Day 238 (34 weeks)



Day 237:  Are we there yet?

 If this baybee is like Milo, he'll be here in 2 weeks.
If this baybee wants to be labeled "full term," he'll be here in 3 weeks.
If this baybee wants to be in line with my due date, he'll be here in 6 weeks.

If this baybee wants to be an inconsiderate, stubborn punk, he'll be here in 8 weeks.

At my  453 34 week appointment, the doc confirms with me my due date.  I, of course, try to negotiate/compromise/lie/black mail her into changing the date.

Because, you know, that works...

I tell the doc, "I don't think I'm going all the way to 40 weeks.  My hips are incredibly achy, I'm waddling like a drunken duck on the shores of Key West.  The pressure is so HEAVY that my vagina is crumbling under the weight of this child's head, and yesterday I discovered colustrum already leaking from my boobs!!"

She just laughed and said "Girl you are CRAZY!  You know, some women leak colustrum at 10 WEEKS!"

Inotherwords,  she's totally not on board with my birthplan.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to have this baby a moment sooner than full term, or a moment sooner than when he is ready to vacate,  I just...you know... as they say, am in the home stretch...

Statistics for the number crunchers:

Still to go:
6 weeks (dot, dot, dot)

Which is:
42 days

Time passed since the first day of my last menstrual period aka the only definitive number in this countdown game:
34 weeks (238 days)


34 week Doc Appointment revelations:

Blood pressure:
102/58

total weight gain:
19.5 lbs

fundal height:
measuring at 35 weeks



Oy vey



30 weeks and signs that suggests the existence of fact, condition, or quality

Signs you are a parent of a toddler:

1. You have no problem deciphering sentences like, "Ova da smah beez! SMAH BEEZ MAMA!"

2.  You find it endearing when he says, "I tooted!  I tooted again!"

3.  You find yourself counting to three several times a day.  "One.  TWO.  THREE!  Get over here, NOW!"

4.  Upon arriving at the grocery store you go straight to the nearest display of chips and ask your toddler to choose one so that you may shop in (relative) peace and timeliness.  And to keep him in the cart.

5.  And then, upon checkout, forget about the empty bag of doritoes in your pocket and -unintentionally- shoplift (whoops!).

6.  You find yourself *giving in* and letting the child have a popsicle at 7:30 in the morning (peace and quiet, yes?).  And then you wonder why he won't eat his cheerios and banana.  And then, the next morning, wonder why you're dealing with a whiny toddler for 20 minutes because he heard the words, "We don't eat popsicles in the morning.  It's breakfast time! Now eat your Cheerios!"

7.  You have increased upper body strength from "airplaning" a tantruming toddler from the car to the house.  Or from the store to the car.  Or from the playground to the car. Or...

8.  After a time out, you approach the toddler to explain to him why he was in time out and he says, "NO, GO AWAY. YOU STAY BACK!"

9.  You ask the toddler if he would like a piece of granola bar.  He says, "NO, WANT IT!"  Then as you turn away, toddler quickly whines, "GIVE IT TO ME!  I want bar!  I want bar!"

10.  You measure your time in how many hours left until naptime, or bedtime.

11.  You measure your worth by the words, "Mommy, come sit down" as toddler pats the space next to him.


photo curt-sy of this biotch



Signs you are pregnant and you have a toddler:

1.  You find toddler to be oh-so-cute and observant when he says, "Mommy toot!  Mommy toot AGAIN!"

2.  "Mommy burped!  Mommy burped again!"

3.  Toddler says, "Mommy tummy big!  OH, BIG TUMMY!"  As he lifts up your dress or shirt and starts smacking and poking your stomach.

4.  The morning ritual of toddler tip toeing into your room and then loudly exclaiming, "Get up mommy!  Wake UP!"

5. And then he says, "Mommy, where's da pants? Oh, put on your pants..."

6.  You're toddler looks more well rested/well fed and overall more put together than you do.

7.  You find yourself saying to your spouse, "Mommy's going to go potty and then it's naptime."

8.  You look down at your shirt and see traces of toothpaste, peanut butter, and juice.  And you could care less because you're down to a select few fitting and stylish shirts.

9.  You watch the show, "I didn't know I was pregnant" and think, "Who are these dumb bitches who were lucky enough not to have ONE symptom of pregnancy AND they already have a child?!"

10.  You think shaving, wearing make-up, and putting on dangling earrings are for skinny, well-rested bitches who get to drink tequila with people over the age of 2. (at least).  And a "night cap" is 2 Tums chased by a shot of Peptobismal.  At the late hour of 9pm.

11.  You measure your time in weeks.

12.  You many have bouts of forgetfulness but you know EXACTLY how many weeks pregnant you are and how many weeks left.

13.  You measure your self worth by the words, "Mommy, I want big tummy, too!"

Stats of the resident prego:

Still to go:
10 weeks

Which is:
70 days

Time passed:
30 weeks

Weight gain:
13.5lbs

Fundal height:
measuring at 32 weeks.  Which means I'm measuring 2 weeks bigger than I should be.  Doc says this is not cause for changing the due date.    Psshhht. She's no fun...

Blood Pressure:
110/50 (cool as a cucumber)

And, starting this week, "do your kick counts!"  Uh...no problem with that one, doc.  Bytheway, is there such a thing as TOO much movement?  And, no, I'm not fueling myself with power-sugar-energy coffee drinks...that's just the way he is rollin' baby!!  And that baybay is kickin' and punchin' and elbowin' and kneein' EV-VER-RY-WHERE!

