rat race

Sam got a job.  he leaves every afternoon before I call NAP time and goes to work.  before picking up his shape-sorting bucket and heading out he kisses me good bye.  and all the pets.  the dogs both get a hug and kisses on the nose and the cat gets a quick pat and peck on the butt.  (such short salutations are due to his unpredictable nature. the children have learned to make as little contact as possible and to direct the contact as far away from his teeth and claws as it is possible). then sam shuffles, pantsless, to pick up his bucket of colored shapes and makes the long commute to the empty corner cubby in the tv cabinet.  he cheers, “luv you” before carefully tucking his toes and nose in and closing the door.

within minutes, his work is done.  I assume he is a licensed shape-sorter.  and he emerges from his cubicle- quite literally- saying “I’m home” and passing around more wet kisses than you can shake a stick at.  I don’t get that saying. does there need to be a large amount of items gathered before it’s appropriate to shake a stick at them?  or could you just shake a stick at one or two things? anyway.

if you ask him if he’s all done working and ready for his nap, he’ll shriek NOOOOO and pick up his shapes and head back to his office.  he can sometimes be coaxed out of disgruntled employee mode by offering a severance snuggle in the brown chair.  it’s his favorite place to read “one more book”.   one more meaning as many as he can carry from the shelf to the chair in two trips.

once all the books are read and then just a few more are read, it’s possibly safe to hoist the workaholic onto your hip and carry his tired boy body to his bed and away from the stresses of a longish-short minute at work and around the house.

Will work for m&ms… will sleep for nothing.

toy story

on one of our last weekly visits to see jed's mom and dad,  a little basket was quietly pulled down from a closet and proudly presented to sam on the carpet of the living room floor.

daddy's cars.
and tractors, and trucks, and diggers, sporty cars, dragsters (is that correct?) and one very popular fire truck.

for twenty minutes we all sat around the basket full of old classic toy cars and things (Go-bots and Micro Machines, even...) and oohed and aahed while jed and sam dug around discovering forgotten gems/new trophies.

jed remembered his favorites and which were originally his brother's.  he plunged his hand into the depths of truck-heaven looking for one in particular that another sparked a memory of.  and told stories about the ones with the wheels that "ride smooth".

sam's little hands couldn't rest on just one or two.  his favorite are the ones with the little doors that open and close.  and the ones with the beds that really dump.  and when i caught him playing quietly (for once) in the sunlight this morning on his little red table- i picked up my camera and watched his little boy hands as they made the wheels go.

"daddy's cars" are once again getting their turn.  makes me happy for everyone involved.

the last, the boobie baby.

They ask you in the hospital.  And at your obstetrician’s office while you’re peering over the giant mound that’s been your abdomen for the last few months.  You direct each answer to the top of your doctor’s head.  Strangers ask you in line at the grocery store.  Not men.  That would be weirder than weird.  And your mom-friends and neighbors all ask while they rub your bulbous belly and make predictions about the sex and weight of the karate kicking baby inside. 

Are you going to breastfeed?

Well, yes.  And then you’re sometimes asked the follow-up question, “for how long?”.  And that’s where this post, after so much nothing posted, begins.

Cadence was a ferocious eater in the beginning.  Her daddy referred to her as the baby pterodactyl during feeding time because of the dinosaur noises she’d make while she nursed.  I’ve never heard a real-live dinosaur make noise because they’re extinct now, but I imagine she hit the nail on the head.  It was awkward and I felt embarrassed quite a bit when nursing in public.  I felt fumbly and stayed home a lot until she began taking a bottle.  Like all my babies, she took in quite a bit of air.  The burps were manly and hilarious.  Often they induced hiccup fits.  The day she became aware of her hands they were all over my breasts leaving little pinches and scratches.  But that was the end of her nursing.  A hospitalizing case of food poisoning and a short bout of depression made me lose interest and she was done before her fourth month or so.  I mourned a  while, never really appreciating the health benefits or the connections we shared during those feedings.  I blame hormones and an ill-cooked turkey.

Sam and I had a rough start together.  His tongue was short and I felt like I couldn’t get him to do it “right” no matter the advice I took or the patience I mustered.  My nipples hurt for two weeks straight and I cried a lot.  Pain and hormones.  But he got it.  And I nursed him in public with more confidence than I had with Cadence.  Jed was eager to be a part of the feedings and Sam happily accepted bottles of pumped breast milk from him starting around the end of his first month.  More hungry dinosaur noises.  Lots of gas.  And reflux.  But we forged on and he only became bored with the breast around month seven.  And by that time I was enjoying only one feeding in the evenings before bed.  I was so much more appreciative of the natural food source and built-in pacifier I carried with me at all times  I wore my nursing bras under things well past his month eight, although he had become completely disinterested in nursing by then.  I had wanted to nurse for a year.

