Choose Your Own Adventure

My husband is insane and really wants me to write about my new and completely "rational" fear of having toilet paper nuggets stuck to my butt when I am propped up and spread out delivering this baby that's coming in like TWO WEEKS, but I think maybe you'd rather read about the new book I'm trying to read or my recipe for the best meatball sammich ever put together by a person who really can't cook.

I'd put it to a vote, but just typing that paragraph made me realize how boring the last bit sounds and maybe I should just be honest about my inappropriate obsession with the wholesome state of my down-there areas during what has to be the messiest time in the female genitalia's life. (Please don't write me if you can think of another time things get so gruesome for a woman's nether regions, because I really don't have the stomach for anything grosser than my own gross right now.)

WARNING!!

*** This is the part where you skip to the end if you would prefer to hear about meatballs and NOT about gross things women think about when faced with the messiness of childbirth.***

**Seriously, i'm not giving you any more chances or asterisks. Skip to the recipe if you know what's good for you.**


Maybe it has always been this way since the beginning of time, but these days people don't really want to hear about child birth details when they ask. When my daughter was born, people cooed at her and asked me, "How was the delivery?". And since I'm in the habit of only asking questions I want honest and thorough answers to...I obliged and told them every morsel instead of just saying "fine" or "gross" or whatever. And by the looks on their faces, you'd have thought I just showed them the part in Bambi where the mom gets shot and Bambi's running all around on his little stick legs in the forest calling-out "Mother?" and it's all quiet (in the movie and in the room where my friends and family all stood gaping/gagging).




I think it's unusual that in any other scenario involving a bed with stirrups and paper sheets draped all over it, it's TABOO for one to be unclean- but mention the fact that the woman hunched sweating and panting on top of said table is giving birth to new life- and suddenly it's oh-in-that-case let's ignore the crust and paper balls she has wadded up and clinging to the little hairs around her bajingo. She has an excuse. Lay off. I'm a doctor, I see this stuff all the time blah blah blah.

I've spent the last nine months being kind and courteous about my hygiene before going to the ob/gyn and I really would rather not tarnish my spotless reputation on this one occasion just because I'm in a hurry and/or I'm in horrible pain. I'd rather just plan for the worst than hope for the best. The only case in which a woman shouldn't be concerned/obsessed about the state of her lady-parts is one involving the birth of a baby named Jesus. And that's been done. I read the book. Well some of it, and nowhere on any of the pages I read did it say thou shall not fret over dingleberries. I do recall a cleanliness and godliness line in there somewhere, though, so THERE.

I have spent a stupid amount of time over the last few days creating every scenario that may come up involving what I am calling "so-so-sudden labor" and all the possible ways I can make myself presentable to the hospital staff with little or no time*. Yes, I do realize it typically doesn't happen so fast that I wouldn't be able to shower or do a quick spot-check before being on my way to the hospital, but my list of things to do before getting in the car on the day-of is topped with being a polite and considerate patient. Remember, I'm giving birth to a baby, not Jesus. I'd rather just plan for the worst than hope for the best.



***Now for a splendid recipe for meatball sandwiches that I stole from Rachael Ray.***

1 pound ground beef 1 onion, one-half finely chopped, one-half thinly sliced 1 cup corn chips, such as Fritos, crushed 1 large egg, lightly beaten 1 tablespoon chili powder

Salt and pepper 1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil One 28-ounce can chopped tomatoes One 15-ounce can black beans 6 sandwich rolls, split halfway and toasted 2 cups shredded pepper jack cheese (about 8 ounces)

1. In a large bowl, combine the ground beef, chopped onion, 1/4 cup crushed corn chips, the egg, chili powder, 3/4 teaspoon salt and 1/4 cup water. Shape into 1-inch balls.
2. In a large saucepan, heat the olive oil over medium heat. Add the sliced onion and cook until softened, about 3 minutes. Stir in the tomatoes and the remaining 3/4 cup crushed corn chips and bring to a boil. Add the meatballs to the sauce, cover and simmer until the meatballs are cooked through, about 20 minutes. Stir in the beans and cook just until heated through, about 5 minutes.
3. Preheat the broiler. Spoon the chili meatballs and sauce into the toasted rolls, then top with the cheese. Broil until the cheese is melted, about 2 minutes.

