuff is downright unsanitary.

So along with my new (7,565,433rd attempt at a) diet, I have embarked on a journey to finding my inner girly-girl.

If you find her could you give her my phone number? I have no idea what she looks like.

You Can't Polish A Turd (Especially When There's Corn In It)

2009-03-03T09:36:00.001-05:00

SOMEONE has kindly reminded me I have been delinquent in my blogging duties (thank you Laura, how can I resist when you flatter me so?) so I have settled in here with a cup of coffee determined to write something.

DISCLAIMER: I cannot be held responsible for content. All potty humor forthcoming is a product of blogging under "duress", the fact that I recently read two hilarious pieces involving colon cleansing and chili respectively, and the fact that having three children just naturally means your life involves copious amount of poo.

We are not worrying too much right now about attempting potty training yet. And by "we" of course I mean me. There is no "we" when it comes to potty training believe you me. The other parental unit in this house abdicated all potty duties long ago. He seems to think our children just miraculously sit down on the toilet one day and produce waste products in a timely and tidy manner much the same way all laundry seems to appear in his drawers cleaned and folded as if the Laundry Fairy pays him a nightly visit. She got directions to our house from the Tooth Fairy. But I digress as I am wont to do.

So the only assistance I can count on in potty training is pretty much from the dog. But you really don't want to know what she does to help. No really. Even *I* have limits on what I will print here.

So anyway, I take the lazy approach to potty training. I figure it's going to happen somewhere around three years of age with or without my help. I know this from experience. Sabrina being my first child I thought it was time to potty train somewhere around 18 months of age. She disagreed. To the point where she developed severe constipation involving years of laxative therapy from trying to hold in her poop so she didn't have to use that potty. And after being exasperated for a year and a half, tearing my hair out and being certain the girl would have to pack diapers in her lunchbox, one day shortly after she turned three she solemnly announced to my mother "I have to use the potty all the time now."

And she did. From that day forward.

So I finally figured out the important lesson of "You can lead a child to the toilet but you cannot make them poop." The dog on the other hand will be happy to be led to the toilet and drink anything available, never mind mellow yellow or brown not yet flushed down.

Hmmmm, it seems I really don't have limits on what I will talk about here.

Moving right along.

Jamie was much easier to potty train once I realized it was really just a matter of providing him with tools (a convenient potty) and incentive (kids don't like when you leave their diaper off and the pee runs down their legs), and they learn pretty quickly to use the potty. Granted Jamie had more of a fire hose effect, but honestly, I let him run around bare-ass for a few days and that was really all it took. Yes it involved cleaning up some pee, but after three kids, a dog and a cat, I'm kind of used to that by now no?

But I can honestly say, none of my kids ever pooped without a diaper on or a potty under their butts.

So the other day, Meredith removed her diaper. She likes to do this. When you're two, something as simple as this is a major achievement in your life. She was going to take a nap soon so I felt no need to rush over and put a new one on for the 10-15 minutes before she took her nap. Besides I was very busy with important work, AKA surfing the Internet.

So she carried on playing with Play-Doh at the dining room table sans pants. And I will confess I forgot she wasn't wearing a diaper (I miss my brain cells sometimes), so when she sounded a little more alarmed than normal when she said "Mama poop!" it surprised me a little.

Then the hamster stirred from his Internet induced coma, got on his wheel with a creaky groan, and the synapses began to fire again.

Despite her complete willingness, I thwarted all of the dog's efforts to help clean up.

The dog won't eat the damn Cheerios the kids drop on the floor like snowflakes, but she's more than willing to entertain the end result.

In The Name Of The Father, And The Son, And The Holy Spirit, Amen

2009-02-25T08:13:00.000-05:00

Was I the only one annoyed by the incessant standing ovations at President Obama's address to Congress?

I mean seriously. These people were up and down more often than a bunch of Catholics at Mass. Any minute I was expecting Nancy Pelosi to kneel down and worship.

That or pull out her pom poms.

Don't mind me. I get crabby when they pre-empt The Mentalist.

Two

2009-02-22T08:00:00.000-05:00

My baby. Forever you will be saddled with that moniker. One by one the other two gained a sibling and ceased to be the baby.

You are my last and final.

This saddens me because you are so obviously not a baby anymore and as you grow each day you become less an extension of me and more, well.........YOU.

But I am also selfishly cheerful. You see, each time I had a new baby, it felt like a slight betrayal of my previous "baby." Oh everyone adjusts and shifts and settles into their new position of oldest, middle, first, Big. But each time, I was just a little sad that my baby no longer held the position of "baby".

For better or worse, hate it, like it or love it, Meredith, you get to stay my baby. Happy birthday Baby Right Now.

Fanfare For The Common Man

2009-02-21T12:21:00.000-05:00

This morning I was awoken by a not-quite-but-pretty-darn-close-to-two-year-old.

She had stripped off her pajamas, stood up straight and tall in her crib and announced,

"TA-DA!"

Who else but a Mom could be lucky enough to get this kind of greeting in the morning?

I'm just grateful she left the diaper on.

Too Much Growing Up For One Week (And Obviously None Of It Done By Me)

2009-02-18T10:32:00.000-05:00

My baby turns two this weekend and yesterday I had to register my baby boy for Kindergarten. ALL-DAY Kindergarten. All Day Kindergarten is what the parents (not THIS parent) want so that is what the district has changed to. Sabrina had a nice transition from three days a week at pre-school (2.5 hours) to 5 days of half-day Kindergarten. And she STILL had a hard time adjusting to going all day in First Grade.

But my boy is resilient and I'm certain he will adjust. I'm not so sure we can say the same about me.

As for the registration process itself, oh what a CLUSTER @%*$!

Since the School District deemed it necessary to send all kids to all-day Kindergarten, they have no room to accommodate all the kids in each school. So registration is no longer the easy, walk in to the school, choose A.M. or P.M. Kindergarten, fill out some papers, and say hi to the principal on the way out process that it was when Sabrina started school. Now we register each child at his/her "home" school and they conduct a lottery in the summer to determine who gets to attend the home school. If you win, they go there. If you lose they go to the "overflow" school, which is housed in the Middle School building. But they still think this All Day Kindergarten is a good idea. Who am I to argue?

I get there and I think I'm pretty well prepared because I remembered I needed Jamie's birth certificate and social security card.

So I stand in line for 15 minutes chatting to another Mom - in the middle of the hallway of the elementary school. Now THAT'S a good place to have a table set up and Moms lined up on the other side waiting! I get to the table and the lady says, "Do you have your registration packet filled out?"

My WHAT?

Oh yes, and hands me a FOLDER of about 30 papers that should have been sent to me to fill out beforehand and Gee, we don't know why you didn't get it. Oh and by the way you need TWO proofs of residency so my driver's license alone won't do.

Cause you know I might be living somewhere else and trying to get my kids into this school district. SNORT. Not bloody likely.

Did I mention I have Meredith and Jamie with me? So I sit down on a child-sized chair in the middle of the hallway. This thing is so little it would make Kate Moss feel like a Beluga Whale. Not that I need the help. I begin to fill out papers and of course Jamie and Meredith take the opportunity to stage an impromptu orientation. Would have served the school right if I let them. I think Meredith could probably teach the classes a thing or two.

Since I didn't feel like sprinting down the hallway after them 500 times, I took them and my Encyclopedia sized stack of paperwork back outside. Turned them loose to wreak havoc in the back rows of my van while I filled out paper after paper after paper after MORE papers with all the same info. Why the hell can't they photocopy my name, Dave's name, our address, phone number etc. ad nauseum for all the 50 different times they need it filled out?

Luckily my van is already a trashcan providing them with ample toys.

What? You mean your kids don't get to play with discarded Happy Meal boxes and gum wrappers? Only the best for my kids.

Get all paperwork in order, proceed back into the school, wait in line AGAIN. Have you ever noticed waiting in lines is not a specialty of almost-two-year-old girls and four year old boys?

Hand over my ream of paperwork and massage my crippled right hand and she gives me yet another paper to fill out. Because they don't yet have enough copies of Jamie's name, address, phone number, parents' names, grandparents' names, third cousins' names, blood type, favorite color, what he eats for breakfast lunch and dinner, and the color of his current underwear (Spongebob Squarepants for those of you keeping track).

The one good thing that did come of it all, is this lady feels Jamie would be MUCH better off at the home school as opposed to the overflow school. She said that while yes there is technically a nurse on duty at the overflow school, her office is in the Middle School next door, so in a separate building. And she informed me that last year they DID exempt one child from the lottery due to a severe food allergy. She suggested I have Jamie's allergist write a letter stating he needs to be at the home school so he has a full time nurse available. You know. In case he wants to actually live through a possible allergic reaction instead of waiting 30 minutes for someone to call the nurse from the other building to find his Epipen and then walk over to the other building to administer it.

Hopefully this will be accomplished without a fight but now that I know they made the exception once, fight I will if they give me any crap about it.

If I'm going to win a lottery I'll take my winnings in cash thank you very much.

See Ya In Da Burgh!

2009-02-14T22:44:00.000-05:00

This is a reprint of a post I did for my friend Boo from Discover Boo (formerly Kicking and Screaming). Boo lives in Australia. She asked me to be a guest blogger while she was busy packing up and moving herself, her husband, her young toddler son, a dog and 2 cats to her new home, and one of the things she asked me was to tell her why she should consider moving aaaaaaaallllllllll the way to this side of the big blue marble.

Since I'm really proud of my city, I wanted to print this entry here as well.