I'd also like to welcome back my old friend, Shortofbreath.

"You might get winded easily as your uterus expands beneath your diaphragm, the muscle just below your lungs."

NO SHIT.

In related news, stomach acid does not belong in my throat.  Or my mouth.  Yum.

Fun thought o' the day:
"Did my water just break or is this a bad case of the butt sweats?"

Pregnancy in the summer is FUN FUN!

P.S.  I may be 7.5 months pregnant and uh..not 21years old...but that ain't stopping me from shopping at Forever 21...

Forever Twenty-One: it ain't just for skinny non-pregnant free-livin' bitches...



to pink eye or not to pink eye

Most, if not all,  parents have experienced the issue of sickness in a child.  And when one sends their child to daycare/preschool one might expect an increase of dis-ease.

I've been very lucky that I have myself a healthy child.  Aside from the occasional snotty nose/cough case, Milo hasn't had so much as a fever.  Knock on wood, of course.  I really empathize with those parents who have had case after case of high fever, strep throat, ear infection and whathaveyou with their child(ren).

So when my daycare calls me to please pick up your child, he has pink eye...I'm on it.  And Fast.  Because, well, I have to be.

I take him to the doc...and guess what...no pink eye.

I shrug it off, no big deal, false alarm...it's cool...

One week later I get the phone call:  Please come pick up your child, he has pink eye.  For real this time.  So I rush rush and call out of work for the next day and make that doc appointment.

Guess what.  He doesn't have pink eye.

It's a simple case of NOTHING. AGAIN.

Now, I really would like to maintain my rep of being one of the cool parents. 

"Milo's mom is so NICE.  She's so laid back!  We are so blessed to have such great parents!" (and that was said verbatim...thankyouverymuch)

But really?  I'm beyond the whole "well at least he's healthy! It's good to be on the safe side!" blahblahblah because I am, lets say...very frustrated...

Because I'm losing LOTS of money on this whole leave work early/ call out of work/ drive 45 minutes to his doctor/ still paying for a full week of daycare when he isn't even there SAGA.

Because if they are going to call me everytime he sneezes or rubs his eyes, things are going to get the opposite of laid back...

An artist is at work here, people.

God DAMN FUCKING cookies from scratch.
GOD damn  1994 stove that doesn't heat evenly or clean itself.
STupid Fucking smoke detector who is like a crack whore on constant PMS wailing at any sign of innocent cooking or baking!
Forgetful SPACE CADET MOI who assumes I have enough butter AND FUCKING SUGAR in the house to make these FUCKING COOKIES FROM scratch!!
You know who sells "crystalized ginger"?  NOBODY. Or all the stores are sold out because of chipper cheerFULL free-for-all Betty Homemakers of the world STOCK PILED THEM IN THEIR FUCKING CUSTOM BUILT 500 SQUARE FOOT PANTRY.

Are cookies supposed to be burnt on the bottom and RARE on the inside?

I EVEN BOUGHT CREAM OF TARTAR.

I don't even know what that is!!  But it was on sale and apparently people buy this during the month of December!!

There's flour on my CEILING.  On my POPCORN FUCKING CEILING that my husband and I just painted!!

PAINTED! You know how much fun painting a popcorn ceiling is!??!!  OH, IT'S LOTS.

And THEN...I don't have the right PAN, the thermometer thingy, or fucking PAM spray. 

WHAT DO YOU MEAN I NEED 4.5 INCH FLUTED INDIVIDUAL TART PANS WITH REMOVEABLE BOTTOMS??

I got me a removeable bottom.

It's called "go to fucking aisle 3 at the grocery store, buy a bag of oreos and bring THOSE to the fucking cookie swap!!"

I'll layer those bitches on wax paper in an airtight container and tie a goddamn red ribbon around it.  And THAT will be THAT.

stop the imadness WAIT! there's an APP for that!!

I've been noticing the "i" craze:

ipod
iphone
ipad
itouch
itunes
ichat
igoogle
ihome
imax
ivillage

 ithis, ithat, ieverything. What about...

mepod
mephone
mepad

Because it's ALL ABOUT ME.  I want it bigger, faster, shinier, smaller, smarter, prettier, sleeker...AND IT BETTER SMELL GOOD, TOO.

And, then, there are all the APPS.  For everything.  I mean, the ieverything.

IDEA! iIdea! I'll invent the ieverything!! Then I'll be the champion of the universe!! I'll be the richest ibitch EVER because ihave the ieverything!

Mother Nature?  Father Sky?

Yeah...there's an app for that too.

Feeling claustrophobic? Download inature and in a nanosecond you'll be at the iocean sitting on your iyacht.  Or the imountains, skiing down the islopes.

The possibilities are iendless.

conceptual semantics

"So, how's the daycare situation going?"

GREAT! 

So, regarding the whole daycare part deux. It's going well.  I guess.  Milo hasn't come home complaining of being bitch slapped, starved, bored or marinating in his own shit for 3 hours.

And those are very good signs.

However, he has caught on to the new route we take in the mornings.  He now understands that if we turn "left" we're going to daycare, and subsequently being dropped off for the day.  If we stay straight then we are going to the gym and the whole day is reminiscent of my SAHM days.

So, now we have a whiny "OH NOOOOOOOO" boy in the backseat when I make the left turn, as he frantically points in the other direction.

"Milo, you're going to school today!!!"

                                   "Noooooooooo!!! Schooooooooool!!"

"Suck it up, kid.  You'll be in school for the next 20 years. Besides, school for you means art, storytime, learning about colors/shapes/days of the week, free play, friends, and playground time. I think you'll be FINE.  OKAaaaaaaaY! STOP WHINING!!!"