And now I have Annie.  My first boobie-baby.  I love the smile she flashes up at me when I look down at her, milk spilling from the corners of her pink bow-shaped mouth.  And this is how I know I am done having children.  When I completely ignore all the advice the books and websites give about pacifying a baby with the breast and pull out “leftie” at the dinner table just to have a sorta quiet (albeit one handed) meal.  And how I pull her close to me in the middle of the night when I hear her lips smacking for just a little suck even though I know she’s not hungry.  I cry a little to myself each time I pick her up and lift her growing body in my arms and up to my chest.  She is too long for me to nurse her in the armed chair and still too small for that huge and empty crib in the other room.  I know she is the last child because I don’t feel as sad or frustrated when she refuses bottle after bottle and holds out for me.  The reason I’ve been gone so long from the blog is that I find it  takes so much longer to type with only one hand.  But she’s the last, so I will not take for granted any second she will have me hold her and feed her with my body.

 

Just please link me to that video of the ten year old girl with the British accent still being nursed by her mum whenever she pleases if I haven’t weaned Annie by kindergarten.  Thanks and I’ll be back as soon as I can.

because if I don’t look on the bright side, I might just cry a little…

Today’s accomplishments:

“successful” trip to Target in which my previous posts about not going to Target were quickly forgotten.

nursed Annie (both sides) while she was strapped in the front-pack. completely avoiding red-faced, baby-goat noises all together.

ate a whole breakfast including coffee from a travel-mug JG ingeniously suggested. And a bagel my toaster oven (miraculously) didn’t burn.

dressed Sam in under thirty minutes.

remembered EVERYTHING on my grocery list without fishing it from my purse to double-check.

ate lunch. (okay. this hasn’t technically happened yet, but I’m dreaming of a turkey sandwich right now and I vow not to disappoint my stomach)

won my first game of Words With Friends against a random opponent on my new-to-me incredi-phone

changed an itty bitty diaper on my lap in the front seat of my van without having to change my clothes when I got home.

lost and then found a new hot-wheels helicopter.

purchased a hearty supply of tiny underpants.  potty school updates to come.

sad attempt at a nap involving television and little dog barking at camels, dogs, chickens. (still sort of annoyed that every channel I flipped to featured fauna)

BLOG POST…(is it dorky that I’m raising the roof right now?)

 

 

is that all I have done today? wow. it really is.

oh, wait. I showered.

now MARVEL AT ME while I pretend my house isn’t a disaster and my socks match one-another. mwah-hahahahahahahahah!  thursday hasn’t seen the last of me yet.

Early

Turns out eighteen more days was not necessary.

This is Annie Elise.  Today she is nine days old.  She was born last Friday at about the same time JG was to board a plane home from a business trip in Las Vegas.  Luckily, he heard his phone ringing at dinner on Thursday around ten pm (my time) and excused himself from the rest of the trip's closing festivities to come home.  And quick.  A red-eyed man in a rumpled suit never looked so good rushing into a hospital labor and delivery room.  

Roughly five hours after his arrival...she arrived.  

Annie Elise

All eight pounds and nine ounces.  And after a tiny scare about "too much blood for too long" was fixed up, I was shivering and fine and he was next to me holding her and things started to sink in.

Now we are five. 

eighteen days

eighteen more days of...
 "how many are in there?"
peeing in my pants when i cough (sneeze, laugh, cry)
walking like a duck
farting like a man
eating entire tubs of watermelon and/or cantaloupe
sam pinching my belly and saying "come outttt"
wearing shoes with my laces untied
that weird wrinkle that's formed under my boobs and across the top of my "fundus"
gagging while brushing my teeth (possibly)
hugs around the tummy from an excited Ladybug
belly-button "microphone" messages before nighty-night
raging heartburn, morning-noon-night
bananas to prevent 3 am charlie-horse cramps
and
eighteen more days of wondering if it has a ding-a-ling or not.
eighteen more days...or less.  i hope.

"my secret shame" with a little random crap at the end.

My husband started a WoW account shortly after we started dating.  If you have no clue what I'm talking about, congratulations and move along.  Nothing to see. here. folks. 