Boo says: Give me 20 sound reasons why I should move to Pittsburgh??

I'm going to assume you can all figure out from that question that I am from Pittsburgh.

Then I could go on to give you the standard Pittsburgh line. "Why WOULDN'T anyone want to move to Pittsburgh??!!!" But that's not what Boo's looking for here since she and Tim are seriously considering making some big changes in their lives.

I could send you to one of those "Rah-Rah Pittsburgh" sites, but I think Boo is more interested in hearing my personal opinion.

I've never lived anywhere else but Pittsburgh and its surrounding suburbs my entire life, so it's familiar and comfortable to me. I'd be a great tour guide Boo. And showing someone else Pittsburgh let's ME learn more about my hometown.

People from Pittsburgh tend to be fiercely loyal to their city. Yes it's a city, but there's a reason most of us call it our "hometown." It has more of a "town" feel as opposed to city, almost anywhere you go in Pittsburgh.

And this love of and loyalty to Pittsburgh is not an exclusionary thing. We LOVE to welcome new people and convert them to "Burghers". So you would find yourself welcomed and loved here.

Pittsburghers would adore your Aussie accent. And yes you DO have an accent Boo, but just wait until you hear a Pittsburgh accent.

We have chipped ham.

KENNYWOOD! I have an entire blog post of my own to write about the joy of taking my children to an amusement park that I went to when I was a child, and their grandparents before them. I used to think Kennywood was, at the risk of having rotten tomatoes tossed at me by my fellow Pittsburgher's, rinky-dink and small-town and couldn't possibly compare to some of those national amusement parks like Six Flags or Cedar Point. Until I went to one of those national amusement parks. There is no comparison. You can actually move and breathe and enjoy Kennywood with your children as opposed to having consumer goods shoved down your throat at every turn and waiting in line for a minimum of an hour for every ride. Try standing in line for an hour with a four year old when it is 95 degrees (that's 35 degrees celsius for my international friends) outside. There is nothing "amusing" about that.

There are 44 colleges and universities in the Pittsburgh area. Good to know for you and Tim, but even better for Jaxon.

Jaxon would have the best treatment available. There are approximately 30 or more hospitals in and around the Pittsburgh area. TOP hospitals. Pittsburgh is where Dr. Jonas Salk invented the polio vaccine, Dr. Thomas Starzl pioneered transplant surgery, Dr. Peter Safer developed modern-day CPR and where they developed Mr. Yuk.
You can save your parking space with a folding chair. And nobody will steal it. Really.
People wave to you all the time. People are just friendly here. It's not hard at all to strike up a conversation. Sometimes that conversation is with the crazy lady in the grocery store that calls you a drug dealer and rams you with her cart when you're 9 months pregnant (yes boys and girls - TRUE STORY!), but 9 times out of 10 it's just a nice person willing to chat about the weather.

Er, let's not mention the weather.

OK, the weather. Well, it is true we have a higher than normal percentage of overcast days in Pittsburgh, and we do have the famous three H's (hazy, hot and humid) in the summer, but we also experience a glorious four seasons here. You haven't lived until you've walked down the street on a crisp sunny Autumn day in Pittsburgh when the sun is shining and there's just the faintest hint of nip in the air. It's what we like to call "jacket weather". Take a light jacket or sweater with you and you're good to go for the day.

There is something to do here all year round. We don't just hibernate in the winter. Even the outdoor Pittsburgh Zoo is open all winter.
Libraries. I don't know about anybody else but I love libraries. I know I'm a complete geek, but when I was a kid I would ask my Mom to take me and my (also geek) friends to the library instead of the mall. We have libraries everywhere in Pittsburgh. And you can return your books to any one of them as long as they're part of the Allegheny County Library Association and the Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh (which most of them are). Yay for no more overdue books! I can dump them wherever I happen to be when I remember. They also have great children's libraries in just about every library here.

You can have your pick of doctors and hospitals to deliver your next child. I never realized Pittsburgh has an obscene amount of choices when it comes to maternity until I mentioned online my dilemma of selecting which hospital to deliver at. Apparently it's rare to have so much choice within such a close driving distance. And all of them are top-notch and most have an excellent NICU.

Computers. Computers, computers, computers. All of those doctors and hospitals in Pittsburgh? They are all using or in the process of switching over their systems from paper to computers. When I worked for a General Contractor, the guy we paid scads of money to set up our network was SELF-TAUGHT. Does this sound like anyone you know Boo? And if Tim does need a credential, there are several accredited programs right here in, you guessed it - PITTSBURGH.

Food. Pittsburgh loves its food. We have a restaurant for every possible ethnic group, culture, style, etc. That Turkish artichoke dip you love so much? I'll bet you an Isaly's chipped ham sandwich you can find it here at one of the many Turkish restaurants in the Pittsburgh area.

I just did a Google search for "stained glass Pittsburgh" and it immediately came up with at least 10 local business results for stained glass near Pittsburgh. And you can find a class for any kind of art or craft you find interesting in any community in Pittsburgh. They offer them at the community centers, local High Schools, colleges, or art schools. You want to learn how to do it? You can find an instructor in Pittsburgh.

Jaxon would be the coolest guy in school. Pittsburghers, and Americans in general, are fascinated with all things Aussie. Yes we know you're not all like Crocodile Dundee, but you talk cool, and you've got guys like Steve Irwin and Hugh Jackman. We even have a restaurant called "Outback Steakhouse." It has nothing to do with Australian culture that I can tell other than serving Foster's, Cooper's, Toohey's and James Boag's beer (at least the menu claims those are Australian beers). But still - we think it's cool to be from Australia.

I live here!

A Little Bit Soapy, A Little Bit Boxy

2009-02-13T14:10:00.000-05:00

I hate Valentine's Day.

No I'm not single. I'm not bemoaning the commercialization of the holiday. I'm not even cursing Hallmark for creating a holiday to fatten their coffers.

I'm sitting here going through my little boy's candy he brought home from school. He even decorated a special paper bag to bring it home in as part of his art project. And I am performing the dreaded task of telling him there's precious little in it that he's allowed to eat.

He is allergic to tree nuts. Just like it sounds, this is any nut that grows on a tree, such as almonds, walnuts, pecans, cashews, pistachios, macadamias, etc.

Peanuts do not grow on trees and they are not actually a nut. They are a legume and more closely related to soybeans.

Other people often do not understand the concept that someone can be allergic to one and not the other. I'm sure I assumed peanut allergy was the same as a nut allergy before I became an "Allergy Mom."

Jamie is not allergic to peanuts. He has been tested twice and eats peanut butter regularly.

Recently we began cautiously allowing Jamie to eat products that have the warning "Processed in a plant that processes peanuts" because he is not, in fact, allergic to peanuts. I knew that many adults did not and could not understand this difference between a peanut and various tree nuts (sometimes even after I've explained it to them), but I would expect a manufacturer, that is required BY LAW to list all known allergens in the ingredients, to make it their business to know the difference.

Then I read this from the FAAN (The Food Allergy & Anaphylaxis Network) Product-Related Member Calls:

Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Bites - (Name removed to protect privacy) called to report that her 13-year-old daughter, who is allergic to tree nuts but not peanuts, had a reaction. The product, made by Taste of Nature, Inc. indicates that it contains "traces of peanuts." (Privacy) saw this, and since tree nuts are not peanuts, she interpreted the fact that they warned about one allergen as a good indication that the manufacturer was careful and that the product would be safe. Her daughter took a few bites and said she felt funny in the throat. The reaction was mild compared to others she has had, but it frightened them and caused them to rush to the doctor's office. After taking Benadryl and Zyrtec she was fine. When (Privacy) called the company at 1-800-89 TASTE to report the reaction, she was told that the product is made on the same line as a product containing walnuts and "that's why we put 'traces of peanuts' on the label."

When I read something like this, why do I get the overwhelming urge to clap my hand to my head A La Homer Simpson and proclaim "DOH!"?? It literally astounds me that someone who is in the business of food manufacturing would assume that placing "contains traces of peanuts" on their label would enable someone to realize that it actually may also contain walnuts.

And I now feel myself sliding back to the bad place. The bad place where I am scared to allow my 4 year old son a piece of candy. The bad place where even things like bread and pasta and soups are scary. The bad place where every item of food is suspect, because I don't even trust the warnings on the labels.

And when there is no warning on the label do I assume that is because the food is safe, or just that there is no warning on the label?

My son is precious. Russian roulette is not my sport.

An Unlikely Archangel

2009-02-12T22:00:00.000-05:00

The cat is convinced that Satan himself lives in our home. And his name is Hewlett Packard.

What else could possibly make the noise that draws her from whatever corner of the house she is currently destroying? What else could inspire such fury and hatred that she actually climbed over my HEAD one night in an attempt to do battle with the evil lodged within.

Sleep well my children and know that no evil can harm you while the Kitten of Doom is on duty.

Yes, I know that composite sucks. I don't speak "Photoshop."

Open Mouth, Insert Size 8, Swallow Hard

2009-02-09T17:09:00.000-05:00

My husband smokes. This isn't earth shattering, and any more it's not even news. We both used to smoke when we started dating, so I feel a little bit hypocritical being so adamantly opposed to his habit now. The thing is, he already quit.

When I got pregnant with Sabrina, I had already been trying to quit and the fact that the occasional cigarette I was sneaking was beginning to make me queasy was one of the first clues there was a bun in my oven, before the little pee-on-a-stick confirmed it. But as soon as I saw two lines, I quit. I was done. Haven't smoked one since.

