The Histrionics of a Fat Housewife

The Story of Kelly, The Birth of Me Part I

2011-12-23T01:01:00.001-05:00

It was my plan to be able to post the whole story tonight. But as you can see from the first line, I didn't start writing until last night. And this, my friends, is a long ass story. Difficult to write and emotionally draining as well.

So, it'll be divided into three parts. The first installment begins... NOW!

On the eve of Kelly’s first birthday, I find myself still searching for a way to tell the story of his birth. How do I even begin? Where should I start? I’m not sure I know what the beginning was. There are parts of this story I’d rather not revisit. Pain, joy, despair, anguish, exuberance, and acceptance. It’s all there. And I know it needs to be written.

Ten years ago, I wrote that with the birth of my first child my soul shifted. I became a mother. The same person I was before, but with a different perspective. I can tell you now that with the birth of my last child, the journey I took to bring him here and the journey I am on to raise him, I am a changed person. I am battle weary and scarred. I am whole and new. I am happier… and sadder. It’s complicated.

And so is the story I’m about to tell.

Shortly after Iryna’s birth, I had a feeling so faint, so deep within me that I hardly sensed it – I wanted another child. A fourth child. So shocking was it, in fact, that I only allowed it to surface in humor and jest. “Oh, look, honey,” I’d say, “the fourth child is free for soccer registration…” or “…summer camp…” or “…Catholic school.” It became my little barb at Mike. “The fourth one is free!” It always met with a harsh scowl and grunt and a promise from him that he would soon make an appointment with a doctor to have himself taken out of the gene pool.

Inside me, over time, it took on a more serious tone. I began to pray for an accidental pregnancy. We were careful and I knew an accident was a long shot, but I prayed nonetheless. The cerebral part of me thought it irresponsible folly. We didn’t have the money, the resources, the bed space for another child. But the prayers continued, more fervent with each passing month.

Early in the morning of my 38^th birthday, I stumbled to the bathroom. In the darkness, for reasons that will forever remain unknown to me, I tore open the last remaining pregnancy test from a three-pack I had when pregnant with Iryna. When I peered at the results with the scant light from my cell phone, my breath was sucked right out of body and replaced with an excited fear that rattled my bones and made me giggle like a drunk sorority sister. After 20 years of carefully planned fertility, I was very clearly knocked up.

It was difficult but I held my secret all day, pushing it down like a springy jack-in-the-box with a broken lid. Every time I felt it start to slip out of my mouth, I’d shovel in food – chocolate covered pretzels, Swedish fish, Godiva truffles. Secrets apparently need sugar. After the kids were tucked into their beds, I took a deep breath and unhinged the lid.

“I have something to tell you so I’m just going to come out and say it. Okay?” I started.

“Uh huh,” he said, distractedly. Then, noticing my seriousness, he straightened and met my eyes.

“I’m pregnant.” The jack-in-the-box jumped out with force and then just hung there, all awkward smiles and jittery expectations.

“You’re kidding, right?” Mike asked. “Really? You’re pregnant?”

I didn’t say anything. I just sat there, stuck in that place between giddy laughter and hysterical sobs. I call it “Pregnancy Purgatory,” the temporary punishment before the joyful celebration. A place where time stands still and seconds seem to last longer than your last period.

Tears started to well up in my eyes when Mike began maniacally laughing, stopping only briefly to say, in stunned cadence, “Four kids.”

“You’re not mad?” I asked pathetically, like a sinner to Saint Peter at the Gates.

“Why would I be mad?” he asked as he hugged me to his chest.

We talked about whether to tell the kids. I was just barely pregnant, not even day 30 of my cycle. I wanted to wait till we saw a heartbeat, having been burned with a miscarriage between Reilly Kate and Roman. Mike insisted we tell the kids straightaway. He argued that if something were to go wrong and they didn’t yet know, they’d then find out and only know the sadness, not the happiness. We needed to share our joy with them; let them celebrate their new sibling. The day after we told them, the kids and I bought the baby St. Patrick’s Day jammies and hung it in my closet. Our fourth baby was loved, wanted, and real.

The kids were as excited as I was sick. Morning sickness hit hard, harder than any previous pregnancy. As did the fatigue. I spent many an afternoon beached on the couch trying to keep the contents of my stomach and letting the kids run amok. Nights were spent awake in strange fits of hormonal insomnia.

It was during a middle of the night insomnia driven writing-fest that I got up to pee and found the dreaded pink t.p. Every mother inspects every wipe, every trip to the toilet during those nine long months. A little pink is usually no cause for concern. I’d had pink on the t.p. at one time or another with every pregnancy – including the one I’d lost.

I was 8 weeks along and the pink could have been easily explained as placental attachment. But I knew it wasn’t. My broken heart sank to the bottom of my soul. My hands shook in panic as I typed my midwife. Sleep was lost to the searing pain of grief. I was losing my accident, the only hope I had of my longed for fourth baby.