It really is so delicious even my five point five year old loved it and she hates any food in which each of the ingredients aren't separated and presented clearly to her in the little compartments of her Dora the Explorer plate.





*(Some early ideas on that list included improvised uses of items such as paint brushes from the garage, a watering can, and a pen from the glove compartment of my car. Just call me MacGyver.)

A test of the emergency blogging network...

I'm going to make time for myself to sit down this evening and write something meaty and delicious. Right now, I have some dogs begging to go outside and poop before the rain makes the grasses wet and my Ladybug is buggin me about visiting a cute pixie friend in Orlando.

The keys feel good under my fingers and I have eleventy-gillion things I want to say before I push out the newest member of the Gresham Clan (see widget below), so stay tuned.

so-so,
Stephanie

Chalkboard Paint- 1.....So-so Steph: 0

Today is a picture-post day. The fun keeps rolling on in and I'm not going to sit here too much longer and give the day a chance to catch up with me and slow me down. So. Here's what we did on the last day of Preschool...

This is what Ladybug looks like on her last day of preschool.
(And that up in the right corner is what old dog's butt looks like on the same day.)

The next series of photos is something I like to call "being stuck on the floor in Ladybug's room surrounded by needy pets and a pile of dress up stuff"

Boone Came First

Doesn't he look ravishing in this Ariel wig?

After seeing what a lovely mermaid Boone made, Chope begged me to try it on her stinky noggin.
And who am I to deny a Chope one request to be beautimous? Especially after I buzzed her hair off in giant clumps with the clippers a few weeks ago...

(I think it looks better on Boone.)

At this point, I believe Cadence got bored with my fashion show and started playing My Little Pony. The ponies were making out in the corner and I was trying to get someone to find me a brush.

And since the cat has a pea-sized brain and pretty much lets me do whatever I want...


Charmed.


I finally got bored with the pet makeovers and started a new project in Ladybug's room.
We did a bang up job not getting goop on anything besides the five foot tall rectangle I taped off for the chalkboard paint and then I gave in to a request for Disney Channel and went outside to clean up the black paint mess.

Here's what happens when you spray a tiny paint roller with a high-powered hose nozzle.





And because people don't believe me that my maternity clothes don't fit anymore...(remember: the camera adds forty pounds...)


(ugh. I have no shame.)


There you have it. If I can't get these black speckles off me in the shower I may be coming up with a few more fun tricks to keep me busy in the privacy of my own home.

Happy Summer.

Dear Sam,

Hi, It's me- your mom. First of all, I'd like to say sorry about the fried green tomato sandwich last night...I got your message about how it made you feel. Hope the Tums helped you more than they helped me.

I was hoping to give you a little heads up about what to expect when you finally come out of me in a few weeks. I know you've been listening to bits and pieces of your family's life from inside your warm, safe spot inside my belly, but there's a lot more that goes unsaid I think I should let you know.

That little voice you hear singing into my belly button is your big sister. We call her Ladybug. Or Looloo or Cady-loo. You can come up with your own little epithet for her if you'd like. She's open to most anything apparently- I called her Bing Bong the other day and she thought it was hilarious.

Ladybug really likes to sing made up songs about you that sometimes end up really being about Hannah Montana or Cheetos. That is her way, so when you're out here in the world, just play along and smile like we all do. It's easier and makes her incredibly happy.

Another thing about your sister, she is a sensitive and sweet thing who is capable of annoying the crap out of you and making you feel warm and fuzzy all at the same time. I know. Weird. The other day she tearfully said, "you never play with me," and that kind of pissed me off because I do play with her.
I'll admit to turning down Candy Land regularly now because it is a serious time-sucker. Even when I let her win. Anyway, then she hugged me and told me she wished I never had to do chores anymore so I could play and I almost melted into a puddle at her little feet in the same second I was rolling my eyes at her.

She loves you already and she can't wait to teach you things like reading books and how to buckle your own seat belt. Those are her specialties right now. Who knows what will be added to the list once you're actually here.