He claims he started playing this online role-playing game because I uttered some such something about needing "space" and him doing other things while I did my own thing etc. blah-de-blah and whatnot.  I don't remember this conversation, but that's neither here nor there.  My story continues...

A year later we are in a serious relationship and living together.  I was in classes at "the University" and he was working his way to stardom at his current company who shall not be named, but has a lot to do with software and computery shit.  (It's a software company and you surely have it's products in use on your computer.)  I'm only telling you this because it pertains to my story.  JG is a huge nerd.  You can say it, it doesn't hurt his feelings because A) he's aware of his nerdiness B) he's hot.  

So where were we? Nerd boyfriend, true love, living together in pre-wedded bliss.  Except about a year has given him plenty of time to "level" his character(s) on WoW and now he's nothing short than officially and unabashedly addicted to a game where millions of people all interact on the internet as magical beings such as goblins and elves and have powers like warlocks or high-priests and shit and they have to coordinate meetings to complete quests and defeat mortal enemies. 

Did I mention that at this point there may have been sad collections of fast-food cups littering his desk and on some occasions he did a lot of "working" from home?  In pajamas? Yelling, "heal, heal" and "just keep casting your nerd spell" into a little headset to friends he met in the game? No? Oh. 

Not a pretty picture.  So I did what any girlfriend would do when she finds herself watching Big Brother alone on the couch in dusty lingerie.   I told him I was going to dump him if he kept playing.  So he stopped, but that's not the end of the thingie. 

Over the last six years he's played on and off again randomly and I've dipped my toe in the "WoW widow" pool for weeks at a time, but there was always light at the end of those little tunnels.  We got married three years ago and he's climbed his way up the big-software-company's ladder quite high leaving little room for much more than family time and sleep.  He's still a nerd.  And still turning on the computer to visit various realms and seek out old friends still playing the game religiously.  

But either I'm too tired to care or I'm okay with it.  I even recently joked about maybe playing too.  You know... so we could run around in magical-nerd-land together.  (If you can't beat em....right?)  This is sorta what his face looked like when I made the silly suggestion...

cute, right?

(and look at my arm and boob...nice) 

Anyhoo.... this is where my long story gets short. 

He pays for my account.  I'm a level 21 Blood Elf Priest.  Last week he bought me a Celestial Steed to ride around Silvermoon City and the Dead Scar.  Don't judge me, this is as close as I'll ever get to having a real unicorn. And the only reason you're getting this post right now is because the site is down for regular updating maintenance until three o'clock.  

Now I know how all those Play Station people feel recently. (Shout-out to Tammie and her kiddo right HERE.)

I need to download livewriter to this laptop. This posting in blogger is for the birds. 

And finally:  get this baby outta me. 

don’t get excited

it’s just me posting a few photos of myself.  in the ten minutes it took me to set up, shoot, and upload these shots…

sam hit ladybug with a ruler, pulled almost an entire box of tissues out of the box, brushed the cat’s head with a barbie brush and sang a duet with cadence on the karaoke machine that made my ears melt off.  (i didn’t include the melty-ear shots. you’re welcome)

 

 

If you have any guesses when it will come and what sort of bits it will have down there…feel free to entertain me.  Whatever it is, it will have to make due with a pack of white onsies and some snap-front shirts.  That should get me through the first few days, right?

Miss you guys.

s

Missing

This morning I stepped out onto the patio before waking up Ladybug for school.  Jed left for some lucky place in Georgia early this morning and it was particularly quiet for seven am around here.  I even left the dogs in their bed (and my bed) while I snapped this shot of the backyard.  

 

Fast-forward ten minutes and I’m looking for a lost cowgirl boot, pouring milk over cereal and begging Ladybug to let me braid her hair while she turns her nose up at a vitamin shaped like Dino the dinosaur.  Boone rubs his neck in some stinky backyard stuff and Sam is on repeat “taw, taw, taw”.  He wants a straw for the milk in his cereal bowl.  And then he asks for Daddy and things start to get a little sad. 

He’s been to the front door and back to the bedroom a dozen times already.  Looking in the closet and pulling back the comforter.  Breaking my heart with every “no daddy”.

How do you explain “tomorrow” to a toddler?

sick day

Cadence came home early from school on Friday because she wasn't feeling good.  She had tried to tell me at breakfast, but I thought she might just be sleepy and could make it through the last day of the week.  So I gave her a vitamin and sent her off only to be called two hours later by the clinic lady. "Ms. J" told me that "Candace" was sick and could I come get her.  I said, "who's Candace?".  Okay, not really, but I did correct her- IT'S CADENCE...dur.  Don't you remember from the three times you called me last year when she had lice in her hairs???