Dave, took a little, um persuading. He had good intentions. He tried the patch, Nicotine gum, Wellbutrin, and various combinations of all of the above. Yet every morning when I would go to the garage I would have to stop and vomit in the trash can because I was hit by a wall of cigarette smell. I couldn't make him understand that "not smoking in the house" included the garage where I had to get in the car every morning. But even the threat of a displeased morning-sick cranky pregnant wife could not get him to quit.

Finally, FINALLY, he set a date for Sabrina's first birthday and he did it. And he hadn't smoked since that day almost 7 years ago.

Or so I thought.

Dave's a construction worker. A lot of construction workers smoke. I realize this is a stereotype, but having worked in construction for years myself, I can assure you there is a basis for the stereotype of the guy in the hard hat with a smoke hanging out of his mouth.

For this reason I didn't get too alarmed when I smelled smoke on him occasionally. He works around other guys that smoke. I get that. I don't like the smell, but it was gone when he washed up after work.

But I really thought we were past the days where you took up smoking "because all the guys are doing it."

It's true. As I suspected men don't seem to mature much past 18.

When he finally 'fessed up and told me he was smoking again I offered to "encourage" him to quit. And by "encourage" I mean harping on him day and night and listing the evils of smoking and warning him of all ill-effects. Not to mention, shutting him off. I have no interest in kissing an ashtray. I know. I am the worst kind of reformed smoker.

The kids have picked up on this and they now "encourage" him to quit as well.

This morning when I took Jamie to Pre-School another little boy and his Mom were waiting along side us. They hadn't been to school in a week or two and I was happy to see them. I like this Mom. She's funny, down to earth, and we enjoy chatting before and after school. She also happens to be a smoker, but I'm generally far less obnoxious about it to people other than my husband.

But this particular morning I heard her son saying, "Mommy you better get rid of your cigarettes or I'm calling the cops." She said back to him, "Yeah I really need to. I will." Assuming she was trying to quit also, I said, "At least he's nice about it. Jamie just tells my husband, "You're going to DIE!"

And she said, "My Mom did just die. From smoking. On Tuesday."

I hereby vote all people should get one option of allowing the floor to open up and provide a quick and clean disappearance.

Serves As A Handy Message Board

2009-02-07T14:36:00.000-05:00

There are three areas where I regularly express myself via the written word on the Internet. First and foremost, I have a group of friends that I am in almost daily contact with via email. It's rare that I neglect this area, unless I am actually physically disconnected from the World Wide Web. As in placed in a straitjacket and locked in a padded room. Or on vacation. But since we don't have disposable income for vacations, it's most likely the former.

These girls know more about me than my own husband, and I probably talk to them twice as much. No, don't worry, Dave and I are just fine. It's just that he's at work all day not talking to me, and since two of these girls (soon to be three) are in different time zones, someone is available to talk to at almost any time of the day. This may explain why I have piles of laundry higher than my head and I couldn't find the fish in the fishbowl the other day, not to mention the fact that I swear I saw "MBM hearts DJM 1998" written in the dust on my bookshelves.

So I'm not Martha Stewart. We've established that.

But I am also active on a message board at Babyfit.com. I found this message board (and consequently the above mentioned four friends) when I was pregnant with Meredith and discovered a group of loving, caring, helpful women from all walks of life and all areas of the country, as well as many living in other countries. These girls were my lifeline, and while I was in labor I was busy texting one of these girls so they could post updates on my progress.

And of course the third way that I express myself is Blogging. When I say Blogging, I include both writing here, for my own blog, but also reading and commenting on other's blogs. I know some people follow as many as 200 blogs on their reader, but I have no idea how they do that and still have a life, let alone ever sleep. But every blog you see listed here on my blog page, I follow regularly and often comment on.

The dilemma is, I cannot seem to do all three at once and still manage to keep one husband, three children, a dog, a cat, and fish fed, bathed, and clothed. Okay so maybe not so much with the clothing and bathing for the cat, the dog and the fish (although Taffy is starting to smell a little "doggy"), but you get what I mean.

So if I seem to disappear from blogland from time to time, I am probably attending to one of those other venues of communication. Or I might just have writer's block. OR I decided to finally tackle that dusting.

Nah, probably not the dusting.

Thanks For The Six-Pack Steelers!

2009-02-01T22:40:00.000-05:00

Congratulations Pittsburgh Steelers on your record breaking SIXTH Super Bowl win! As always, I am proud to live in the home of the Pittsburgh Steelers.

I have no discernible fingernails left, and I contemplated picking up smoking again for the first time in 8 years. But we pulled it out in the end.

Proving once again that Steelers play SIXTY minutes of football, and it ain't over til it's over.

In a related topic, what was up with Patti Scialfa standing on stage pretending she can play guitar?

An Open Letter to Mother Nature

2009-01-30T12:13:00.000-05:00

Dearest Mother Nature (Can I call you Mom?),

I realize this is the time of year when you have the most fun. It must be amusing to watch us mere mortals desperately attempt to predict your next move, and then completely change your course of action.

Today was an excellent case in point. We had a Very Important Doctor's Appointment today. You see, the boy has asthma and allergies. He has a wonderful doctor who attends to these things. But because he is such a wonderful doctor and pretty much the head of everything that has anything to do with asthma and allergies in Pittsburgh, and has degrees in such things coming out the wazoo (that is medical terminology coming straight from Harvard School of Medicine, I swear. I looked it up), it takes approximately three years to get an appointment to see the man. Really. We put Jamie on the waiting list before he was born. Just in case.

The weatherman, who obviously hasn't been calling you often enough like a good son should, assured me that you would be sending us less than an inch of snow today. Just in case your ruler was broken, here is a handy visual for you of what less than 1 inch of snow DOESN'T look like:That, by the way, is my van sitting exactly where I had to leave it in NOT less than 1 inch of snow after we attempted to visit the Very Important Doctor who was completely understanding of my need to cancel today's appointment and was kind enough to reschedule me for next year.

May I also point out that toddlers, after being cooped up in the house for over a week, are NOT amused by aborted missions out of the house. Again, I provide you with a helpful visual.
That amount of snot indicates a serious level of displeasure. Being a Mom and all, I'm sure you can understand that an irritable disposition in a toddler can make for a less than enjoyable day for anyone within a 5 mile radius.

By the way, I completely realize you are not responsible for this development, but just wanted to let you know that my television stopped working this morning, so your timing really sucks.

Love,
Irishembi

I Guess This Makes Me The Goose That Laid That Egg

2009-01-29T17:47:00.000-05:00

Anyone who has a child knows what a loooooong drawn out process bedtime can be. There's always one more drink of water, one more story, one more kiss, one more hug. Wait, I don't like these pajamas I think I'll put on the Princess/Batman/Kitty-Cat/Dinosaur/Fuzzy/Silky/Footed/Not footed ones. Hold on I need to pee. I was wrong I need to poop. Mama I'm not wearing a pull-up tonight - I can sleep with big boy undies.

Actually I'm grateful when he tells me this. Usually he tries to sneak it with disastrous consequences later. I am not the kindest person when roused from sleep to change an entire bed that's been doused with 3 gallons of pee.

But if you take the above process and times it by three, well, it can easily take until next Friday to put my kids to bed on a Monday.

To facilitate the bedtime routine and light a fire under their asses we try to make games of the different steps in the process. There is no prize for the winner, but so far we have them hoodwinked into thinking just being declared the winner is good enough.

One of their favorites is "Whoever gets into their pajamas first is the Golden Egg." They race into their pajamas to achieve the coveted "Golden Egg" title. Because if you're not the Golden Egg, you're the Rotten Egg. Don't tell me about damaging their psyches. I've got internet surfing to do and need to get them into bed before I can do it.

Yesterday around 3:30 p.m. Jamie disappeared upstairs. I don't question the disappearance of the boy until I hear crashing noises or flushing accompanied by the dreaded "Uh-oh."

He reappeared 5 minutes later in his pajamas. When I asked him why he was in his pajamas already (not that I had a problem with this, I'm pretty sure I hadn't yet gotten out of my pajamas) he replied, "I'm the first one to get my pajamas on so I'm the Golden Egg. Pretty smart huh?"

Yes my little man. Very smart indeed.

I'm "It"

2009-01-27T07:41:00.000-05:00

I've been "tagged" by my friend Angela at "Thatch" the Journey...Now in Progress. I "met" Angela online while we were pregnant with our soon to be two year old babies (again with the "babies" thing - I'm pretty sure it's going to annoy Meredith when she's 32 and I still insist on calling her the baby). She's a Texas gal, but I don't hold that against her. We have a good time ribbing each other. For example I almost peed (almost? who am I kidding? Bring on the Depends) myself laughing when she saw a photo of a snow blower and had no clue what it was. And upon seeing a photo of one of her very young relatives successfully hunting an armadillo I asked if you could eat them. She found that an equally hilarious question from a Yankee.

Anyway, on to the tag. I'm to go into my Pictures folder and find the fourth picture in my fourth file.This was taken on April 1st, 2005, which means Jamie had just had his first birthday 5 days earlier and Sabrina was still only three. This was Jamie's first experience on a swing and surprisingly he did not like it. This surprised me because things like climbing shelves and swinging from ceiling fans were all on his list of amusing activities at the time.

Moments after this photo was taken Sabrina would get a large splinter in her finger from the mulch on the ground in the other area of the playground. Removing that splinter proved to be one of the most challenging things I've ever done. She screamed as though I were planning on performing brain surgery without benefit of anesthetic.