This doesn't work well on a few different levels, so I try a different tactic:

"Milo, you're going to daycare today!!!"

                                        "Daycare? Daycare? Daycare!!!

And he's fine. No whining, no kicking. Just Chill.

So, I don't get the whole "school" vs. "daycare" phenomenon.  But we go with what works.

short and true story. eventually.

"Milo, I'm gonna need you to mow the lawn this morning."  "Aw, ma, c'mon...it's too hot to be out there today," my son complained. "Well, you promised me last week this would get done, and now, I can feel the grass on my knees..."

"Your knees, mom?  Dramatic much?"

I looked at him, evenly, lips in a thin line.  I didn't like him challenging me.  Though, of course, I reminded myself, it's the age.  The task of the teenager is to individuate.  Sigh.

"Sorry, ma" he replied half apologetically.  "Besides, the mosquitos are addicted to my blood.  I have 26 bites on me!"

"26 bites?  Dramatic much?" I said, happy that I could still volley the ball, so to speak.

"Can't I mow the grass tomorrow? It's supposed to be less humid..."

"Milo, I'm much more interested in the grass being cut today.  I'll have lunch waiting for you upon your return."

"'Lunch waiting for me? Upon my return? Since when did you become Mary Poppins?"

"Mary who?" I teased.

Milo rolled his eyes. "What's for lunch anyways?" Milo's voice raised in solid hope that Italian sausage and peppers would be on the menu.

I smiled, knowingly, then threw him the bottle of bug spray. He caught it easily with his left hand.

"Put those mosquitos in withdrawal, I'll see at noon."

A book review, of sorts.

Goodnight Moon is, of course, a staple item in most homes. That is, homes that have kids.   I have found some issues in the book that I would like to discuss...

On the last page, "good night noises everywhere," the "old lady" (who isn't a lady at all, but a RABBIT) has left the room, WITH THE FIRE STILL ROARING.

OMG OMG OMG -the baby rabbit is alone in his room with a fire in the FIREPLACE.

Not safe -Margeret WISE Brown.

Also?  You left the bowl full of mush on the bedside table. Ants aren't cool, Mags. 

And about that mouse...is this a pet mouse? Or an unwelcomed visitor due to the mush THAT'S LEFT ON THE NIGHTSTAND?

And can we talk about the red balloon? It disappears...and then comes back...and then disappears. Hmmm...my son worries about the balloon.  Exclaiming, "uh OH! uh OH!" As he frantically looks for the balloon...

Mag-pie, you're hurting and confusing my son.  Not cool.

And why are there lights on in the "little toy house?"  Most toy houses don't have electricity.  Did toy houses have electricity when this book was published in 1947? From the looks and style of your clocks and phone, I'd say you must be into the  *vintage* look, as well as, way ahead for your time.

 Speaking of which, there's a phone next to the "baby's" bed? Really? Is this necessary? Are you concerned about late night phone calls that could wake the little darling?

I mean, the "old lady" worked HARD to get that rabbit to sleep, afterall....sitting in that chair, knitting...with the occasional finger to the pursed lip "whispering hush..."

 "goodnight nobody"
Really?  Is this "writer's block?" You couldn't come up with anything here?  How about "good night, jumping on the bed.  Good night, Sprout Channel."  Those would be ideal.  And relevant...

 The rug next to the bed looks like tiger skin.  Did the "old lady" go hunting, skin a tiger, and then make her little bun-bun a rug?  Is she trying to scare her child?? 

"Act right, or you'll be a rug next to your sister's room!"

I do enjoy the gradual dimming of each page...nicely illustrating the transition into night...
And the detail of the 2 clocks in the room...how they display 7:00 and then subtely change to just after 8:00 by the end of the story,  again demonstrating the movement of time...

Oh, Goodnight Moon, you will always have a place in my heart of hearts...

April 2, 2008. Wednesday

As a follow up to my last post, and for prosperity, I thought I'd share the moment I found out we were having a Milo.

When I was preggo with de Milo, I had a Myspace account.  I had blogged on it a few times in regards to the pregnancy...It's funny to go back to my pregnancy journal and read how easily angered and annoyed I would get..at most everything... 

At least I hope that was just a pregnancy thing...

Anyhoos, here's a little story on my 20 week sonagram -It's a BOY!!

                                                                20 weeks pregnant.

So Receptionist Lady at La Sonagrame de Navy Medicale was everything and more as my baby daddy (BD) and I approached for our long anticipated 20 week sonagram.  This appointment took FOREVER to schedule due to the fact that I had to talk to one SPECIFIC person. 

Everytime I called I spoke to the one nice and responsive receptionist in the hospital (Not to mention a specific hospital, but it's the one known as "The Presidents Hospital."  I'm sure you can figure it out from there.  And if they sent me a satisfaction survey, I'd be more than happy to fill it out.)  who politely informed me the girl (who incidentally sits right next to her, using the same computer terminal -nice use of man power) is gone.  Possibly up to an hour.  And, no, she herself, could not schedule the appointment for me.  She does medical something or other sonagram appointments.  The other does the OB sonagram appointments. Awesome.

This is an example of Radical Acceptance.

Let's just say she wasn't at her desk very often.  Like the 3 times I called to schedule the damn thing.