Anyways. Sam and I fetched the sickly thing and brought her home where I promptly banned television for the day and asked her to play quietly or read.  There was no fever at this point, just a runny nose and cough.  I didn't want her to enjoy her sick day too much and try again for more next week.  I know certain someones who have certain kiddos who learned some tricks to getting out of school.  And I maybe was possibly one of those kiddos myself. 

So. No tv.  I got a lot done while she and Sam played in her room.  Laundry, bills, etc.  Exciting stuff.  But not nearly as exciting as what they were up to while left to their own devices.

Super-dude.

The fun is over.  The fever has arrived and we're in full sick mode now.  Looks like Monday will be sick day number two.  Boo.  Here's to hoping Sam's super immune to sister germs.  Hope you're all having super weekends.  Don't forget to watch the Oscars tonight and then blog about everyone's weird fashion sense.  I'm relying on you.  Especially YOU!

Update. Don’t read this if you don’t like puppies.

It’s been a really long time since I’ve had a puppy.  I said in my last post that most of our family pets were strays and orphans and that meant mostly older pooches.  This one named Polly is ten weeks old.  Small. Wrinkly. Velvety ears and nose.  Really just the kind of thing that melts your face off when she stares deeply into your soul.  And she pees and poops every commercial break of any television show I could ever possibly want to watch. 

I can tell you things are getting better since my first post.  The husband has done a one-eighty and completely fallen in love with her.  My daughter and son are managing better now that I’ve given them some tools to avoid play that quickly turns too rough.  “DOWN” and “OW” are working like magic charms.  Ladybug and Trevor have more fun in the back yard with the doofus dog than all the hula-hoops and jump-ropes combined and I found the miracle “pacifier” for puppies that keeps her busy for just long enough for me to make dinner/post on my blog/fold laundry.  Those chewy bone thingies. Yeah. I’m pretty sure that’s the official name for them.

And she’s responding to the word “No” surprisingly.  Which I can’t even say I’ve successfully gotten Sam to do on a consistent basis in the past (almost) two years.  She folds her ears back and walks away from whatever I “no” her about.  I think she might even be smart?  Once our fence is put up next week, she’ll be spending more precious time in the hot green grass with my other pooches.  Everyone will love that, no?

And since she is still small enough to fit in my bathroom sink, I gave her a wash last night with my coconut shampoo.  Then she slept on JG’s neck.  And the two harmonized their snoring.  It was precious. (sorta)

So. If you were worried about me, thanks.  I think we might make it.  I just can’t promise I won’t be posting I-HATE-PUPPIES updates intermittently when she finds new ways to annoy me.  For now, she’s not such a handful as I first thought.

Pupotentiality. It’s a word, I looked it up.

It happens to every family, eventually.  Somebody effs up and does something so unforgivable that even the littlest, most agreeable person in the family is pissed.  Some spouses make career decisions that take their family far away from friends and familiarity.  Many guilt their partners into having a child.  Some people have sex changes! My faux-pas is pictured below:

Let me explain.  I grew up with a mother who practically drove down the streets of our town with her passenger door open whistling and calling stray animals for fun on the weekends.  Sometimes she called it “garage saling”.  More often did it end up that we’d foster a scrawny dog or cat she found eating out of a trash can than actually finding a good deal on patio furniture or roller-skates.  And I have fond memories of Bubba, Pierre, Tootsie, Sophie, Dusty, Zoe, Gabe, and Chiquita the cockatiel who “just landed on her shoulder in the Pinch-a-Penny parking lot”.  There were even photos of me as an infant with the random rag-a-muffin terrier from down the street or Jeep the mutt and Judge the cast-away. 

Some stayed for years.  Some stayed for weeks.  All were loved and honored with prime real estate in the family photo albums.  Each name remembered and my mom could tell you which street or back parking lot they were rescued from.  Pierre was a poodle gifted to my grandma after being attacked by the neighbor’s shepherd.  He lived to be almost twenty and had his coif maintained on a bi-weekly basis.  Many were entrusted to family or close friends.  Teachers all over my mom’s school have pets formerly fostered by Ms. Watson and although orphans I brought home myself were sometimes greeted with angry eyebrows, they were all named, nursed, and cared for while staying at our house.  Even the black kitten I found in the bushes by the neighborhood street sign could be found purring in the lap of my mom when I got home from wherever the hell high-schoolers go at night.  He was named Jinx and our old family babysitter was more than happy to add him to her cat collection.