Eventually she did allow me to remove it. And by "allow" I mean she only kicked me twice while Dave pinned her down and I pulled the splinter out.

I tag Hot Belly Mama, Laura at With Love From Pittsburgh, Eileen at Anger Management, and most especially my friend Kelly at A Goddess Rising because she loves photos.

Next Time I'll Just Flush Her Clean

2009-01-26T13:16:00.000-05:00

When you've already given the cat a bath by 8:30 a.m. it doesn't bode well for the day.

Especially when said bath is occurring at the same time you are trying to get your 7 year old, who likes to miss the bus, on the school bus.

Most especially when aforementioned bath is absolutely necessary because the brainless cat has fallen in the toilet full of pee and poop because no matter how you beg and plead, your housebroken children cannot seem to remember to flush.

As a side note, cats don't like baths.

I look like an attempted suicide with Parkinson's.

For Moi? Why Thank You!

2009-01-24T19:15:00.000-05:00

My cousin Colleen from Welcome to the Snug has given me the Honest Scrap Award. My cousin Colleen is a few years younger than me. We were always around each other growing up as her Dad is my Dad's brother and we lived about 15 minutes away from each other. My favorite memory of my cousin Colleen - even though it wasn't necessarily a happy time - was when I lived at her house for a week while my sister was in the hospital.

The first full day I stayed there I came down with an AWFUL virus which meant I had to stay home from school. And because I like to share, I promptly gave the virus to Colleen, so we hung out together all week in her Family Room watching cartoons, reading Highlights Magazines that my Uncle brought home for us and eating fried bologna sandwiches. My other two cousins; her brother and sister, somehow escaped the virus, so it was just Coll and I all week long.

I'm really glad we've recently re-connected via email and blogdom! I sincerely thank you for the award.

Here are the rules for this award:
a) List 10 honest things about yourself - and make it interesting, even if you have to dig deep! and
b) Pass the award on to 7 bloggers that you feel embody the spirit of the Honest Scrap.

During the winter I sometimes don't shave my legs for a month (or more). But I have to shave my armpits. Drives me crazy to have stubble under my arms.
I have a sister who is severely handicapped. She used to function on the level of a 2-3 year old child, but has declined to where we're not sure how much she can see or hear and can't communicate much. She lives in a group home now and I only see her once a year or so and I feel really guilty about it.
When I was a little girl and people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would respond in all seriousness, "A Princess." I was really disappointed to find out this wasn't a career option.
I won 3 spelling bees. Really. My Mom still has the trophies.
I fell in love when I was 15. You think that doesn't really happen at that age, but it does sometimes. I'll try to remember that before I tell my daughters (or son) "there are lots of fish in the sea," when someone breaks their teenaged hearts.
I secretly like to watch Hannah Montana with my daughter. And not just because I think Billy Ray Cyrus is HOT (can't say the same for his music though).
I was married once before. I was only 20 when we got engaged and by the time I realized marrying him was a bad idea, I was too scared to call it off. Married at 22 and divorced by 24.
I wanted to have 6 children when I grew up. But when you start at 31 and your kids are all two and a half to three years apart, you run out of time (not to mention money!).
I am addicted to Doritos. They are like heroin to me. I try to keep them out of the house.
I am pathologically frightened of spiders and centipedes. I stayed awake one night until 3 a.m. watching a centipede on the wall because I was too scared to kill it, no way in hell was I going to sleep with it in the room, and my parents didn't get home until 3:00. I literally did not take my eyes off of it for close to 4 hours.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And now I pass on the awards to:
Boo at Discover Boo
Kate at Does This Newborn Come With a Manual?
Kelly at The Secret Life of Ducks
Martha at MelodyGibbons.com
Dani at We Are Outnumbered!
Etta at The Chronicles of Blackheart Lola
Michelle at Life's A Journey...Not a Destination

I was limited to seven so I apologize to anyone I left out. You can see my blogroll to the right and at the bottom of my blog. They're ALL worth checking out.

Skeletons Out Of The Closet

2009-01-23T11:04:00.000-05:00

Sabrina had a terrible earache yesterday that caused her at least some discomfort, but she pulled out her best drama queen skills anyway to be sure I knew it hurt. Once I told her she was in the clear, I was letting her stay home from school, she resumed her normal programming.

But this required a trip to the pediatrician, which meant I had to drag the entire troop with me since CYS frowns on the crate training method for children.

When we arrived and the doctor came in, he made small talk with all the children. Jamie, being the boy that begins talking in the morning even before his eyes open, was sure to inform the good Doctor of all Sabrina's complaints relating to her ear and even some that weren't.

And then he suddenly, inexplicably adopted a tone of voice usually reserved for sad orphans, or boys who have just lost their puppy, and said, "We ALL had to come with Mama because Daddy isn't at home."

The Doctor, hearing this tone of voice, turned toward me with a concerned look in his eyes and asked, "Is everything okay at home?"

When I informed him that, yes, Daddy was just at work today like he is every day, he chuckled and said, "No secrets in your house with that one around eh?"

I have no idea where the boy gets it. Nobody else in our family puts all our secrets out there for the whole world to hear.

Or read.

Closes Eyes, Holds Nose, And Jumps Back In Head First

2009-01-20T08:05:00.000-05:00

It feels like it's been at least a month since I made any sort of meaningful post here, but I see that it's only been 15 days. Not that the contents of my daughter's diaper are exceptionally meaningful in any sort of deep or existential way, but hey, we all fill our diapers one way or another if you know what I mean.

So the interview questions. As promised, I have a set of interview questions from Jim at Irregularly Periodic Ruminations (I'm going to borrow a trick from Petra AKA The Wise (*Young*) Mommy and just call it "IPR". BTW Petra also has an awesome blog so go check hers out too). I don't remember exactly which blog I was on when I stumbled onto IPR, but I found IPR way more entertaining than the one I had been on, and now I am happily ~~stalking~~ reading it as fast as he can update it.

Alright, shutting up already and Q&A arriving forthwith.

What is the bravest thing that you feel you've ever done? Physically, emotionally, or whatever.

This is a tough one, because the first thing that jumps to my head is childbirth on all counts. But it's something that almost every female does, or we'd be woefully short on humans right now. So it doesn't feel like such a uniquely brave act, although it made me feel very empowered on all levels at the time. Possibly because previously the most impressive physical act I'd achieved was falling rapidly down hills.

So, barring childbirth, I would say attending the death of my maternal Grandma. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done, but on the other hand it was a spiritually life-changing moment to be there holding her hand at the exact moment her soul left her body. She moved on with all of our family seeing her on her way to a much deserved rest. And I can honestly say that I could actually feel her life leave her body on some primal physical level that I could never explain. It was terrifying and agonizing to face someone else's mortality with them, realizing that one day I too will be in her shoes, but I would not trade the experience for anything.

What one talent do you wish you had that you don't?

This one's easy. I wish I was more physically able. I am not technically "disabled" and mean no disrespect to anyone who actually suffers from any true physical disability. But I am beyond clumsy. There is some basic disconnect in the wiring from my brain to my limbs. I have always envied the power of a gymnast, the grace of a ballerina, the confidence of other girls playing softball that simply knew that when they stretched out their arm to catch a ball, it would of course land there.

I, on the other hand, was always the one everyone fought over in Gym class.

"You take her."

"No YOU take her. I had her on my team last time."

We all have our reasons for blogging but what would be your ultimate goal for your blog or as a blogger?

My pipe dream is to have some fabulous wealthy publisher or editor stumble upon my blog and exclaim that I am the next Erma Bombeck or Dave Barry and throw piles of money at me to write a weekly piece on whatever the heck I want.

The reality is, my blog allows me to write, which is something I've always loved to do. It is a release of sorts; a private activity that no one can intrude upon, unlike using the toilet. If I can make people laugh or smile or cry while I do it, that would really be my ultimate realistic goal.

You can trade lives with any one person for a month. Who would it be and why?

I'm going to cheat and give two answers here. I can do that. Jim didn't send me the rules. Besides I'm not good at rules.

I've got an altruistic pick and a purely selfish one. On the selfish front, I would say someone fabulously wealthy, yet still relatively happy. Maybe Oprah? Or Melinda Gates? I've always had a soft spot for geeks, so Bill would suit me just fine.

My other pick would be Mother Teresa, although since she is not actually alive this could be inconvenient for me and a little bit of a one-sided trade. I don't choose her because I am a particularly religious person, but because I envy anyone that has that much certainty in their faith and a willingness to spend their lives helping everyone and anyone that needs it. And all while retaining a sense of humility and humor. One of my favorite quotes can be attributed to her. "I know God will not give me anything I can't handle. I just wish that He didn't trust me so much."

There's a fire and your family is safe but you have the chance to save any one item from your house. What would it be and why?

Without a doubt, my computer. I have so many irreplaceable photographs stored here it's ridiculous. Which reminds me I need to buy that external hard drive I've been meaning to get to back them up. It's a heck of a lot easier to lug THAT out of a fire.

You have the chance to go back in time and warn yourself before making a bad choice. What choice would it be and what would you tell yourself?

Ah, so many bad choices and so little opportunity to go back and change them!

Dear Self,

I know Slippery Rock University has just been named the Number Five Party School for 1987, but it is not your sole responsibility to maintain or improve that ranking. Please reconsider your assertion that the weekend actually begins on Thursday. And 8:00 a.m. classes are not optional. Just because a professor does not have a written attendance policy does not mean it wouldn't behoove you to attend once in a while. Dropping out is one of the stupidest things you will ever do. Believe it or not, someday you will deeply regret not enjoying the actual SCHOOL part of school. And whether or not he realizes it, you will always be grateful to your Dad for continuing to support your education and feel extremely guilty and sorry that you didn't hold up your end of the bargain.