So we finally scheduled the appointment.  It's April 2 and we are finally checking in with the infamous "fresh out of bootcamp I hate my job because there are no windows and I'm surrounded by crazy pregnant bitches all day -lady." It's not so much that she looked at me as if I had the audacity to approach her with a smile because she is stuck in a dreary basement setting for hours on end (oh, but let's not mention the 3 hour lunches I know the witch is taking) it was more how friendly she was to the other 2 couples who came in after me to check in.  BD was noticing this as well, as we sat for 45 minutes in the waiting room.  She would smile at the lovely preggers and committed BDs as they approached her prestigious post.  She even informed one BD how he will have to stay in the waiting room for the 1st part of the sonogram and then will be called in when appropriate.  How nice...I would've liked to have been oriented regarding protocol when I checked in instead of reading the 1972 memo on the wall...

My BD turns to me and asks if I would like for him to speak to her about her condescending attitude towards me and her lack of customer service skills.  I say no, because we are civilized and sober and do not need to make a scene unless otherwise indicated.  Instead I take notes and silently judge her from a safe distance.

Finally my name is called and BD stays seated, albeit patiently, because, we are future parents and are working on our maturity and trying real hard not to question authority...too much.  We are picking our battles.  But, seriously, after all was said and done -why couldn't he have been there for the entire show?

As I enter the closet that will reveal my Rockstar as a boy or a girl, hermaphrodite or stub, I let the tech know I am in a good mood, please don't be a bitch and ruin this moment, in so many words:

Me: "We are very excited about today's results..."

She immediately turns to me asks, "First baby?"

I'd like to think I would be a bit excited anytime I'm sashaying into a room (closet) for the 20 week sonagram...but I suppose she has seen her share of Navy folk coming through that are more nonchalant about these things after the 2nd, 3rd, or 4th pregnancy...

A nice surprise was how warm the gel was -all those other times you're jumping out of your skin from the freezer burn inducing gel that is oozing from this seemingly harmless tube.

Me: "Wow! That's really warm!"
Her: "It's nice isn't it?"

Is she hitting on me?  Awesome.

So she goes through clicking away and measuring all the parts that make up Little E.  I start guessing at the different body parts she is measuring.  She is impressed that I could identify the spine.  I'm feeling good.  She asks me if I'm "local" and I give her the short version of the story.  She asks me how I met my BD and I tell her though trial and error.  She asked me "How did you know he was the One?"  I respond that I thought he was cute and I liked that he had a steady job.  He introduced me to sushi and lamb chops.  I introduced him to wine and gay men.  We were obvs meant for each other...

She then tells me about her 4 children, her divorce, and how one of her daughters set her up on a date recently.  She liked him but wanted to dip her foot in other ponds before shaving her legs, or whatever...

She is now my new BFF.

Then she tells me, "I've got to tell you, you've got one cute baby here."
Me: "I'm sure you say that to all the girls."
Her: "No, you really do."

She is totally my new BFF.

Me: "uhmm...how can you tell that it's cute?"
BFF:  "Look at its face and profile." (narrows in on the face)

I think he looks like Abe Lincoln here.

She has now restored my faith in Navy Medical.  These people are real professionals.  But I'm getting antsy because BD really needs to see all this.  She finishes up her clicking and measuring and off she goes to get BD.  The first thing he says is "Don't tell me!" 

Don't worry babe, we're finding out together what lies ahead, or beneath rather...

My BFF comes back in and gives my BD a glimpse of how far the sperm/egg fusion has come.  Zooming in on the feet, legs, arms, and that cute baby face.  She squirts more lub, er gel, on my stomach and we search for the tell tale signs.

Here I am, gel/lube on my belly, moments before my BFF tells me what the sex is...

BFF: "Before I tell you the sex, why do you think it's a boy or a girl?"
Me: "Well, my parents think it's a girl...but I just think it's a boy...maybe it's because I haven't gained much weight, y'know, those old wives takes..."

BFF:  "See here...there's a boy part!"

Tears, joy, happiness among men, women and children ensue.  (Except no tears from BD, he doesn't cry.  Then again, the room was dark and I bet he was really red-eyed)  We wrap up and BD is asked to leave due to needing to do one more little "procedure" to ensure all is well -I'll spare the details...but all is well...

I step back into the waiting room, I am a beam of sunshine in that Grey Dank Basement Ultrasound Section of the President's Hospital...I all but shout "IT'S A BOY!!" to the crowd of parents to be and stink eye girl at the receptionist desk.  I cling to my pictures, grab my BD's arm and skip off to revel in knowing we are going to have one fine looking baby boy in 20 some-odd more weeks...

and p.s.? She was totally right...

I can admit when I'm wrong. Just not now...

Being a parent of a boy and all, I'm understanding more and more when they say, "he's ALL BOY."

And, of course, it's a good thang, but damn, does it urge me to stay in touch with my tom boy side...

Not that I was ever a girly girl.  I didn't get my first manicure until I was 25.  Didn't get my eyebrows waxed until I saw my High School Senior pics (18yo) and my mom made a lovely comment about my bushy uni-brow...

Didn't shave my legs until last week.

I joke...I joke...

So here's this son 'o mine who:
Bungee jumps-like off the couch and bed.
He'll attempt to climb trees, arms up, pleading the branches for "up, up, up!"
He gets in his little car and scoot himself down little hills of the sidewalk, like a roller coaster.
Climbs up ladders at the playground and slides down head first...
He'll do "surprise trust falls" on unsuspecting friends.
Proudly shoves his finger up his nose and giggles hysterically when I redirect the hand and say "ewwww..."
Puts his hand down his diaper...while watching T.V.
Squats in the bathtub, watches himself pee and/or poo, then looks up with a big grin of pride on his face
Could care less about dirt.  Or scraped knees.  Or dirt-ridden toes or fingernails...