So, yeah.  I had lots of pets.  And when my mother refused to let me take the family dog (Shannon) to college with me I did what any impulsive, bleeding-heart animal lover would do and adopted my own dog.  Who is snoring and passing wind next to me on the couch as I type.  I’ve had my share of strays fed on porches, rescues gone wrong and later righted.  I brought home a rottweiller named Reno who wouldn’t let my roommate in my bedroom to borrow clothes.  She lasted three weeks.  (The dog, not my roommate.)  And found a surprisingly perfect match with an old lady in St. Pete when it didn’t work out for us.

JG, on the other hand, has had one family dog.  And by his account, it wasn’t the most pleasant thing to be around.  Old and blind and attached to his mom.  So he’s been more than happy to help me collect our motley crew of rescued and adopted pets over the years.  The cat was first and Boone came much later.  But they all found their places in the family and assumed their roles as dominant or submissive, lap dog or pats-only.  And until now, I didn’t think we’d run out of heart to go around. 

I adopted the above cutie-patootie this weekend without pre-approval knowing that as soon as the family took her into their arms they would adore her as much as I did standing amid the sea of other dogs and cats up for adoption at my local pet-food store.  She has a story, of course, but I’m already pushing my luck here.  I’ll skip to the chase.

Polly prissy-pants up there has become enemy number one.  Both dogs make mean ugly growly faces non-stop when she’s around and even Sam has wonked her on the head a few times with his blocks or trains or whatever she is persistently trying to wrestle out of his grasp.  She’s hooked herself on JG’s pajama pants one too many times to be forgiven and everyone looks at me when she leaves a puddle on the tile.  Nobody likes her unless she’s asleep.  And then it’s all “awww, she’s not so bad” and “please don’t wake her up or i’ll use her leash as a noose on you” and stuff.

And there’s that thing about there being another baby here in a few months.  Which, by my calculations is just enough time to get Polly acclimated to the place and in-step with the rest of our crew, but nooooo.  I messed up big time on this one.  It looks as if she might just be here for a while, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to make her stay here as good as I can.  Maybe if I use every naptime in between now and next week when our backyard gets fenced in, I’ll have a more polite Polly on my hands and the family will start to see in her what I do.  Potential. 

 

Wish me luck.  Imma-needit!

thirty-two, party of one.

Yesterday I only did one load of laundry.  I didn’t get angry when Sam turned the crayon box out onto the floor in the kitchen, nor did I growl at the dog for eating robins-egg blue.  I had chips for with lunch and read my book during nap time instead of washing the breakfast dishes.

The telephone chimed every ten minutes and messages added up.  Starting at six-thirty in the morning, people remembered my birthday.  Before even emerging from the tent over her bed, Ladybug’s first words were a morning-whispered "happy birthday mommy” as I laid her school uniform out for the day.  I turned on the radio in the kitchen and poured cereal and heated water for oatmeal.  I cut the crusts off a ham and cheese before putting it in the lunchbox with something chocolate (gasp).  Two wishes I rarely grant for the first-grader.

“it’s your birthday, don’t get angry.” was my mantra. don’t get too tired, it’s your birthday. just be happy and make them happy, it’s your birthday.  Sam got filthy at the park and the kids ate a whole bag of Goldfish crackers after school.  Yes was the word, mostly, to the ever-flowing stream of questions.  No, you can’t ride bikes in the street.

My brother in law called me.  My mother in law called and sent me an early-morning text.  My best friend called from New York and then called back when the connection was bad.  Jed called for Chinese food. My mom didn’t call.  Nobody cried that I can recall.  

But today I really feel like crap.  I tried to treat it like any other day.  Gift-wrapped a little slack for myself.  No guilt allowed.  It was nice.  Not enough, but nice. Next year I’ll try something else. 

big whoop, i’m late.

 

wordless wednesday, valentines kind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the new continent

Happy Monday. 

26th

yes, my ankles are still sexy and no, I didn’t have the baby yet.

I get my hair done around my birthday each year.  In between birthdays it gets long.  And boring.  And even though I go for an occasional trim, I really just grow into that long hair funk over the course of the year.  And I don’t hate it, but I certainly love having it renewed.
Last year’s hair:



This year’s hair:

               That’s my “look away sad” face.