The following afternoon, Mike, the kids, and I found ourselves in a cramped little ultrasound room looking at the screen image of my empty uterus.

“A blighted ovum,” I said.

“I prefer ‘anembryonic pregnancy,’” said the technician. “Why set blame on the woman and her egg? It could have been something wrong with the sperm.”

I looked at Reilly Kate, her eyes brimming with sadness. “Our prayers failed, Mommy,” she cried.

Her sorrow crushed me. I had failed to protect her from this grief. I had allowed a promise to enter her heart that couldn’t be kept. Heavier than my personal anguish was the burden of knowing I passed it to my family.

“Let’s go for ice cream! Ice cream fixes everything,” I exclaimed, the smiles and happiness glued on for my kids like fake lashes batted for shore-leaved sailors.

The next day, I awoke with a renewed spirit. Surely, Mike would see how important this fourth baby was to me. Surely, this would go as the last miscarriage did, the one before I got pregnant with Roman. I’d miscarry as soon as my mind allowed my body to release the products of conception I had in my womb and then we’d try to conceive again, at the first post-miscarriage ovulation. Surely.

There was a catch, however. Mike was leaving in six short weeks for a five month tour in Afghanistan. I needed to miscarry quickly in order stimulate ovulation before he left. I decided to take some blue cohosh, and triple the usual dosage. I drank it down, gathered the kids up, and we all left to do some weekend shopping.

At lunch, I started to feel crampy. I went to the bathroom and while there started to bleed. Clots as big as golf balls were coming out of me. I’d had this before, with the last blighted ovum. Not quite this bad, but I was further along this time, I rationalized. After 20 minutes, I called Mike on his cell phone and asked him to pay the bill, load up the kids, bring the car around to the front of the restaurant and have a diaper ready for me.

The bathroom looked like a massacre had taken place. I cleaned it up the best I could, figuring I’d get a call from the police later. Visions of trying to explain the ultrasound report to burly detectives entertained me as I zipped up and literally sprinted out of the restaurant.

At home the bleeding didn’t slow. I sat on the toilet listening to the life flow out of my body, keeping everyone calm as I tried to determine if an ER trip was needed. Reilly Kate brought me diapers to use as pads as I tried to rest on the bed and my herbalist friend Kara came by with cayenne and witch hazel. I wore a wrist blood pressure cuff like a fancy bangle and recorded the results in my ever more light headed brain. When the numbers plummeted to a fretful 82/28, I gave myself 20 minutes to bring the bleeding down.

I closed my eyes and willed my body to stymie its self destruction. And it listened. Within a half hour, Kara felt that the worst had past and left my bedside. Mike put the kids downstairs with a pizza in front of a movie and headed to the grocery store for some electrolyte water. I tucked myself in like an obedient von Trapp child, happily humming a drowsy tune. Everything was going to be fine, I thought.

Just as my eyes shut their lids, I once again felt the life begin to flow out of me. Gushes of blood with clots bigger than my fist now passed out of my womb and I ran to the bathroom to keep from soiling my bed. An internal alarm had been sounded within me and I knew I was in mortal danger. I tried to get back to bed to call Mike, but when I stood up, the world slanted and went completely black. I gripped the furniture to upright my failing body and relied on my many years of black-out-drunk training to keep myself from passing out.

I couldn’t get the wrist cuff to register a blood pressure. An ominous sign. I called Mike and let him know I was dialing 911. I fought to stay conscious, horrified to think I might die with my children finding my empty body in a bloody bed. I lied on my left side and prayed.

Mike was home within minutes, holding my hand and feverishly dialing my mother. He wanted her to come as soon as she was able. I felt horribly guilty at the inconvenience, the fear, the heartache I seemed to be causing. As a mother, the worst sound you can hear is one telling you there is something wrong with your baby. I’d heard it the day before from the ultrasound tech and now my mother was hearing it from Mike.

By the time the wail of the ambulance filled my ghost town cul de sac, I was feeling better, more stable, but my hands were cold and my weakened body shook. I was carried out by stretcher as my confused children stood by stoically watching.

“Mommy’s going to be okay,” I feigned with a half grin. “Mommy’s just going to see the doctor. Oma’s on her way. She’s coming to visit you guys. I’ll see you soon. Daddy’s going to bring you to the hospital. I’ll meet you there.”

My empty reassurances tumbled out in clumsy chunks making no one feel any better but filling the fear filled void.

“Bye bye, Mama,” Iryna waved.

The last thing I saw as they put me in the ambulance was Iryna on Mike’s hip, Roman and Reilly Kate flanking his sides, and my neighbors discreetly poking their noses through the curtains to take in the excitement without any danger of being recruited to helpfulness.