And then there's this. Where did he learn this from. DAD?!

What I do appreciate is when my little human wrecking ball bumps his head, falls, or otherwise causes himself pain, he can easily get up, brush himself off and move forward.  He may need a quick cuddle of reassurance, but then he is quickly squirming away and off to conquer what knocked him down.

My little Bam Bam...

But when I deny him another spoonfull of peanut butter? Or refuse to open a gate to let him fetch something he tossed over? Or otherwise say "no" to some seemingly pointless object that he Must. Have. NOW...?

Look out -because tough guy becomes a hot hysterical mess in .2 seconds...


and boy, does he play it up...

Before I moved to Motherland, USA I would occasionally find myself on the phone with a mama who had a screaming child in the background, and I would blame the piss poor parenting skills of the mama.

Yup, that is on that list I call "Naivete: pre-baby social skills of the ignorant."

And that, is an embarrasingly long list...

And now?

I totally blame the genetics of the father...

and that, too, is a pretty long list...

I joke, I joke...

(sort of)

;)

Rebellion or just plain 'ol self expression?

I've had a nose ring for, I believe, about 8 or so years now.  It was a random act of best friend adventure.  He got an eyebrow ring.  I opted for the nose. Very much like the time we got a tattoo together when he came to visit me my senior year of college. I've had my nose peirced for so long that I forget it's there. Even though it's smack in the middle of my face, I don't see it or feel it. It's like a freckle. A tiny silver ball of a freckle. 

Pretty harmless I 'd say.

So when I come across someone who judges me for the 3rd hole in my nose or the tat on my back (which is a tiny little butterfly on my left shoulder blade. I know, SATANIC.) I get that stabby feeling...Y'know, the whole -I really want to be accepting and cool and mature about this but you're saying to my face that face peircings and tattoos especially on women are trashy -that they come across as unprofessional -that people only get these things because they want to be thought of as "different" or "antisocial."  It couldn't possibly be in the ballpark of when people wear  rings/bracelets/necklaces/earrings.   GASP! Hoops in the ears are offensive!!

(Oh, yeah, btw, this was coming from a psychiatric nurse. Nice)

It's called cultural competence.  And as a person who works with not only a diverse population, but with a population who are mentally ill, I expect you to have the ability to accept, communicate with, and effectively interact with people across cultures. Who have different world views.  Not bad, not wrong, just different.

Please to check your bias at the door. Mmkthx.

Please to become interested in others world views. It's part of being an effective worker in the mental health field. It's part of winning friends and influencing people.

And then there was some words regarding peircing baby girl ears and how just awful that is and how could you...blahblahblah...

And at the time I was so dumbfounded that someone I liked and respected was telling me all this.  And all I could say was,

"Wow...okay."

And they were all, "Well, at least I'm telling you to your face."

Yeah, at least you're being rude and ignorant RIGHT OUT LOUD.

That's great.

I went home that night feeling so in a funk.  I was actually questioning my decision to maintain my nose ring.  The tat I can easily cover up.  But, damn, I'm 32. A mother.  Should I be wearing this? What image am I sending? Is this good for my son?  Will people still take me seriously in the work place and socially?! As a mother??

Yeah, self doubt SUCKS. Especially when you are overtired and it's one in the morning.

So I came home, kicked off my shoes, grabbed a slice of leftover pizza and turned on the tv.

And saw this commercial:




And, BAM.  I got my mojo back.

Yup, from a 36 second Holiday Inn commercial.

And I didn't even have to cut a bitch...

ps. On a side note, the UK version of this commercial (seen above) has the chick with the pink hair. The US version does not...interesting, huh?

on "transitioning" from the crib

Dear Mom,

I know you've been checking this blog out, like, every day x3, just to see the same post over and over because I haven't posted the latest and greatest of your grandson in about a week or so.

And, OH MY YES have things changed.  Like, one, he now sleeps on the floor.  If you follow me on FB (and I know you're stalking me there, too) we have broken down his crib.  The one that was recalled a year ago (that I never did anything about).

OMG I let your grandson sleep in a RECALLED CRIB!!  For a YEAR!

Where was I?

So the crib is/was a convertible crib.  Which, when I bought the thing, I thought was a, like the Brit Brits say, BRILLIANT idea.  Because it's supposed to last an American Lifetime.  So, aside from the whole recall bullshit, when you convert the damn bed to a "toddler" bed, it's still HIGH UP OFF THE FLOOR.  So, yeah, either buy a crib tent (which, By the FREAKIN' way) is not easy to find one that fits a CONVERTIBLE bed or buy one of those side railing things, WHICH, By the FREAKIN' way, unless you are a FOWARD thinking kind of parent (nice job and gold star if you are) and already have these assessories in your home or happen to live right next store to a babys R (rippin' us off) us...

Where was I?

So persons like MOI have to make due and QUICK because YOUR GRANDSON is slippin' himself out of the crib like a FREAKIN' NINJA.  NO Joke.  Seriously...So, he's in his crib, sleeping, orzo I THOUGHT.  I'm down the short hall folding laundry (not joking, I really am folding laundry) and I hear a door moan open.  I think it's a cat going into Milo's room.  So, imagine my surprise when I see Milo in his doorway.  Like a mirror image we both jump in surprise at seeing the other. His lips suck in, his eyes avert in a sheepish way and I, half in surprise, half in WTF is going on! turn him around and lift him back to his crib.

So we do this about 5 or 20 so times until he finally gives in and falls asleep in his crib.