 

I really think this year’s hair brings out the Irish in me.  And when my professional hairstylist/all around cool dude, David, revealed the new look to me yesterday I thought it kinda reminded me of Jessica from True Blood.

Okay, maybe I’m doing a little wishful thinking here, people.  Give me a break, I’m turning thirty-two soon and I’m trying to make this transition smooth.  Someone send me a lacy top and some canned-vamp and I’ll practice my va-va-voom look in the mirror.

Besides the awesome new hair yesterday, I also had my water break.  Okay. Don’t freak out.  I know it’s too soon.  I had a um…scare while in the bathroom of the salon.  One that involved a stack of neatly folded paper towels and about two whole minutes of me turning in circles going, “oh god, oh god, oh god”.

It started when I had to pee.  Right after all the color was carefully gooped onto my head and twisted into neat pieces, mother nature came a calling and I excused myself to the very clean, very stylish bathroom.  I hiked up my giant bronze-colored cape and pushed down my capris and sat.  Peeing. Like for an hour because I’m twenty-five weeks pregnant now DONCHAKNOW!  And no, I didn’t put down a seat cover NOR did I tear of pieces of toilet paper to create a butt forcefield.  This place was clean and I just don’t hover after week fifteen.

So I peed out a golden river and then turned to flush and I noticed that I’m still peeing.  Like… peeing.  Not even dribbling or dripping.  It’s just pouring onto the floor. 

                                     Yah. What the eff??

A puddle started to accumulate and I began turning circles like a dog sniffing his butt because I don’t FEEL like I’m still peeing, but what else could it be…..
OH MY GOD, I’m going to have my baby in the salon toilet!!!
Yes, for nearly thirty-seconds I was convinced that the fate of my baby was in the hands of a bunch of hair-stylists.  And the though occurred to me that they would be cutting the umbilical cord with those fancy scissors with the little apostrophe on the handle and maybe there would be hair stuck to the baby and at least the towels at this place are all brown.
But I didn’t have to have the baby there.  Because it was the back of my cape and a long dangly attached belt that had been dunked into the toilet water/river of pee that was causing the trail of wetness all over the floor and the back of my legs and NOT my bag of waters. 

:::::Phew:::::

And then later, ew.  Um. One major crisis averted and a new (possibly more embarassing) one emerges. I took off the peepee cape and tossed it in the hamper.  I was in my bra and pants (which were a tad damp in the butt area and still around my still sexy ankles) and I flip-flop mopped the floor with a short stack of paper towels.  Then I put on a new cape, washed up, and looked at myself in the mirror.  Wow, that’s RED.  And all over my face now thanks to the last few minutes of looking down and flailing a bit in a sheer panic.  More paper towels to tidy up the face and I emerged from the bathroom as cool as a cucumber. 

And then I sit back in the twirly chair and say to David, “wanna hear something funny?”




And just for fun, this is how cute my husband’s hair is on the weekends:

Quick, while there’s still tiiimmmmeeee…..

The fancy amigurumi calendar my Chinese food place gave me has indicated by a show of neon-pink horses, frogs, and sheep farting heart bubbles that February starts tomorrow.  This means several things for the world.  Groundhog’s Day, Lincoln’s Birthday, President’s Day, Valentine’s Day, and HOLD THE PHONE… my flippin birthday!!

I’m pretty sure that Lincoln won’t mind if you forget to send him something, so you should concentrate all of your careful efforts on yours truly and disregard that dumb groundhog, too.  Nobody should get a gift (or even a news segment) for crawling out of a hole or not crawling out of a hole.  Except maybe Richard Gere’s hamster.  Somebody send that little dude a handi-wipe.

Here are a few ways you can make me happy to be turning the big THREE-TWO this year.  And some of them don’t even cost money!

I wish for the good citizens of Egypt to have their internets restored so that they may read this blog post and send me an e-card from some-e-cards-dot-com. Those shits are funny.  Oh, and maybe it’s a good idea for that Mubarak guy to resign.  Thirty years is a pretty good run for a king, no?  Tens of thousands of protesters are pretty pissed and they can’t even Twitter about it? Sounds dangerous to me.