My hospital experience was of the things that lawsuits are made. Through a variety of mistakes, mishaps, mismanagement, and – yes, I’ll say it – malpractice, I wound up alone in a closed ultrasound room in a deserted wing with a dry IV and a dead cell phone floating along the edges of consciousness. When I was brought back to the ER, a nurse took one look at me and suggested a blood typing to prep for a blood transfusion. When she couldn’t get a vein, she called for another nurse.

“I don’t feel so good,” I whimpered.

They tilted my bed so that my head was below my heart and continued to prod for a vein.

“Uh, I really don’t feel so good,” I whispered.

They hit a button and I felt the squeeze of the sphygmomanometer. My head was floating away from me like a helium balloon on a warm spring breeze. I was detached. The world around me was a golden shade of gray, voices were muffled and my ears were ringing.

I looked up at the monitor. My blood pressure had plummeted to 42/27 and the nurse who had been in search of a vein began yelling, “Dammit! I need a cardiac team and a crash cart! Get those kids out of here!”

I opened my eyes and saw my husband and children standing at the entrance of my room. They were my only string left to reality. I watched as they were pulled away, out of my view.

I’m dying, I admitted to myself. I really am dying. I will never see my children. I will never again feel my husband lips on mine. This is it.

It sounds very dramatic and I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you that just writing the above ripped at my very core, bringing up emotions I’d rather keep locked. But I’d also be remiss if I didn’t tell you that at the time, I felt very much at peace even if a little surprised at the finality of my early demise. It was all very surreal, but not unpleasant.

“Heather! Heather! Are you with us?” the nurse asked loudly.

I couldn’t respond. I couldn’t move. My limbs were paralyzed and I could summon no sound from my mouth. I closed my eyes.

“Heather stay with us. Can you hear me?”

I tried to nod but nothing came of it.

I’m dying, I whispered deep within the recesses of my mind as a dark wave washed over me.

“…O neg!”

“The crash cart…”

“…another IV wide open!”

“These aren’t big enough!!”

“Heather? Heather?”

Now, here is where all those years of heavy drinking paid off. And no, I’m not kidding. Anyone who has, at one time or another, had too much to drink and found themselves losing control of their conscious mind knows that determined focus can save one from not just embarrassment but from the bumps and bruises associated with falling down drunk. I’ve been there. I remember many a time sitting in the back of a Korean cab alone and having to focus to save myself from falling into that drunken abyss. Focus. Determined focus. It was as I lay dying in the hospital years later that I employed this well honed skill.

I focused on that string that kept me attached to this plane. I literally envisioned a string. I saw Reilly Kate, Roman, and Iryna. I felt Mike’s lips on mine. I wrapped that string around my fingers and stared at their faces. I stayed focused for all I was worth. As if my life depended on it.

“Heather, don’t move. We’re putting in some very large needles. Do not move.”

As if I could, I chuckled, never taking my eyes off my family.

“Does this hurt? Can you feel this?”

I can’t feel a thing, I replied without moving my lips or loosening my steely grip on my string.

Slowly, I started to feel again. Cold at first. My arms were cold. And then my toes. Eventually, I opened my eyes. I was very much attached to the glaringly bright, sterile world that surrounded me. I came through the other end. I looked around. I had a bag of blood and two IVs attached to my arms, which were bandaged around stiff boards. I was very cold, very pale, very weak, and very much alive.

“Can you bring my family in, please?” I asked.

The staff carefully cleaned up the debris of my henceforth labeled “syncopal episode.” (Don’t you just love how they change things when they think no one’s conscious enough to remember?) Then they brought Mike and the kids to me.

“You look terrible,” was all Mike could muster.

I held Reilly Kate’s hand and kissed Roman’s toe-head. When they weren’t looking, I whispered to Mike, “If I die, sue them. I’m serious.”

“You’re mom’s on the way. I’m going to go pick her up at the airport before they take you into surgery,” he replied.

“Did you hear me? They’re fucking this up. If I die, you need to sue them. Get enough money to take care of the kids,” I insisted.

“You’re not going to die.”

“Mike, just promise me that if I do, you’ll sue.”

Shortly thereafter, they wheeled me off for my D&C. Mike went to get my mom and take her and the kids back to the house. When I awoke, they told me that my husband would be coming to take me home.

“Has the bleeding stopped,” I asked.

“Yeah. You’re fine. You’ll going home as soon as your husband comes back,” the post-op crew assured me.

No sooner than that and my blood pressure once again went crashing down. But this time, I was a battle scarred veteran.

“Excuse me,” I interrupted the nurses gabbing at the station. “Excuse me! I’m not feeling well. My blood pressure is going down.”

I closed my eyes and went back to my focus. I knew I wasn’t dying this time. I couldn’t. I had my focus. They went to work, changing the second IV and calling the doctor. It was decided that I’d be spending the night.