Now get your ass out of bed, take some Tylenol and go to Biology class.

Sincerely,
Your Self

Bueller?........Bueller?............

2009-01-13T10:03:00.001-05:00

I swear I'm still here. Just a little brain dead and burnt out from the holidays I suppose.

But I know there's nothing like writing to get me writing again, so I will just be plunging in and getting back to it soon, I promise.

Jim (AKA Heinous) at Irregularly Periodic Ruminations (Holy shit Jim - could you have picked a bigger pain in the ass title to type for your blog? I say that with the utmost respect of course) has kindly sent me a list of interview questions that I will be answering shortly.

This allows me something to write about without having to actually come up with the idea myself.

Couldn't have come at a better time considering the hamster in my brain seems to have quit his job. Stay tuned.

If Only ALL The Diaper Contents Came Wrapped In Plastic

2009-01-05T15:46:00.000-05:00

Continuing the trend of a preference for junk food as opposed to actual FOOD, Meredith chose not to eat her lunch today.

Her lunch today was one of those Kid Cuisine meals. Heck they barely even qualify as real food. It's about as close as you can get to McDonald's in the comfort of your own home. If you have children already, you know that you may as well just go ahead and surrender to the ubiquitous chicken nugget. If you have no children, continue on swearing you will NEVER feed your child that crap. I promise to never say "I told you so" later.

Today, not even the chicken nuggets were acceptable. Instead she went straight for the low drawer where her Daddy keeps his stash of Hostess cupcakes. Why he insists on keeping them there I cannot explain. Unless he secretly wants to recruit a new addict.

I flatly refused to open it for her. Chicken nuggets may not be health food, but they definitely provide at least marginally more nutrition than a cupcake. This caused much weeping and wailing and screeching words at me, some of which were intelligible. I'd provide the translation but I think she used a lot of vulgar language, and I try to keep it clean here folks.

At 1:00 p.m. when neither of us had given up butting heads and proved that we were each equally as stubborn-willed, I ended the game by demonstrating that sometimes might does make right. I won the battle by simply scooping her up bodily and announcing it was time for a nap.

I noticed it was also time for a diaper change. Her diaper had reached that squishy consistency and was drooping somewhere around the vicinity of her knees.

However I didn't remember it ever being quite so......crackly.

Perhaps she was stashing the plastic wrapped cupcake in her pants to sustain herself during the long hard nap ahead.

Babel Fish

2009-01-03T17:48:00.000-05:00

I was making Meredith a grilled cheese sandwich today. As I grilled I popped a mini Reese's Cup in my mouth (Ahem. The diet starts again on MONDAY.) and was totally busted.

She howled "CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANDY! Um Um TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

I'm pretty sure that translates to "I saw that, you evil serving wench! Now hand over the candy. And if you think I'm eating that sandwich you've lost your mind."

Just a loose translation mind you.

If You Promise To Watch My Video, I Promise NOT To Sing Auld Lang Syne

2008-12-31T09:00:00.000-05:00

As years go, 2008 was, like most years, good and bad. We try to focus on the good and move through the bad.

We started the year with Meredith as a crawling infant and we end it with a full fledged kid, running everywhere she goes. Jamie's severe nut allergy shows signs of waning and the doctor is cautiously optimistic that despite odds being against it, he may outgrow the allergy. Sabrina continues to be a voracious reader - the one trait she's inherited from me that doesn't drive me insane.

Like almost everyone else, we are worried about the economy and where it will take us. There was a Doris Day song my Grandma played for me when I was a little girl that said "Que Sera, Sera. Whatever Will Be Will Be." Good advice and only slightly less annoying a song than "Don't Worry, Be Happy."

And yet, words to live by.

2008 from Irishembi on Vimeo.

If You Own A Pair Of Testicles, Move Along, There's Nothing To See Here

2008-12-26T18:38:00.000-05:00

I know you guys are all enlightened and crap these days. You've learned that it is possible to buy a box of tampons without having your balls shrivel and fall off. And even if the cashier has to do a price check, you are confident that nobody will mistakenly assume they are for you.

But when we actually start talking menstrual mechanics and er, specifics, you men still go all squiggly eyed and green around the gills and back nonchalantly yet quickly out of earshot.

Fair warning. I am about to overshare.

Yesterday we went to my Mom's and during dinner I suddenly felt that icky trickling sensation that any girl over the age of 13 knows means to head for the nearest bathroom immediately. Holding a purse over your butt if you have the misfortune to be wearing white pants at the time.

I visited the bathroom to confirm what I already knew. Aunt Flo and Uncle Red were visiting for Christmas and they're messy houseguests.

I am a confirmed Divacup convert, but said Divacup was residing at home being ecologically sound and completely useless in practical applications since it was in fact nowhere near my vagina. Therefore I found myself sadly lacking supplies. Did I mention my Mom is menopausal?

I immediately began to consider alternate uses for Pampers, size 4. However it was 3:00 in the afternoon, we were going to be there for quite a few more hours and Meredith hadn't pooped yet that day.

I felt using the one and only spare diaper for my own purposes was tempting the wrath of the Poop Gods.

I considered appropriating one of her towels but didn't think my Mom would appreciate my decidedly un-Martha Stewart transformation of wash rag to, well, RAG rag.

I ransacked the closet hoping I had left behind a not-so-sentimental piece of my adolescence, but came up with nothing except that cursed waxing kit.

I did however discover a package of Depends.

Seems the sneezing and peeing thing won't be improving with the passage of time.

Tutorial - How To Say "Take That Photo At Your Peril" Without Words

2008-12-25T21:52:00.000-05:00

They Say That The Grinch's Small Heart Grew Three Sizes That Day

2008-12-24T10:43:00.000-05:00

This year:

I will not wait until 10:00 p.m. to wrap all the gifts (the train may have left the station on that one already).
I will not tell Dave to "hand me the damn scissors already!"
I will not tell the children "That's it! Santa's not coming!" (But it's sooooooo effective...okay, no, won't do it.)
I will not snap at everyone to hurry up and get dressed and/or stop playing around and/or leave the damn cat alone and/or go pee and/or get your butt in the car when it is time to visit the in-laws this evening.
I will not make anyone cry by "calling Santa" (really? that one's effective too.....alright, alright, joy of Christmas and all that).
I will not tell anyone in a slightly (extremely) irritated tone of voice to "sit still and be quiet!" while we read the Advent Book tonight.
I will not yell at anyone when they get out of bed for the fifth time because they are too excited to sleep just because I need to get those @#$%!*#ing presents wrapped.
I will not tell them to go back to bed at 7:00 a.m. because Santa hasn't been here yet. Instead I will drink coffee and smile. Okay scratch the smiling part. That comes AFTER the coffee.
I will enjoy my children's excitement, laughter, and re-live the magic of Christmas vicariously. It is short lived and should be treasured. With or without coffee.
Definitely with coffee

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

XOXOXO - Irishembi and family

December 1969

2008-12-22T08:09:00.000-05:00

It was a cold December night. She was 24 years old and this was her third baby in four years. Her three year old son and four year old daughter were at home with her mother. She wondered if it was for real this time.

She had been to the hospital a week ago with leaking waters and labor pains, but this little one had decided it wasn't quite time yet. It would be the first of the many ways this child would be contrary.

Could she really do this? Did she have a choice? She remembered the first time she went into labor and she announced to everyone around that she had changed her mind and didn't want to have a baby anymore. They had all laughed about it later, but it seemed a pretty reasonable thought now.

Many people had urged her not to have this child.

Her first two labors had been almost more than she could withstand, each lasting well into two full days. No one would know whether her son and daughter were handicapped as a result of the difficult labors, or if it was something else. Something that would also happen to this child.

Her history of labor said it would be quite some time before the baby arrived and her husband wasn't doing anyone any good sitting around the waiting room smoking cigarettes. Might as well head off to work.

Instead the child, a baby girl, would arrive that afternoon before anyone, including the doctor, was ready. When the doctor came blustering in long after the little girl had been taken to the nursery and she had been cleaned up he asked cheerfully "Well, how did we do?"

She wondered where he got the "we" from.

Thirty-nine years later that little girl has her own three children, coincidentally a girl, followed by a boy, followed by another girl.

Happy labor day Mom.

And......There Goes The Last Of My Christmas Cheer

2008-12-20T10:55:00.000-05:00

I know my last few posts have been rather "cranky" in tone.

I'm not done yet.

Yesterday I was running errands in the pouring rain. December rain is the most depressing, soul-flattening rain ever experienced. I had just gone to the specialty pet store to try out a new food for the panty-muncher who seems to think that pooing on the carpet is now welcome behavior, when I spied a Starbucks nearby.

I like coffee and have even described myself as something of a coffee snob. I am particular about my coffee, but simplistic in my expectations. It has to be good, it has to be strong, and it has to be hot. You'd be surprised how hard it is to obtain the last expectation ever since the Darwin Award runner-up won millions of dollars from a fast food chain because she spilled it on her crotch and was shocked to find that it was actually HOT, like it says RIGHT THERE ON THE CUP!

But Starbucks takes coffee snob to a whole different level.

I walked in and eyed the menu board to see what was on tap so to speak. It said right there to "ask what we're brewing today!"

So I approached the 19 year old "barista" behind the counter and asked exactly that. To be precise I said "What hot coffee do you have available?"