The dogs are another powerful entity in our home. I'm sure you've heard them. The big one only barks when she's sure the little one is barking at something legit, ie- people at the door, people or dogs in the field behind our house, fake-out knocks on just about anything at all. All the other times you hear the little one barking it's probably at the fish-tank light snapping on or a horse, chicken, or dog on television. Don't worry, I'll try to keep Animal Planet off the T.V while you're napping.

You probably haven't even realized we have a cat. Well, we do. His job is to get white hairs on black clothes and black hairs on white clothes. That just about sums up his life.

Lastly, there's your dad. He's the one making all those farting noises while we're trying to sleep. Just be thankful you're on the inside and can't smell yet. He is really good at a few other things that you should know of, though. Like making me cry in the middle of the day by sending text messages about how glad he is that he married me and that we made you together.

He works very hard at his job to make life easier for me and Ladybug and now you, so we like to show him how important he is in our lives as much as possible. This show of appreciation is most usually doled out in small portions such as kisses, hugs, and encouraging words. It's really not all that complicated. You'll catch on quick.

Like I said, he works hard and still musters enough energy to make time for his friends and family every chance he gets. His family means the world to him and sometimes he gets a little sad that they are spread out around the country instead of right here in our neighborhood. He loves them and misses them a lot.

So now you know he's a sweet guy, but I haven't told you about his brain. It's a good brain with quite a few correct Jeopardy answers inside. It also contains a weird variety of American and World history facts jumbled with vast knowledge of computer software and hardware information that I won't even pretend I understand. He thinks logically and analyzes most situations until he is satisfied with the outcome. Look up the word patience when you get a chance...
This quality usually makes me insane because it means a twenty minute web-adventure about cooking a one inch steak on the grill when I'm starving and just want the damn thing cooked. He meticulously arranges the charcoal briquettes in perfectly soldiered rows facing the "right way" and sets his phone timer to flip the meat. Although it ensures delicious dinner on every occasion, it gets my friggin goat. It's dinner- not rocket science- and should be approached as such.

By now you're thinking you're doomed to live with this crazy person for the next eighteen years of your life and call him Dad. Well don't panic. We've been doing it for years now and we're just fine. You get used to the details and soon enough you'll understand that all his research and fine-tooth-combing the small things in life really just means that he wants to make everything as good as he can. And that's not a bad thing. It's quite wonderful when you think of it that way, actually. So maybe give him a break if he starts folding your diaper origami style for maximum absorption or explaining to you the history behind the spoonful of sweet potatoes you're about to enjoy at the Thanksgiving table.

What you really need to know about us is that we love each other to the max. We aren't perfect people and we don't all think the same way about life and stuff, but it's understood that THAT is the exact reason we all fit together so beautifully. We enjoy pancakes on Saturdays and bumping into each other in the kitchen and bathroom. Our bed is the nicest place to spend a Sunday morning and our backyard is good for blowing bubbles and getting grass-itchy.

We have been waiting a long time for you. Not just the idea of you, although Ladybug has been wanting a playmate for a long time, but YOU. So take your time, but hurry up. We'll love you. We already do.

You won't be disappointed.

ramble ramble ramble...paraphernalia has an r?

My mother put me in art classes when I was about seven or eight. By classes, I mean I sat at a neighbor's kitchen table while she painted a so-so mediocre landscape Bob-Ross-style on an easel wearing a terry tube-dress and chain-smoking Virginia Slims. Oh, and she encouraged me to paint a little when she looked over at my canvas.

We called Barb the "duck lady" because she had eleventy-billion ducks. Oh, and geese and chickens and, if my memory is correct, a really effin mean rooster named Adolph who's sole purpose in life was to spur the shit out of my calves as I raced from the back gate to the sliding glass door of the kitchen of Barb's house.

My art lessons lasted a few years and produced a few decent watercolors my mother had professionally framed and still "exhibits" at her house as if they were original Degas or Monets. Let's put it this way... if Degas OR Monet had ever painted a picture of a squirrel chewing an acorn on a wonky tree branch...you get the idea.

So. I'm not artsy. I lasted as a musical theater major one semester in college and then tried to write poetry and spent too many nights in a dark coffee house trying to find my cool vibe and never getting the nerve to read anything I ever wrote on the little stage in the corner.