In and out of the crib
In and out of the crib
In and out of the crib.

Not even ONE NOISE was made.

Again, the little sucker is a NINJA.  At 21 months.

So the husb comes home and  I tell him about how his little seedling can swoop himself out of the crib without so much as a Thump-a-Thud.

So we the husb  takes off the front end of the crib.  And this is what transpires the next day when putting him down for a nap:

Think he did this accidentally?  Nope! 

p.s. All those pillows and blankets are on the floor  to *protect* him from falling.  His room isn't usually in this ungodly disarray. Trust.

This is what I think about you taking apart my bed: DESTROY!

Over and Over.  We are having so much fun now.

And then?

Let's take the mattress off!!

2 hours later...

Finally, he naps...

And for your viewing enjoyment, here's a little video of which has amused me for hours...

So now?

We've had to bid adieu to the crib. And Milo is left with this:

kinda sad, really.  but, hey, safety first...

Also? I've done away with ALL the bottles.  No more BOTTLES.  Too much for one week?

So, mom...I'm really looking foward to seeing you tomorrow! You'll be here at 1:00?  Just in time to put him down for a nap!!

The husb and I wish you ALL THE BEST!

xox,

MME

for the record, no minors were hurt during the taking of these pics...

boy: Your hair looks nice today.

girl: Uh, yeah. That was MY bagel you're eating.  And, btw, why are you wearing a pink beaded necklace?

boy: The food here is SO good!

girl: Did I shave my legs for this? I wonder if I'll be home on time for Idol.

boy: hey! Mind if I sit next to you? I feel this connection...

girl:  Are you f*ckin' kidding Me??

For some reason, these pics remind of every first date I've ever been on.  Just sayin'.

Romantical, Naptime, and Mistakes

Today was all sorts of planned out.

1. catch up on sleep.  check!
2. go to yoga. check!
3. go to grocery store get romantical dinner supplies, buy potted plants for sad empty pots on porch. go through car wash, vaccum if so inspired, get a haircut, maybe an eyebrow wax, have dinner ready for family by 5pm...

So...what happened?

After yoga, I get in the car and check my phone.  Mistake #1.  Voicemail from daycare stating, "Your husband said you were going to pick up Milo after lunch.  He's already eatten lunch and ready for his nap.  Are you picking him up in the next few minutes or should I put him down?"

(enter guilt)


So I call back and say I'm on my way.  Mistake #2. Afterall, he'll get a better sleep in his own crib, right?

 (side note: I did, technically, tell the husband I would get Milo around noon this morning as they were walking out the door.  But that was only because I allowed the "I get shit done queen" ghost enter my body and talk before I had a chance to realize that that is just...silly...)

Let's fast foward nearly 3 hours.  I've showered, done miscelanneous chores, laundry, read a bunch of blogs,  talked to hubby and asked why he is sabotaging my day, he got all defensive and rude, hung up without saying I love you, listened to my aerobic and choir boy son in his crib, rocked him 3 times, 2 bottles (sue me), and now sitting here with a glass of wine (at 3:30 in afternoon. Yup.).

Huh.

It's quiet now.  The baby monitor is no longer vibrating off the counter with his antics.  You wanna guess how this day ends?

Pizza, beer, and a kid who doesn't want to go to bed until 9pm tonight due to a LATE ASS NAP. This is ROMANCE BABY!

Boo.

Next time?  Wait until AFTER THE NAP to EVER (unless there is an emergency of course) pick him up from daycare. Also? Leave the cell phone at home. And?  Have enough wine in the fridge for back up.

The Foot Appointment. Wasn't my best look.

So, about that foot.  That mother flippin' pediatric podiatrist appointment.  I'm now allowing it to rest in peace.  But FIRST, let's tell a story...

Why COME, on the eve of every doc appointment, the hubby and I get to hear the sweet whining sounds of our little loved one at 3 IN THE FREAKING MORNING?

I SAID WHY COME!!

So, as 6am comes rolling around and I begin the 45 minute process of "the snooze button dance" (side note: it's called a dance because I have to actually get out of bed, stumble and swerve across the room to press snooze. Brilliant, eh?) every 9 minutes, all the while thinking, "let's reschedule the appointment."  The appointment that *I* think is unnecessary.  What's another week? Or month even? Let's go to the park instead! Marshmellows! Toast! YAY!

But, alas, the day has been scheduled.  Work and daycare have been called off.  It just wouldn't be right to sleep in and blow it all off.  Right? This is one of those "I'm not interested in adulthood.  Not really interested. AT. ALL.  Not today. Nope."

So, it's pretty clear that whatever the day brings, I'm not going to "roll with the punches." I'm not going to "grin and bear it." I"m not going to "Shut my face noone wants to deal with you and the psychoticism that eventually explodes in all kinds of green shades out of your ears."

So we buckle up and head north to what should be an hour and 15 minute or so drive.  As the rain pours down harder, the wheels on the car go slower...2 hours later we arrive to the CAMPUS that I totally underestimated.  And even though you can't really miss this hospital, I thought it wise to drive RIGHT PAST IT because THE DIRECTIONS IN MY HEAD TOLD ME SO.  BECAUSE I LOVE DOING THINGS THE HARD WAY.  So we turned around and the tension thickens...So, then, of course, we pick a random parking garage because we have NO IDEA WTF ANYTHING.  And  I need to get OUT of the car.

Then we find out we're in the wrong building.  Then we find out we need to take a shuttle. Then we find out the shuttle just left and it'll be another 15 minutes.  NO, I'm NOT walking.  And, NO, Milo won't stay in his stroller unless it is being strolled....