She said "Do you mean hot coffee?"

Is there an echo in here?

When I assured her that by asking for hot coffee I did indeed mean hot coffee, she stated that they had Pike Place coffee and Christmas Blend. I'm familiar with Pike Place coffee as this is the coffee they always have available and I usually purchase, but was intrigued by the Christmas Blend. So I used my own personal barometer question by which I judge most coffee, "Is it a strong coffee blend?" She answered in the affirmative, so I asked if it was stronger than the Pike Place coffee.

"Um, it's a bold blend with spicy notes."

Well I'm relieved to hear that it's assertive enough to ask me out on a date and will probably wear a sexy outfit.

"But is it stronger than the Pike Place coffee?"

"Um, it might be."

Very helpful. I'll take the Pike Place as I'm not feeling adventurous today.

"OK, give me a medium cup of the Pike Place."

You almost heard the hush blow through the place and a slight gasp from the trendy couple browsing the Internet on their matching laptops at the nearby uncomfortable but oh-so-urbane bistro style postage stamp size cafe table.

"Um, did you mean a Grande?"

I, assuming in my unenlightened mind that Grande meant "large" because that is actually what GRANDE translates to, said, "No I mean a medium." And considering Starbucks has it's origins in Seattle, Washington, which last time I checked was in the continental United States and didn't in fact have any connection to Italy, I couldn't understand why the sizes were listed partially in Italian anyway.

The trendy couple shook their heads in disgust at my uncouth, and the 19 year old gave me a pitying glance as she plucked a Grande cup from the pile of paper cups and attempted to educate me. At which time I discovered that Venti is large - even though it actually translates to "twenty", Grande is medium, never mind that it actually means large, and Tall, in a remarkable stroke of contradictory genius, is a small.

Give me my damn coffee and let me slink out into the rain with the other unwashed masses.

Auditory Incontinence

2008-12-16T14:55:00.000-05:00

This weekend I sat next to another Mom while our daughters played together at a birthday party. She's a stay-at-home-mom just like me. She is also one of Sabrina's Girl Scout Troop Leaders, coaches softball and basketball, active in the school's PTA, volunteers for several other school related functions, as well as our church. She made me tired just talking to her. Did I mention she has 4 kids? She's one of those Moms that you just want to hate, but she's so unbelievably sweet and kind on top of it all, you can't help but like her despite the fact that she'll volunteer for almost anything.

I, on the other hand, will never inspire that kind of hatred. Unless someone envies my lack of organizational skills and devil may care attitude toward housecleaning.

My one concession to volunteerism, is the school's emergency phone tree. I sign up for it every year. I've only been required to make phone calls twice now; once last year when the school district called a late 2 hour delay, when every other school district in the area was capable of detecting the 11 inches of snow at 5:00 a.m., and today when the school district decided to dismiss early for bad weather that apparently only they are aware of since my roads are dry as a bone and every other school district has completed a full school day.

I have been given an envelope containing a note card for each child in Sabrina's class. Each card is meant to have a list of 4 phone numbers and/or contacts for each child that can be reached in just such an emergency. It's not unusual that I have to call all 4 (or more) numbers in order to reach someone. Sometimes it is a someone that had no idea they were listed on this card, and have no idea why I am calling them. So while this particular act of volunteering occurs rarely, it takes up a significant amount of time and usually gives me a thundering headache when it does.

I had a simple message to deliver. "Hi, this is [-------------], I'm calling to let you know that [----- ------] Elementary is dismissing children at 2:55 p.m. today so [your child] will be home approximately a half-hour early."

This message is met with confusion (as it was by me, since there is no snow anywhere to be seen), annoyance, questions, and sometimes outright hostility. I guess they've never heard the saying "Don't shoot the messenger."

But the most annoying thing my call was met with today was......

.....music.

I may be about to display the fact that I am incredibly un-hip (not that this was EVER a secret), and quite possibly this practice has been around for some time.

But who came up with the brilliant idea to provide a service where people can force you to listen to a song of their choice while you wait for your call to be connected to their phone?

I do not want to wait three minutes just to be told you are not there anyway and leave a message and by the way "If you're a private caller or blocked your number, then un-block it cuz I ain't answering." This was an honest to goodness classy greeting I was met with. But I especially don't want to wait for that greeting while listening to rap for 2 minutes.

This happened three more times. I have nothing personal against rap musicians, or the other artists I was subjected to against my will. It's just not what I personally enjoy listening to.

Don't get me wrong. I love music. I have very eclectic tastes in music and there is very little that I won't listen to. But the point is, I like what I want to listen to not necessarily what you want to listen to. This is equally annoying as music blaring at me from a playlist when I open someone's facebook page or a blog where their playlist is set to auto-play. I appreciate everyone's right to their own musical tastes, but at 1:00 a.m. when Marilyn Manson blares through my speakers unexpectedly, well it's enough to make me pee my pants.

Sneezing makes me pee my pants, but at least that's self inflicted.

It's A Family Affair

2008-12-16T12:18:00.001-05:00

How is it that a 4 year old boy can fill the toilet bowl with toilet paper, use two handfuls of wipies, smear the toilet seat with poo in the process,

And STILL manages to leave skid-marks in his underwear?

Because I Like To Share Exciting News

2008-12-14T12:36:00.000-05:00

Taffy doesn't really seem to know she's a dog. Playing with Frisbees, or "fetch" is completely beneath her. She thinks sleeping all day is an admirable career choice. She's not eating food off the floor unless maybe it's hot dog. And licking humans to show affection? You can almost see her shudder delicately at the thought. In fact I've always said she's really more cat than dog. Considering her questionable lineage it's not completely out of the question that somewhere one of her ancestors did do the Wild Thing with a cat.
But she has one very annoying, very expensive, very dog-like behavior.

She suffers from something called Pica. This is just a fancy way to say Taffy likes to eat clothing. Specifically my clothing. Even more specifically, my underwear.

She's very discriminating when it comes to this behavior. The granny panties I buy from Wal-Mart in a package of 6 for $5.00? No, no, no, she would far prefer to eat the expensive ones that come from Victoria's Secret or Macy's if given a choice. Don't get me wrong, she will eat the El-Cheapos, but it's sort of like if you or I were given a choice of eating at McDonald's or The Four Seasons. She will eat the Hanes, but she will actually go digging through a closed laundry hamper for $15 panties.

Of which I no longer own any because I got tired of feeding them to the dog. And we like to pay the bills and buy groceries at least some of the time around here.

Every vet I've asked tells me this behavior is in response to some sort of anxiety or boredom. While it is true she only does it when she's alone - I've never once caught her in the act - I can't understand where boredom or anxiety would come into the picture. When you are waited on hand and foot, given everything you could possibly want, and rarely left alone, where exactly does boredom and/or anxiety occur? She sneaks into the basement to do it when nobody's watching.

It might be cheaper to buy her some Prozac.

Unfortunately for her, since she is not in fact a goat, this behavior is actually dangerous to her health. Most of the time she simply passes the cloth, as evidenced by the cheerful multi-colored piles in the yard (Yay! Decorative poop. Martha Stewart eat your heart out.). But on Thursday, since I've been more conscientious about keeping underwear out of her reach, she accepted a substitute and instead ate a dish towel.

Since we can neither afford to feed her underwear, nor pay $2,000 to have cloth removed from her intestinal tract, we have been worriedly watching her try to make something come out of her rear since then, to no avail.

This morning Dave called me to tell me he found a pile of poo on the living room carpet. Did you ever imagine this could be good news?

Me either.

Without A Net

2008-12-12T16:41:00.000-05:00

In polite company I would be referred to as accident prone.

But since I don't get that kind of company, MY friends and family will tell you I am a complete and utter klutz.

When I was a child I had the dubious honor of having gotten more stitches than anyone else I knew. I may still hold the record but I haven't compared notes lately. I've had stitches in every body part imaginable (and I do mean EVERY) from my head to my toes including my armpit.

When I was a little girl and I would fall down and hurt myself, before the tears would start or before I asked for a band-aid, my first words were"Do I need to go to the hospital for stitches?" And inevitably the answer was "Yes." And did you know my Dad gets really touchy when the emergency room takes more time than he deems prudent to examine his daughter's arm she just sliced open? Thirty-three years later I think they still might have a restraining order and his picture posted somewhere in Children's Hospital.

It's one thing to be gravitationally challenged as I like to call it, but the sheer stupidity of the ways I manage to hurt myself amazes even me. I fell down my cellar stairs and broke my foot because I was too vain to stop wearing a pair of wedge heels that had already landed me on my butt many times previously. I've fallen down a hill in my brother's front yard for no apparent reason, with absolutely no alcohol in my system. People that were present that day will tell you one moment I was standing before them, then right before their eyes I was suddenly rolling down a hill, ass over teakettle. Last year I dislocated my big toe by catching it in my opposite pants leg.

People, I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

I've noticed that I seem to go on jags of klutziness. In other words when it rains it pours. Yesterday I broke two different toes in two separate incidents, twenty minutes apart. I seem to have found my God-given talent and the Lord knows I don't squander it.

I'm continuing my streak. This morning I managed to get toothpaste in my eye.

Don't try this at home folks. I'm what you call a "professional."

Guilty Pleasure

2008-12-09T08:05:00.000-05:00

I only do it when I'm alone.

I don't pursue it as often as I used to - who has the time? And it just doesn't feel as good as it used to. Really I'm just getting too old for it and I can't do it in front of the kids.

I was referring to watching "A Baby Story". What were you thinking?