There was the time I thought I'd go back to painting and spent half a month's rent on canvasses and paint and brushes and then realized I peaked with the squirrel in the tree. It was then that I decided that I was NOT, as my mother told me so many times growing up, artistic in any way and just decided to settle for being crafty. (Not that being crafty is settling. It just doesn't sound as prestigious as artistic. I don't care how many crochet pillows you've made, you have to agree with me on this one.)

Crafty was not out of my reach. I made a mosaic out of a mirror I broke while dating my second-to-worst boyfriend. It spelled "luck" and I hung it over the kitchen doorway of the first apartment I ever lived in by myself. It was emo and cooler than anything else I could've mustered with a tub of modge-podge and some rescued plywood. I wish I still had it. Damn.

What I really wanted- no want- is to be one of those people with a "creative space" in their house full of inspiring clippings and objects taped up around the walls and on refurbished shelves just begging them to come and do creative things to them. Ugh. How do some people make a digital photo of a coffee ring on an old hardback book look so friggin cool? Really! I drink coffee and immediately wipe up the ring and then think about how NOT creative that was.

So. I'm the opposite. I don't think creatively and I don't see the useful qualities in every little piece of everything in my house. My junk is just junk. It really can't be made into anything cooler than it just is. Believe me, I've looked at it. For a long time. With my glasses on and a cup of chai tea in my hand. P.s- the tea didn't make the junk or ME more ingenious.

All this is kind of about a sewing machine my grandma gave me for Christmas. It was hers. I love having it because it was hers, but having her magic wand doesn't make me any more crafty/artsy/sew-y than I was when I tried to hop on the "softie" wagon and made a stinky-wonky sock zebra that sleeps at the bottom of my daughter's stuffed animal basket. I have it set up on the dining room table with sewing paraphernalia all around, but it's just not enough to make it all happen. No matter how many times I try to sit behind it and sew something -ANYTHING- it all goes terribly awry and then I end up ignoring the dining room for weeks at a time until I see something so cool and easy looking on Ohdeedoh or Etsy and think to myself, I can do that!

Someone come over and make me a creative space. I'm not creative enough to do it, but I really really really want it! Even if it won't make me that creative and cutesy person I want to be. I promise to coffee-ring it up as soon as you're finished.

And then take pictures of it to tack up in it. Oooh. That will be so cool.

With friends like that, who needs enemas?

Chad Hunt was the biggest creep in the first grade. He was cute, of course, because the biggest creeps usually are. And I only remember his chocolaty brown bowl-cut and seawater blue eyes because there's a photo in an album somewhere of us standing together on the front lawn of my elementary school holding Easter baskets. We were smiling with our arms tightly entwined and our navy blue ringer tee shirts were so very 80's I'm still getting messages from Maxheadroom about how cool I was.

I was missing a tooth in the front because Chad had pushed my head down into the water fountain during PE just days before the big egg hunt. And since we were the last two in line to get our drink-on after the big tether ball tourney, nobody saw it happen. It was him, me, and my tooth swirling around in the water fountain drain with what seemed like gallons of blood and a piece of ABC gum.

Now I've admitted before that I was quite the hypochondriac in school, so it really shocks the hell out of me that I didn't run straight to the coach and cry my eyes out about going to the school nurse for a useless sandwich baggie of ice and a doleful phone call to my mother about the whole account. I plucked my tooth out of the fountain, rinsed it in the perfect arc of cold water, and then walked away without even the slightest inauspicious glance behind me at the creep. It hurt. I'm sure of it, but I shoved the first pearly casualty of my baby-hood face into a front pocket and fell in step with the rest of the class.

For the remainder of the day, I was cooler than everyone else. I even gave Amanda Fletcher a run for her money and she was wearing a new Jem and the Holograms shirt. Kids noticed the newly vacant hole in my smile and asked to see the tooth. I obliged. They ogled. And Chad Hunt avoided me for the last half of the day. He was probably worried I'd tell on him, but I didn't.

I don't recall an occasion where he pushed or bullied me again, but that's not saying much. I don't even know why this one little tidbit of a memory about a knocked-out tooth has stayed with me all these years. Elementary school was a giant collection of rubber bands in a ball all over-lapping and colorful in their own matrix of smiles and tears.