So stroll away I do as the wind is whipping and the rain is falling. Milo is still with the cranky whine and being a jerk face jerking movements. (we were under a covered awning, btw)

Oh, we've only JUST BEGUN...

So fast forward to check-in.  They have a lovely waiting area that is entirely child appropriate.  Meaning they have toys, art supplies, tv with cartoons flashing, wall art, wall games...ALL of which Milo really enjoyed for all. of. 3. minutes.

What does he prefer?  Elevators, random doors, water fountains, other kids faces, whining, flopping, kicking, hitting, biting, flailing, running, random hallways, DON'T YOU DARE PICK ME UP AND SHUSH ME, time out?  HAHA -AIN'T GONNA HAPPEN PEOPLE...

for 2 hours.  2 hours? 2 hours.  Really? 2 HOURS? Yeah. Yeah....yeah....

Those that follow me on Twitter or FB got to witness:

*no sleep. 2 hour drive. wrong parking deck. shuttle with screaming baby. 1 hour wait so far with said cranky baby. FML

11:03 AM 
 
*dear johns hopkins: a $10 gift cert to the gift shp does not make up for an hour and a half wait with an OfF THE WALL child!!

11:23 AM 
 
*peaceful calm blue ocean waves...peaceful calm blue...GoD DAMIT Johns!

11:32 AM

*did i mention my appt was at 10am? STILL WAITING

11:37 AM

So our number gets called at OH, I DON'T KNOW, NOON or so...and let's just skip to the point here and I quote,

"One foot is inverted 15 degrees and the other is in 30 degrees.  You're sons feet are fine.  In past generations, they would prescribe braces or special shoes.  But they found out that there wasn't enough evidence that they really worked.  So, just keep an eye on it, but his feet should straighten out on their own."

Blink, Blink.

"Any questions?"

I reply, "So nothing wrong with how he walks?  The x-rays looked good?"

"We're not seeing any issues at this time.  Feel free to come back if anything changes."

Blink. Blink.

So, in no time, we are out of there.  On one hand greatful for the peachy keen feet of our son, on the other hand....just SO DONE with the whole thing.

On the elevator down a bit of perspective hits me in the face: a young girl maybe 7 or so is on the elevator with her parents.  She's bald, frail, and very pale.  So things could be way, way worse.  I glance at my active, cranky, but healthy son, and I mentally write this in my gratitude journal...

So we find our way back to the shuttle stop.  And wait. For 15 minutes.  In the rain.  Awesome.
Milo quickly falls asleep on the ride home and I'm thinking: the only thing that will make this better is sushi.  So we drive to a restaurant just off the highway...

Guess what restaurant doesn't open for another 2 hours?  At this point, I was so tired, so hungry, and so wanting to blame the whole day on Hubby McParanoid because this whole "we need to get his foot checked out" was his Dr. McDreamy idea. But I am all done with conflict. There may have been some tears. Perhaps.

You know what makes someone even angrier?  Tell them to stop crying.  It took all my amazing coping and effective communication skills to tell him, "THIS IS HOW I'M CHOOSING TO DEAL WITH MY FRUSTRATION AND ANGER WITHOUT HURTING SOMEBODY.  MmmK?"

So then guess who woke up after a mere 30 minutes of napping? And then would not go back down once we got home?

Yeah. Yeah.  Yeah...

The End.

I gotta "thing" I gotta getta offa ma chesta

FACT: my (it's all) "about me" section still points to me as a SAHM.  And even though the young one is now in daycare and I work OUTSIDE THE HOME...I'm NOT READY to change my ABOUT ME section.

and I may be "trained" or "educated" as a mental health "professional"...but I. DON'T. KNOW. WHY  i'm not ready to change it...

but I'm leaning towards lazy. pinky swear.

and Dear Day Care Providers,

When I drop off my child in the morning looking FRAZZLED and IN A HURRY and my little darling is STILL IN HIS PAJAMAS and I also bring along a pair of pants and a shirt that look very DAY TIME WEARABLE....please change him into said clothes.

Because when I come back 8 or so hours later to pick up my little darling, I'd rather NOT see him in his PAJAMAS. THAT I PUT HIM INTO NEARLY 24 HOURS BEFORE!

AND THEN,

when my husband says to me, "It's not her job to dress him in the morning."  This does not (to quote Lilu) MAKE ME HAPPY IN THE PANTS.

And though it is not your job to make me HAPPY IN THE PANTS, this still doesn't make me HAPPY IN THE PANTS.

MY BAD for having a RUSH RUSH  morning with just enough time to put his socks on and a jacket to get him in the car and out the door!!!

and another,

When my darling young child comes home after  NO NAP AT FREAKIN' ALL WHAT THE FREAK FREAK FREAKITY FREAK...and then I'm dealing with an all out APOCOLYPTIC  LUNAR ECLIPSE-TASTIC ZOMBIE HYSTERIA BITING MANIAC...

I'm gonna need an explanation.

The only way I'm going to "GET THIS" and then "forgive and forget" is if he sleeps tonight.  LIKE THE WHOLE 12 HOURS THROUGH THE NIGHT HALLELUJAH BABY JESUS THAT WAS THE BEST SLEEP I'VE EVER HAD SINCE...

I WAS HAPPY IN THE PANTS.

And then?

you can do whatever the FREAKITY FREAK  and we can just forget about all this, yeah?

Breakfast in times of cuteness

Mornings can be sweet.  And I say that with very little practice because I am NOT, NEVER HAVE BEEN a before noon kind of gal. Even when I've had jobs that were 9a to 5p...where it was my routine to be up early...I just never got the hang of being Chippy McChipperson before high noon. 