When I became pregnant the first time, I watched the show obsessively. I probably could have told you the names of every Mom and baby that were on the show that year. I would discuss them in conversation as "The Smiths from New Jersey" or "The Jones family that live near Philly" and "did you see the one where the woman had a baby for her gay brother and his life partner?"

I wasn't kidding when I told you I was obsessed.

I was almost studying these programs, looking for a key or a clue to this mystery process I was going through. That tired old cliche about childbirth that "you can't explain it until you go through it" just didn't hold water for me. I was sure if I watched enough programs and read enough books and surfed enough websites I could get a handle on this. I wasn't afraid of labor pain at all. I was afraid of THE UNKNOWN.

So I made it my job to know everything I could about this process of birth.

If you've ever watched A Baby Story, and if you've ever actually had a baby, you know that the two are NOTHING alike. A Baby Story follows a pretty consistent formula (happy pregnant couple, a little grimacing from the Mom as labor begins, nice speedy epidural, a little "push push push c'mon you can do it!" and voila! pretty little approximately 8 pound baby boy/girl) and wraps it all up in a neat little 30 minute package.

The reality is, uh, different. If it were truly a reality show you'd see that the pregnant woman just spent 20 minutes screaming at her mate because he ate the last of the ice cream, burst into hysterical tears because the pharmacy closed before she could refill her heavy-duty extra-strength heartburn medication prescription, and just ate an entire box of Raisin Bran in an effort to poop just once this week. And please do NOT hand me that baby covered in gunk! Really it's okay. I'll wait 2 minutes while you clean him/her off.

That's strictly a hypothetical pregnant woman of course. Any resemblance to actual pregnant women is purely coincidental. I have no firsthand knowledge of any of that behavior and no I am not crossing my fingers behind my back.

It's hard to cross your fingers while you type.

But yesterday while the "baby" napped (she'll be two in February, how long do you think I can get away with calling her "the baby"?) and Jamie was content playing on the computer I decided to switch it on for old time's sake.

And when they did the close up on that newborn baby (cleaned and gunk-less of course) with his little befuddled face and his squinty eyes looking puzzled and wondering how the heck he got here, I remembered why I do this. Because I will never see a bewildered newborn look at me again, and it makes me a little sad.

Even if I am sitting on the couch yelling at the television.

BEWARE! You will NEVER. SLEEP. AGAIN!!!!!!

Sixty-Seven Years Of Perfecting His Art

2008-12-04T14:52:00.001-05:00

Today is my Dad's 67th birthday. That's hard to wrap my head around, mostly because it means I will turn 39 shortly. I calculate my parents' ages based on my age (and vice versa on the occasion that my feeble mind forgets my own age). I know that my Dad was 28 when I was born, so add 28 years to my age and Voila! I can pretend I knew all along how old he was going to be!

So I took two-thirds of my children to visit and wish him a Happy Birthday today. Sabrina has caught on to the fact this school thing is a bum rap and as she suspected we really do have fun while she's gone. And because I think it is a parent's right and privilege to torment their children, I might tell her there was cake and ice cream and balloons.

Or better yet, Hannah Montana made a surprise appearance.

The fact that my Dad once told Sabrina he was good friends with Billy Ray Cyrus might just lend a little credibility to this.

So now you know where I learned the fine art of teasing my children.

Happy Birthday to the Master.

Monsters - They're Not Just Eating Cookies Anymore

2008-11-29T08:00:00.000-05:00

The other day when Meredith and I got up in the morning she accompanied me to the bathroom. This is a regular occurrence. In fact, I'm not certain my bladder can perform its duty without one or more pairs of eyes watching. You've heard of "shy bladder"? My bladder is an attention whore.

As I moved to wash my hands in the sink I said to Meredith in my usual happy sing-song-y voice that I use to narrate our day, "Did you see that little monster come up here to see us?"

I was referring of course to Hermione, AKA Kitten of Doom.

But Meredith responded by opening her eyes wide with fear and sidling up to my leg and latching on with a death grip, and quietly, but clearly said for the first time that I know of, "Scared."

I wasn't certain if it was the word "monster" that had caused this reaction or if it was possibly the actual kitten. God knows she scares me when my bare feet are exposed to her guerrilla warfare tactics.

Since my mind is like a steel sieve, by that evening I had opportunity to use the word monster with her again and find out. This time I was changing her diaper and she was happily chattering away and playing with a wipey. Again it was the cat that inspired me to say, "Here comes the little monster to see you!"

I didn't know a toddler could levitate off a changing table.

I did my best to point out the kitten, and she saw her, and acknowledged her, but frantically looked in all directions to see when and where this OTHER monster might be coming from.

I couldn't figure out exactly how she would have learned to associate the word monster with anything other than a friendly blue Muppet that devours cookies and the occasional letter of the day. And then I hearkened back to the days of Jamie's toddlerdom. When his big sister would regale him with tales at night of the monsters that lived under his bed and in his closet, ensuring chaos at bedtime and effectively procrastinating actual bedtime.

I must remember to thank Jamie for passing on the tradition of education in the art of nightmare induction.

Who Are You And What Have You Done With My Husband?

2008-11-28T07:00:00.000-05:00

My husband is quite possibly the least romantic man on earth. He honestly cannot understand why someone would want jewelry as a gift. He says it's too expensive and it doesn't actually do anything. Flowers die so what's the point? And he doesn't dare buy me candy in case it's a diet week. Really hon, wouldn't you rather just have a nice new coffee-maker or a pair of gloves?

It's okay though. It's not like I didn't know this going into the game. The first year of our relationship he bought me a toaster oven for my birthday. A toaster oven. I was 25 years old at the time. I didn't ask for a toaster oven. I don't recall ever mentioning a toaster oven. I didn't really even cook back then.

When I gave him "the look" complete with one raised eyebrow over the discarded wrapping paper, he began to sense this "look" might be something to take note of for future reference, and that he just may have committed a faux pas of some sort. He made a quick stammering save by saying, "Wait - that's not all I got you," and pulled out a sweater. Since my birthday occurs three days before Christmas, and he made a hasty trip to the mall the next day, I'm pretty sure that sweater was originally meant as a Christmas gift, but I let it pass.

He could use a little sensitivity training also. While I was giving birth to our first child, somewhere around my 5,000th push, right around the time I was pretty sure my eyeballs would pop out of my body long before that baby would, he announced that he was "really tired and he was just going to go lie down over here," and pulled a blanket over himself and did.

Don't get me wrong, even though he doesn't value jewelry or flowers, he knows I do and sometimes he really gets it right. I got a lovely pair of diamond earrings for our 10 year anniversary this year, and he's always brought me flowers after the birth of each child (impromptu naps notwithstanding).

But yesterday morning, he not only took the baby and let me sleep in until 9:30 (NINE FREAKIN' THIRTY!!), he took the van out to wash it, and returned with these.
I suspect I'm being buttered up for Hunting Season, when I find myself a single parent for days on end, but I never, ever question sudden romantic gestures.

I love you too Dave.

Ass, Bitten

2008-11-27T07:00:00.000-05:00

So there I was all bragging about my wonderful, compliant, EASY kid.

Oh yes, she actually loves the breathing treatments. That dinosaur mask is toddler gold! She won't take it off! What? You mean your kid won't sit still for those treatments? You poor dear soul. Excuse me while I polish my superiority complex.

My initial instincts were correct. The kid doesn't think the breathing treatments are so cool. We're down to sitting on the toddler pinning her arms together for eight minutes.

Eight...........loooooooooong....................minutes.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. You go ahead and enjoy your turkey and stuffing.

I'll be over here eating Humble Pie.

Sidekick To The Dog Of Dormancy

2008-11-26T08:00:00.000-05:00

"Sabrina why are you wearing two different shoes?"

"I didn't have time to match. I was defending my feet against the Kitten of Doom."

This could be her new moniker if the whole sweet and feminine "Hermione" thing doesn't work out.

Good Call

2008-11-25T18:32:00.000-05:00

Despite the continued busy signal at the pediatrician's office, I decided it would be best to forge ahead and brave the pediatrician's office. Something in Meredith's cough was setting off my maternal antennae.

Turns out she has a double ear infection, but more importantly, she was wheezing a fair amount and will require breathing treatments. This involves a medication called Albuterol (normally used for asthma) blown into her face.

The last time she had these breathing treatments it didn't go so well, as chronicled by clicking here.

I realize she was only 6 months old at the time, but I figured if it was that difficult to pin her down and keep her still while she was basically a very cute pillow that had just learned to sit up, it would be next to impossible to convince her to do it now that she's a fully functional, walking, running and (back) talking small human with very defined opinions of what she will and will not (no how no way) do.

Those Irish eyes are smiling over the much coveted dinosaur mask. In fact, the only tantrums that have occurred came when I attempted to take the mask off.

All I can say is my kid is weird. Wonderful and delightful, but weird.

Vertical Hold

2008-11-25T08:00:00.000-05:00

It's hard to believe but there were no remote controls in the 70's and 80's. Wait, I lied, there was one in our house. Before you become impressed with the advanced technology living in my childhood home, I will let you in on the secret of the very earliest remote control.

It was me.

My parents had a rule that if they called for me, wherever I was in the house or outside, I was expected to come and see what they wanted. It was a matter of respect.

Or in my Dad's case it was a matter of needing someone to see if the Steelers were playing on Channel 2 or 4 that day.