I let Kasey Kane cut my hair with safety scissors, and subsequently traded a girl some jelly bracelets for her plastic headband thinking my mom wouldn't notice my bangs were, well...gone. A sweet girl sitting next to me peed in her chair because she was scared of Miss Whitney and couldn't bring herself to raise her hand or interrupt while the witch was talking. And I watched the Challenger go down in a feathery trail of smoke on an old television set sitting atop a rolling cart while teachers ran in and out of classrooms crying and shaking and scaring the bejeezus out of all of us kids who didn't know what the hell was happening. The memories are jumbled and out of order in my head.

We visited Ladybug's new elementary school last week and her daddy brought to my attention how everything was just like when we were kids. There were little plastic chairs and ugly brown tables and desks. Giant bins of crayons, glue, and the odd pair of safety scissors tucked into cubby holes waving their white flags for the end of the school year. Words written on cards posted on easels- at. cat. the. pig and shiny star stickers on poster board charts meriting the achievements of tomorrow's leaders and heathens.

It even smelled like disinfectant. And glue. And everything was so... short. Ladybug walked through the mazes of little chairs and looked at the projects the "graduating" classes were finishing up and touched her pristine kid-fingers to toys that would soon be at her disposal to explore. I thought about Chad and Kasey and the little girl who peed in her chair and was so excited for her to be on her way to making those moments -those colorful pieces of rubberband- that will be jumbled and mixed up with the rest of her life's treasures one day.

She'll find herself recalling, with great detail, bits of school days forever preserved in scrapbooks and miscellaneous folders. Boys whom she remembers being afraid of will be posed in photographs with her and she'll have a tiny box of teeth and "first haircut" clippings somewhere in my spare room closet to ask about when she signs her own children up for Kindergarten one day.

The only difference between her memories and my own will be the awesome side pony-tail I sported for every school photo during the eighties and maybe a few pairs of tight-rolled jeans. I'm excited for her. School was super. Incredibly super.

Ikea Fruit Hat Face
one for the scrap-book

so-so sorry

I was going to try and put off posting again because the last thing JG did before he left the house this morning was mock me for whining about my wrists and arms hurting- which I think is caused by a mild pregnancy-related case of carpal tunnel.

Wait, the LAST thing he did before he left was kiss me and all that gushy stuff, but that doesn't give me any sort of excuse to be so long between blogs....

I have probably scribbled down a dozen or so little snippets of things I meant to write about over the week, but they are all on the back of Target receipts and paper napkins wadded up and lost at the bottom of this weeks purse (the white one from Canal St. summer '08). Don't worry, if any of them were worthy, I'd be wowing you with my literary prowess right now instead of posting a photo of myself wearing skirts for shirts and trying to NOT zombie-out to Tom Bergeron on America's Funniest Home Videos.






FYI: I look like a baby pterodactyl when I complain about my arms hurting.

Happiness is drawer full of clean underpants. Or: How I use some form of the word HAPPY eleventy-million times and mean it all eleventy-million times.

Because I am finally seeing a pinpoint's worth of light at the end of this tunnel called pregnancy, I often catch myself smiling and laughing at things that aren't really that funny. And then laughing harder because the sound of a really-real laugh coming from my own body makes me so incredibly happy these days. I equate it to eating candies in church, which I haven't done since I was eleven, but remember being the only thing remotely enjoyable about church. Butterscotch from the bottom of my grandma's purse.

So I'm having a morning. A good one, wherein the vacuum being out of commission another week is not making me want to crawl around on my hands and knees picking up threads and mulch from the carpets, and my belly is full of blueberry bagel with cream cheese. Where I usually look around at the house and think, what do I need to do today? as soon as my husband and daughter leave for work/school- I'm thinking more along the lines of wow-i feel pretty good and nothing really needs to be done today that I don't really want to do.

What do I do now? Well. I write a blog entry, eh-hem, about the ways my life is getting ready to change and how I'm suddenly not scared or worried about it, but chomping at the bit and ready to gallop full on into motherhood 2.0. And how happy it makes me to be able to type that with such honesty.

Call me lazy, but I am looking forward to having two kids because it's going to keep me busy enough that I won't have time to look around at the house and notice all the stuff I haven't done that typically sends me into a guilt spiral about being the world's worst mother/wife/person. This will be a miracle. I'm already using baby #2 as an excuse to let stuff go. (And I'm okay with that.)