A set of robotic, yet natural looking dog feet for old-lady dog.  It’s been almost six weeks since we changed her food from the only somewhat expensive kind to the uber-expensive “your eating ramen tonight, kids” kind of kibble that has no by-products or even by-by-products and has a wolf on the front.  And she’s still licking her feet till her eyeballs go all pinky and roll back into her head and it sorta looks like she’s having an extra-special moment.  Only that repetitive, wet, hairy dog-tongue noise is NOT extra-special for anyone else.  Especially me and hubs when we’re trying to make our own extra special, repetitive, wet, hairy dog-tongue moments. That came out all wrong. Two new dog feets please!!

 

A lifetime’s supply of THESE BAD BOYS:

 

A 55-200mm zoom lens for my Nikon D5000 so I can take photos of you picking your nose and eating your boogers without you knowing. And maybe doing other things.  Without you knowing. 

 

A bikini wax.  Scratch that.  A GIFT CERTIFICATE for a bikini wax.  Now that I’m 24 weeks pregnant I can no longer see my lady bits without a mirror.  And even then, I can’t get that curly-headed midget to get out of the way so I can see what I’m dealing with.  Just because I’m at my most womanliest right now does not mean I have the desire to get in touch with my natural-femininity “down south”. 

 

A non-stick, oven proof pan for making fritatata.  ta?  Because sometimes I want eggs, but fancier.

 

Lastly, but certainly not leastiest… I’d like for the true age of one of my former boyfriends ( this dude right here ) to be revealed to the world.  Since I’m pretty sure he’s still telling people he’s my age- which is twelve years too WRONG.  If you’re reading my blog, old boyfriend (which I am 100% certain you pretend you have no time for) YOU’RE 44!  Embrace that shit.  Pffft.

 

Now get busy, people.  You have only seventeen days to fulfill my every birthday whim.  Or send me a handmade card with glitter or a funny cartoon in it.  I’m old enough to know when to make sacrifices.  But not so old I will forget you didn’t remember my birthday.

 

* I’d like to congratulate myself on my very first screenshot.  It only took me an hour to create, capture, and paste that little pistachio comic. 

I don't have anything good to say. Don't read this.

Aw, you're a true bloggy friend. And you're just like my kids in the fact that you don't listen. Pshht.

I know you all miss me terribly since my weird, undeclared blogging hiatus. So I wanted to take a few minutes to explain. And since I'm too lazy busy to compose a real excuse post, here's a list of things I'm doing instead of blogging.

1. eating two potatoes worth of potato salad I made without egg or celery because I didn't have those things handy or was too lazy busy to add them

2. every day at about ten am I have to get the magic eraser out and scrub pencil off the kitchen table because there isn't a big enough piece of paper to adequately capture sam's creativity and he insists on using a standard no.2 just like his sister does to do his "homework".

3. spending wayy too many minutes trying to get up off of the floor after sitting on it for reasons such as the following: scraping cheese off the floor, reaching colored pencils under the table, pretending to be a cat, resting, hugging my dog, and changing a diaper.

4. taking photographs of the number one (and two and three) reason why i don't blog as much anymore:

5. possibly playing epic mickey on wii. Ladybug begs me to play so she can watch. I do it for the kids.

6. chucking poop bombs into the field behind my house so i step in them when i walk into the field instead of in when i walk in my yard.

7. reading and commenting on other peoples' fabulous blogs. i seriously should put a whole day's worth of comments on my own blog and see how much content i'd have.

8. stepping in dog crap. this type of accident really does eat up about thirty minutes of my would-be blog time. when you consider scraping the shoe, hosing off the shoe, then hosing off the kid that steps in the stepped in poo and his shoes. rinse and repeat...

9. watching the bachelor because i don't care what you think of me. that shit is whaaaack.

10. eating salt-n-pepper pistachios. oh lord these are good.

And when you take into consideration that this is just a portion of my day all in one big post, you'll really get the bigger picture. Blogging is just that thing I think about doing a hundred times a day, but it's never handy enough to get done. I miss it, I do. I miss having thoughts typed out into the world for people to read or not read and comment or not comment on. Maybe when my kids are three. Four? I'll get some time. You guys will be around still, right?

In the mean time. I'm reading. I promise. You know who you are.

Boobie traps and pig-backs. That’s what I said.

Sundays around here have never been eventful.  The most momentous thing that has ever happened on a Sunday is maybe once we all put on pants without drawstrings. 

This morning was pancake morning. Blueberry for the little dude and chocolate chip for Ladybug.  I had one plain, one chippy, and half of a gnawed on blueberry.  Because I was hungry and I’m pregnant so I can have as many pancakes as I want right? Right? And there was bacon.   Which, can’t we all agree is the best meat ever made?  Unless you’re a vegetarian and then you eat “facon” and that stuff’s not the best ANYTHING ever made so I don’t wanna hear it.  Everyone’s talked about how good bacon is.  I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like it unless they’re a vegetarian and even some of them say the one thing they miss is bacon.  So that settles it, no?