I still remember a day I was on the third level of our split-level house and he was in the bottom level Family Room. He began yelling for me and as I groaned and rolled off my bed, the yelling escalated into veritable bellows. I was certain I would find someone had entered the sliding glass doors from the back yard and was brutally beating him.

When I came charging into the room I found him in his usual position, reclining comfortably in his La-Z-Boy recliner (genuine Naugahyde - no FAKE Naugas for us! No sirree!).

"The television's rolling again. Fix it for me."

He'll never know how close he came to patricide.

Anyway, I've attempted to instill this same sense of respect in my own children. Unfortunately their father provides them with a seriously poor example. The man can sit and appear to not have heard a word I've said when I've repeated the same information three times. And when I pointedly say it a bit louder and in a way he cannot ignore (slapping upside the head can do wonders for the attention span) he says "I heard you the first time!"

So I've come to accept that I could be bleeding out from a head wound on the basement floor and the only one that might respond is the dog, assuming she wasn't already sleeping.

Yeah, I'm on my own with the head wound. The dog ain't coming either.

It Must Be A Day Ending In "Y"

2008-11-24T10:56:00.000-05:00

You know it's bad when Meredith's newest phrase is "runny nose".

Meredith is sick. It's one of those low grade sick things that you sort of forget when it started, but you wake up one day and think, "Hmmmmm, that has been going on for awhile, now did that start this month or last month?"

Such is life with three small petri dishes.

I debated taking her to see the doctor this morning, but when I called the line was busy. As in busy signal, not put on hold to listen to a minimum of 20 minutes of admonitions to make an appointment for a flu shot, accompanied by the warning that my insurance may not cover all of my child's well-visits. No, that kind of busy I'm used to.

But a busy signal on a Monday morning at the pediatrician's office when they have several incoming phone lines is a Very Bad Sign.

Since we don't need to catch any new and interesting exotic viruses right now - we're doing just fine finding them on our own thank you very much - I made the decision to let it lie.

But my children have a habit of getting really sick on Sundays and holidays, therefore I'm guessing it would be prudent to take her before Thursday (Thanksgiving Holiday for my international readers). Otherwise I'll be stuck talking to the lady at the answering service who is really pissed off that she had to work today, and will flip a coin to decide if she will actually tell the on-call doctor that I called.

Screaming Earache Child + All Day Family Togetherness = Mom calling HER doctor to beg for tranquilizers.

An Important Distinction

2008-11-18T08:00:00.000-05:00

Sabrina: (using her very best dramatic stage-cry) Mama! He hit me REALLY hard in the back!

Me: Jamie! We don't hit! Five minute time-out. Go to your room!

Jamie: But Mama!

Me: No "Buts"!

Jamie: (sobbing his way up the steps) But Mama! I need to tell you something!

Me: I don't want to hear any excuses Jamie. We don't hit!

Jamie: (with real tears running down his cheeks) But Mama! I didn't hit her! I punched her!

Tears From A Stone

2008-11-17T03:32:00.000-05:00

As a kid I remember my Mom crying. No, she wasn't sad and unhappy all the time. But she would cry when I was in a school play, she would cry when I graduated from eighth grade and then again from High School. She would cry watching movies, or commercials, or reading a book.

And it embarrassed me terribly. It just seemed so......mushy and weak. Don't get me wrong, I cried too. I cried when my boyfriend moved to Georgia when I was 15. I cried when another boy I thought loved me dated two other girls. I cried when my Grandfather died. I cried when I held my Grandma's hand and helped her to follow him 15 years later. I cried when I knew I would divorce my first husband. I cried when I almost lost my current husband to his demons.

But cry when you're happy? Or because of some movie? That's just not me.

I used to say I'm just not a crier. I can recognize the emotion of a movie or a play or a situation, and agree that yes, it's sad, or exciting, or poignant in some way. But crying just wasn't something that came naturally to me.

Until now.

Tonight alone I teared up watching a family tour their new home on Extreme Makeover. Then I quietly let tears run down my face while watching The Notebook. And then I got all snuffly and choked up over a Macy's Christmas commercial when the little girl puts her letter to Santa Claus in the big red mailbox.

I was never like this until I had children. Yes the pregnancy hormones definitely induced some extra crying, and we all know that post-partum sleepless nights are pretty much a recipe for huge gasping sobs complete with snot all over your face at some point.

But with each child, being quick to tears got a little easier. And lasted longer. And now I don't think it will go away.

I have a theory that children break you a little. When you're young you develop your "self" and that self becomes a shiny nacreous hard shell. It's pretty and it keeps you strong and whole.

And then the babies come and they put cracks in that shell. They soften you both physically and emotionally. And you find a new self. One that cries more. Because now you feel more. Because now a little bit of your heart lives in your children and walks outside your body.

I look forward to embarrassing my children with my tears.

The soul would have no rainbow had the eyes no tears. ~ John Vance Cheney

Don't Let The Cute Fool You

2008-11-16T09:13:00.000-05:00

What you're not seeing in this video is when she decides to climb the water jug. The very smooth sided water jug that has a surface incompatible with sharp gripping claws. What results is an unintentional swim.

Followed immediately by the next logical step of rolling in her litter box. I'll leave the picture of clumping litter coated wet cat up to your imagination. Lets' just say she did not appreciate the ensuing bath that followed.

I've always liked cats. I still like cats. I've always maintained that cats hold a superior intelligence to dogs and most other domesticated pets. And some humans.

And then I acquire the exception to that belief.

As Dave pointed out, he "got the kitten too stupid to stay in the nest when Mama was out hunting food."

And like all kittens she's very playful and energetic.

And by "playful and energetic" I mean she attacks everyone's feet and hands by launching herself across the room like a flying puffball with cleverly concealed razor blades with which to slash any exposed skin.

And the poor dog just looks at me with a look that clearly says "It was bad enough when you started bringing all those squalling humans home. I'm way too old for this shit."

And yet, in spite of all that, I'm still charmed on the rare occasion she curls up on me with her little motor running and falls asleep.

Maybe she's not so dumb after all.

Saint Anthony's Tired - Find Your Own Crap

2008-11-07T15:05:00.000-05:00

Last week some online friends and I were discussing how men (and children) are hopeless at searching for things. Their idea of searching for a lost item is to sit on the couch and say "Hon/Mom! Have you seen my ______?"

One of the women told a funny story about how her Mom always prayed to St. Anthony when she couldn't find something. One day her nephew was looking for a lost item and her sister advised him to pray to St. Anthony. He replied "St. Anthony is too busy looking for things at Grandma's house!"

St. Anthony spends a fair amount of time at my Mom's house. And I'm sure he's relieved my Grandma has passed because he was really never allowed to leave her house.

But my gripe about my "big kid" is that he will look for things. By literally tearing the entire house apart. He will pull things apart willy-nilly leaving destruction in his wake. He will empty drawers onto the floor. He will pull books out of shelves. He will take every paper in my filing system (that is carefully disguised as a pile of junk) and mix them up beyond retrieval.

And whatever he's looking for (9 times out of 10 it's the remote) usually turns up in a very obvious location like smack in the middle of the dining room table.

Right where he left it, because God and St. Anthony know nobody else is allowed to touch it.

Selective Memory

2008-11-05T08:35:00.000-05:00

Me: Jamie, today is a very important day today. For the first time in history an African-American has been elected President of the United States.

Jamie: I know! Sabrina told me. Obama!

Me: That's right. Some day when you are all grown up you will remember this day and you will tell your kids how your Mommy told you about President Obama in the morning before you left for Pre-School while you ate your Cheerios.

Jamie: No. I don't want to tell them about the Cheerios.

An Historic Day

2008-11-05T02:04:00.000-05:00

Congratulations President-Elect Barack Obama.

Yes. We. Can.

She Has Subtracted Ten Years Off My Life

2008-11-04T15:04:00.000-05:00

Meredith was not napping.

As in screaming her displeasure with the very concept of napping. I let her think about it, and see the error of her ways for about 30 minutes at which time I checked on her and changed her diaper. It's a ploy she utilizes to get out of napping. She waits until she's in her crib before dropping a load. She knows I was traumatized by Jamie the Poop Painter and I will NOT ignore a poopy diaper.

What she didn't count on was me putting her BACK to bed after the diaper change. This infuriated her to the point of purple faced silent screaming. Followed closely by a return to the normal volume indignant wails. I patiently explained that everything would be just fine. It was naptime and if she just closed her eyes and rested I'd be right back when she woke up.

Toddlers aren't strong on logic.

I heard her fiddling with the door next to her crib and heard the door slam followed by a loud wail. I was afraid she had slammed her fingers in the door and ran upstairs just in time to see her through the door draped head first over the side of the crib trying to reach the doorknob.

Slower than slow motion but not slow enough for me to do anything about it, she fell head first to the floor.

To compound this she landed in front of a door that opens inward. I couldn't get in because she was lying in front of the door. I had to push her out of the way with the door to get at her.

She has a bruise and a lump on her head and is happily playing with and sucking on the ice packs I tried to apply to her head.

I am still shaking.

I need a drink.

Do Not Read This Unless You Are Over 18

2008-11-04T09:17:00.000-05:00

"Vote early and vote often," is a quote attributed to three different Chicagoans; Al Capone, Mayor Richard Daley, or Mayor William Thompson. None of whom had a stellar ethical recommendation. And all of whom did their best to tamper with the election process to their own benefit.

Let's hope we've gotten those kinks worked out since 2000, er, I mean the first half of the 20th century.

Vote your conscience and vote for whoever you believe in. And may the best man win. They say Americans get the President they deserve.

I hope we deserve better this time.