Having a baby outside of my body means I can wear any shoes I want because bending over will be a cinch again. The simple act of putting sock on or painting one's toe nails is so underrated it's scary. (Seeing my lady parts will also be nice again, but I'll abstain from further details on this one.)

My own attitude won't be the only one morphing around this new household dynamic. The subtle change on my husband's face when he gets home and remembers that there's ONE more person who is happy to see him and will (one day soon) be running at his legs when he comes through the door after work.... that is something that tickles me pink. I have an uncanny desire to repay my husband for all the happiness he's given me in our few years together and I think that this one simple thing will make up for the times he looked in his top drawer and there weren't any clean underpants to wear.

I said underpants.

But seriously, I know I'm not always the poster-woman for motherhood or even someone who can give good advice to others about being a parent. I don't pride myself on being a good mom because I've come to realize that the sum of my parts adds up to more than just a mother. And more importantly, I'm not perfect. My desires more often include the happiness of my daughter and my husband and I frequently put them first, but I am learning that my own feelings and dreams are still alive and beating hard. And in order for me to be the best I can be at teaching, loving, learning and helping my family... the more important it is for me to include my happiness with theirs.

My step-dad used to say about his mother, "If mama ain't happy... there ain't nobody happy." A silly sounding adage I think, but all too true. My family looks to me for many things. This is a fact that scares and stuns me more than it delights me. Sure, I keep capri-suns in the fridge for my daughter because she loves them and I'm trying my best to make sure my husband never sees the bottom of his underwear drawer. But these minutia only make things easier.

What makes them happy is looking around and seeing everyone else happy. Hearing the person next to us laugh or burying our faces in each others necks and saying i love you. It's happiness that's holding those words up and pushing them out from our guts. And our own bite of bliss is directly related to the people we love and how much they are gnawing on at any given moment. And in about forty-one days (give or take), the piece of happy-pie I've been lucky enough to stuff my cheeks with will get just a tiny bit bigger.


It's Friday. Let yourself get caught up in this little bit of magic my husband sent me. You've earned it just as much as I have.

Twofer

My daughter didn't even ask my husband if she could call him daddy. She just bopped into the living room one day and told us that she was going to. And although my husband does his very best to respect Ladybug's biological father- she didn't need to break his pinkies to get him to agree.
Jed's been playing weekday daddy to my darling cupcake since she was just about a year old and it didn't take more than one butterfly eyelash solo before she had him completely wrapped around her tiny little finger. But because he's a good and respectful man, he's always known just where to stand outside of the bubble she and her biological father have been floating in since... well since she first batted her eyes at him on day numero uno.
Jed knows when it's his turn to be daddy and when to let her father take over the reins on the weekends. We've been successful at working as a team when making important kid-decisions such as where to enroll for Kindergarten and such, so I'd say things have gone pretty well so far considering the somewhat awkward circumstances that go along with having three parents. We're all just now getting comfortable in the flow of parenting together, I guess you can say.
So, this weekend we picked up Ladybug from her dad's house in Orlando and were kind of hanging around in his back yard analyzing the lumpy lemons growing on his citrus tree when suddenly the bubble popped and the daddy's got all mixed up.
Of course, it was funny to her that "Daddy" answered when she called his name when she really was calling for my husband. Funny for the rest of us? Not so much. We all skipped a beat or two before falling back into the lumpy lemon observations and I think my face turned three shades of red before things went back to normal.
It really got me thinking on the way home about how much different this life is going to be for my Ladybug than the life I had. As far as a father is concerned, I was pretty much broke in that department where her little cup runneth over.
Where I spent much of my childhood sitting on the front porch waiting for my own father to show up, she will have one doting man on either side of the door at any given time. She won't ever look into an audience at a play or a crowd at a softball game and desperately search for that one pair of eyes because chances are...there will be two sets of eyes and two pairs of hands clapping wildly and cheering for her with equal zest and unmatched pride.
And I'll be sitting somewhere nearby thanking my lucky stars that there are two great men her life who couldn't feel luckier to be wrapped around the same little girl's finger.