So it’s pancake AND bacon Sunday and we were (are) all in our pajamas and I had orange juice which turned out to be a big mistake since every time I bent over even one degree for the rest of the morning all the OJ came back up by the mouthful and then quickly went back down.  Ug.  But there was bacon, did you hear, so back to the good stuff.

My daughter’s dad is a vegetarian.  A “since the sixth grade” vegetarian, so it’s pretty serious you see.  We’ve been open about sharing our views on animal consumption with her and we always tell her what everything is that she’s eating.  He’s not they type to force her into any beliefs and  lets her choose her own items off of  a dinner menu weather it be meat or not.   She’s been known to finish off a meal and then ask what animal we just ate.  And we never lie like my mom used to do when she cooked liver (as if) and called it special steak.  Nothing special about that stuff, people.

Chicken is chicken, beef is beef and hamburgers etc.  (I think we’re lucky she hasn’t asked us what a hot dog is…)  She’s not fond of fish unless it’s in “popcorn” form and one whiff of tuna will make her pretend barf and eye-roll simultaneously.  But bacon… is her favorite.  And this morning was bacon morning, have I mentioned?  And she snapped into a crispy bit dipped in a little maple syrup and asked,

What’s bacon again?

Me: It’s pork, honey. Pig.

Her: Oooh, yeah. *crunch crunch.  And how do we get the bacon?  I mean, pigs?

Me: Well we buy ours at the store because it’s ready to cook.  But the pigs are raised on farms.

Her: I think I’d like to live on a farm.

JG: You know, Mama Betty lived and worked on a farm when she was a kid.  I don’t think you’d think it’s as much fun if you really lived on a farm.  There’s lots of work to do on a farm.

Me: Yeah.  Like waking up really early to feed the chickens and shovel poop and feed the pigs.

Her: (whispers) And cut off their backs.

:::BLINK::::BLINK:::

Her: You know. For bacon. *crunch.

Hysterical laughing, oj out the nose style and then we have to explain why what she said was funny and the little dude is even laughing like he knows what’s going on and we’re all crunching on our crispy, greasy, delicious pig backs wearing stretchy-waist pants on a fabulous Sunday morning before the OJ eruptions start and we put Goonies in the player and convinced her to look at Sloth because he’s just a nice guy who happens to have Burt-head and wonky eyeballs.  And she watches and she loves it and we love her and we all love bacon!

 

Yay for bacon?

eh hem.

Hope you have a monstrous weekend, people. I have my hands full, but I'll be back.

Don’t put your cheese on the cat…

and other stuff I never thought I’d be saying.

In a few long months there will be a new person tipping the balance of our lives here at the house.  And although I use the word “balance” loosely, I know that life as we know it will again change drastically and what semblance of order I have established here might be in danger.  The halfway mark of this pregnancy came and went and my new analogy for this life is a hike.  I know you’re version of a hiker probably involves more fitness and less “gut”, but stay with  me.  I’ve reached the the apex of my journey into motherhood with two kids and I am looking at the rest of the path with a little trepidation and a lot of hope.

On one hand, I’ve made it.  With a butt-load of support from a few friends and family and maybe a few milligrams of legally prescribed assistance from Dr. Quiet.  I am comfortable here.  I know what I’m doing most of the time and can successfully fake it to fill in the gaps.  So now is the end of my trek with these two sweet babies and the beginning of the long trip back home.  With a little extra in my pack I will begin a new path.  Destination: rest-of-life.  With an armload of children and no regrets. 

I’ve missed blogging.  A day doesn’t go by when I don’t catch myself  saying,  I need to write again.  There are plenty of excuses and I’m fine with any and all of them.  This page is here.  And when something ridiculous or miraculous happens, I think of the space and the cursor and “life” and I start putting things in order of importance.  Some day I’ll get to those notes I made about the little dude pinning my nipple in-between the pillow-top mattress and his unbelievably sharp elbow.  When the time is perfect and quiet, I’ll tell you about my fears of losing the Old Dog.  Or how my sister-in-law and brother-in-law are getting their second chance. 

For now,  the little dude is standing on the coffee table holding a flashlight and I can’t be sure, but something smells poopish.