My theory is that I was born on a Friday night, 9:07pm.  I came out of that cacoon, sunny side up, screaming, "HEY, it's FRIDAY NIGHT YA'LL. I HAVE ARRIVED.  LET'S GET IT STARTED....WOO-HOOOO..." (cue the music of Black-Eyed peas)

And ever since the whole "me being born thang," I just can't shake the "night person" thang. It's my destiny.  It's my truth. Probably.

And then I had Infant de Milo and it turns out that it didn't matter if I was a night OR a day person.  I suddenly became an ON-CALL kind of person.  And I quickly got reacqainted with caffeine.  Be it coffee, tea, or my personal fave: Energy Drinks!  And I quickly got to know about "napping when the baby naps" and working out and eatting right -all just to keep my head (and mood) right...

Yeah, it's a drag. This whole "taking care of yourself" thing...but it works...

So here are some pictures (surprise!) of one of those mornings where everything is sweet, simple, and slow...a lot like molasses....

I usually give him several options for breakfast.  I'm an indecisive overbearing awesome nutritionally- conscious mom like that. Today it's a buffet of apples and cinnamon oatmeal, yogurt and granola, cheerios, and a banana.

Learning how to peel a banana. His fine motor skills are above average, people.  TRUTH.

I'm not exactly sure why he decided to point at the camera.  But, I'm thinking it either has to do with him realizing how much he loves his mama OR him noticing how gorge I look in the morning...one of those...

When he's done with something he moves it to the table.  I taught him that.  Whereas before he would just throw the bowl on the floor.  Food splattering EVERYWHERE.  And then he would scream.  It  was NOT my favorite.

He might be ready for a haircut.  The "comb over" look doesn't really do much for him.  Still cute , though...

And THIS is his sign for ALL DONE.  He jerks his hands out to the side and waits for me to clear and remove his tray.

...And then what happens?

He washes the dishes....

Mornings can be sweet...;)

one hot mess, wonder where he gets it from?

Fellow parents...

Hi. How are you?

Y'know how you want the best when it comes to your child(ren)?

Or, rather, you have the best intentions of providing the best when it comes to your child(ren)?

Specifically, you want them to eat.  It all begins with the old "to breast feed or to formula" issue.  Or, to both...

And then when you resolve that issue, it's "when to solid food?"

And then you're spooning "stage one" homemade or store bought food into their suspicious, eager, and interested mouths...

And, you think, possibly gasp out loud, bragging to your disinterested friends, (S)HE is SUCH a good eater!  (S)he loves sweet potato, avocado, squash, green beans, even FISH...(blah, blah, blah...)

And then BAM! POOF! goes your "suspicious-eager-interested" eater and it's all you can do to give them all the vitamins-minerals-calories-fat-carbs-sodium-protein that they need to be that NBA-NFL-CEO-M.D.-J.D.-PhD-M.F.A.-M.B.A.-CPR certified child that you so PLANNED on when you threw birth-freakin'-control into the trash because this man has the most amazing genes that are gonna ROCK ON  THROUGH ELECTRIC AVENUE!!!!

wHERE was I?

OH!  food...

So, if you've read  THE BOOKS, THE parenting books, they all warn against the fast foods, the foods that are gonna ruin your child and they will FAIL at becoming the VERY BEST they can be DON'T YOU DARE GO THROUGH THAT DRIVE THROUGH YOUNG LADY. 

but these days, in this household,  french fries and pizza are what's up.  ARE what is HAPPENING. and you know what??

I DON'T GIVE A SHIT.

Yes. That is Papa Johns Pizza in one hand and a bottle hanging out of his mouth. Paradox much?  And, no, that is not a pee stain on his jeans.  It's apple juice.  SWEAR.

ONE. HOT. MESS.

Maybe make that two...;)

I can haz more snow?

Fact: we've been getting snow.  Lots and Lots of snow. Pro: Lots of family bonding! Con: LOTS of family bonding!  I kid, I kid.  We didn't venture outside today due to the Blizzard conditions i.e. lots of wind, lots of snow, lots of cold.  You don't need the INCESSANT weather coverage to look around and see the weather!  So while my baby daddy was cooking some delish Indian hamburger kabobs (we have a thing for Indian food, just in case you missed that segment) (and ps, We had to use ground beef because the grocery stores (yes we went to several) were ALL OUT of ground lamb. Just ob-surd!), Milo and I went to a couple of windows and did some picture taking.  We get wild like that sometimes.

Look out Ansel Adams!!

That's my door handle -on the inside and the outside.  You see how I captured the snow?  ON THE HANDLE?! This cabin fever gives me the artistics chills...

I can haz MORE snow!?

ps: you can barely see it, but Milo is playing with an empty egg carton.  My imagination knows no bounds...that and the fact that our recycle bin is hibernating-so, figured in the meantime, let them play with trash!

he is just sew kewt!

lone toy rider thing. And that tree again. (boundless AGAIN!)

Nostalgic for BBQs and umbrella drinks. And, while I'm at it, sleeping in and road trips to NYC.

The trash won't be picked up this week. So we're stock piling dirty diapers.  At least all that poo is frozen...(what? you didn't think I'd go a whole post without talking about poo, did you?)

And finally, a video of my darlings.  Teaching an 18 month old how to play Indian poker is a sure fire way to laugh the winter blizzard blues away...

sunset+driving west=sunglasses!

Everybody needs one of these. 

Sunglasses, that is...