Trying new things.

I'm going to jot down today's entry old school style with some paper and a pen. For some reason, just looking at my computer lately makes my wrists ache, so I'm going to try a new technique. Write and then type.

We'll see if that helps at all.

Jessica Simpson and my dog aren't FAT!

I recently took little brown dog to the vet for a checkup/shots update and received some pretty somber news. Our quirky vet has a curly mustache and effervescent personality to match and it's really kinda hard to take him seriously while he's rolling on the floor with the dogs and telling stories that start with "one time a cow sat on me and I almost died".
So on this particular visit I just looked at him and laughed uncomfortably when he told me that our miniature-pincher was.... "fat". He just sat on the floor making out with my dog until I stopped laughing and then said, "Really, he shouldn't have a beer belly,"
He looked at me with the most sober expression I've ever seen on a man wearing a lab coat covered in dog piss. For a second, he even had me feeling ashamed. As if I went home every night and shared my ice-cream and cupcakes with the little brown dog or something. (Like I'd waste ice cream and cupcakes.)
The whole scene made me think of this celebrity news story and before I could say "say whaaat" I was being told to cut my dog's kibble supply down by half. He even looked at me from under his bushy gray eyebrows and demanded I cut down on snacks. (Looking back, he could've been talking to me in that instance.)
But seriously, I thought maybe he had swallowed some sort of horse hallucinogen before my appointment. Like all the people who called Jessica Simpson fat when this photo came out...



I'm not big on dieting and it goes without saying that I think my tiny dog needs to watch his waistline as much as I do these days. So, today while I poured some dry cereal into a bowl for my daughter's three o'clock snack-attack, I spilled a few Golden Grams on the floor and little pooch came swooping in from his pedestal/pillow in the bedroom and gobbled them up before I had a chance to bend my fat-butt over and pick them up. And then he thanked me with a little yip and took off to resume his perch.

He's never looked so happy. Except maybe the other day when I "spilled" a hot dog.



You're welcome, pal. I'm on your side.

potpourri

Kindergarten. Starting in August my daughter will be an official member of the Kindergarten association. I'm assuming she'll get a badge and some sort of weapon to wield in the hallway in case the "big kids" try to throw their weight around or steal her pudding cup at lunch.
I don't remember kindergarten. Except for the naps and snacks, so maybe I'm suppressing some horrible memory. I think she's ready. I think I'm ready.
More on this subject after orientation day in a few weeks.

***

Also, I miss getting mail that doesn't come in an envelope with a see through window. Or have "urgent" stamped somewhere on the front. I'd really love a letter. Wouldn't you?

***
I caught Cadence chewing on a cupcake wrapper the other night. I laughed until I peed. By the time I figured out that she was hiding behind the kitchen island ten minutes after devouring the cup's actual cake - it had been masticated into a tiny pink wad which resembled a piece of ABC gum.

me: are you crazy?
she: it's sooooo gooood
me: (tears and pee)

Best ending to a Tuesday night I can think of.

***

Wednesday night I stood in the shower for twenty minutes. I washed my hair, read the ingredients on the back of all the bottles in the shower caddy, and then made promises to my razor I probably won't own up to for a few months.
Oh, and I cried. And fantasized about running again. Not that I ever was an avid runner, but because I felt like I really needed to run, but I couldn't. Kind of like the bike thing.
My husband tried so hard to "fix it" and do whatever he could to make me feel better, but I guess I was doing exactly what I was supposed to- drowning in the shower and sobbing- because when I got done I was so much better.
It's the worst part about pregnancy, if you ask me. The sore feet, tired back and umpteen trips to the bathroom don't rank nearly as high on the gall-scale as the emotional crud-puddle I'm dragging my husband and daughter through these days.

Sorry, family. It will all be over soon.

And then we can stick to crying for really good reasons. Like before.

***

My husband picked out our new baby monitor. It has lights, sound, an antenna and A/C adapter. Oh. And chrome. And the number 900 on the front. It kinda looks like it could "take off" if it so decided to. Good pick, honey. Now that I've made a conscious decision not to worry about the Swine Flu... I can start being concerned about making contact with inhabitants of other galaxies through our baby monitoring "system".

Take me to your leader.