Mike met me in my post op room. I was exhausted and other than a small exchange about how my mom was settling in with the kids, I don’t remember much. The nurse came in and out all night. I could hear whispers and feel the squeeze of the blood pressure monitor. At one point, I was awoken by the prick of a needle and a low-toned, “For blood typing.”

In the wee hours of the morning with darkness still cloaking the rising day, I felt a pressure on my chest. I opened my eyes to find my nurse’s forehead resting upon my breastbone, her hands clasped to her chin in prayer.

“Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, thank you, Jesus,” she cried and raised her head. Her tear filled eyes met my sleep filled. She explained in a thick Caribbean accent, “I thought we might lose you. You’re blood pressure was so low. I’ve been praying all night long. But now you’re at 72/53. You’re doing better. Thank you, Jesus.”

Fell off the wagon

2008-12-14T22:40:00.002-05:00

The blogging wagon, not the diet.

I did hit 155 while I was off the wagon. Only two weeks late, but whatever. It's not a race, right? HA! It's a fucking race! And I'm behind.

Anyway.

Just plugging along. I ate a ton today. But all good food.

B: two homemade sausages with peppers and onions

L: burger and greens from Red Robin (love it!)

S: almonds

D: same as breakfast, but I ate Iryna's leftover half burger, too

Calling Goal

2008-12-07T21:53:00.002-05:00

HA! Just making sure you're paying attention.

Sat 157

B: Cottage cheese and pepitas and stevia

L: skipped in preparation for the evening's food fest

D: we went to a xmas party so...

BBQ pork (no sauce), ham, cheese, spinach artichoke dip, cheesy crab dip, deviled eggs, bacon wrapped something yummy, broccoli and dip, buffalo wings, and several vodka diet cokes

Food fest!

Sun -- my scale wasn't working, I took the batteries out and put them back in, but it still just read 0.0 which, I'm not sure, but I think is a little bit light for me even on the surface of the moon.

B: ham and eggs

S: a tablespoon of peanut butter

L: chicken salad (mayo and celery with spices)

D: pumpkin sausage soup (and a ton of it)

S: a couple of tablespoons of peanut butter (don't ask me why -- I shouldn't have, but it was sitting there in a bowl, leftover from my kids)

I went to the gym today, too. It's nice having my inlaws here to watch the kids. It was a nice relaxing day. I ran just shy of 4 miles, then sat in the sauna for a bit. It was so wonderful.

Falling behind with my life

2008-12-06T09:21:00.002-05:00

So these posts are a bit behind, too.

Thurs 158

B: eggs and a small handful of bacon bits (real, of course)

L: double cheeseburger from McDs

D: homemade sausage and cabbage (I ate a ton of this!)

Too full for any snacks. I didn't even have tea!

Friday 158 (again, I'd be mad...)

B: two Diet Cokes (needed the caffeine and was on the run till mid afternoon)

L: 2 tablespoons of peanut butter and two eggs with bacon

D: salmon and broccoli

Again, I was too full for a snack.

Also, against Amy's very sage advice, I ran 3 miles. I couldn't help myself. I'm a sucker for a cheap high.

The good news is

2008-12-04T08:30:00.003-05:00

My fasting blood sugar yesterday AM was 87!

But the weight was 158.4

Huh.

As I said, though, things are looser and Roman's teacher paid me a very nice compliment yesterday. Of course, that could also be because it's the first time in a long time she's seen me dressed and looking human.

B:skipped

L: chicken salad with ranch

S: macs (the last of them! and I'm not buying more!)

D: turkey soup and eggs

S: cinnamon pork rinds (they are awesome, btw!)

No exercise. I didn't have time to get us all where we needed to be to make that happen. I might be able to do it today, though. We'll see how the day goes. I have to buy and put up a tree today. Bah humbug.

Nothing to say

2008-12-03T07:11:00.002-05:00

Really. If it weren't for my jeans falling off me, I'd be pissed.

157.4

B: just tea

L: salad with chicken and ranch and lettuce wraps with liverwurst

S: macs

D: a 12 oz ribeye topped with mushrooms and onions and grilled veggies

Blood sugar up

2008-12-01T23:02:00.002-05:00

I did a fasting glucose read this morning and it was 111. That's a little high, I think, considering how I eat.

And that wasn't the only bad news of the day.

157.4

Blech.

B: cottage cheese with pepitas and stevia

L: roast beef rolled up in romaine with mayo

S: macs

D: turkey soup

S: macs and a bag of pork rinds

I also biked 7 miles and ran 3 (I've been doing the random hills program on the treadmill lately and I LOVE it! What fun!! Really!).

But, as usual, I'm exhausted....

Hmmmm...

2008-11-30T21:28:00.002-05:00

Yesterday 157.2 (this is stupid!)

B: nothing as I wasn't hungry

L: tuna salad and pumpkin seeds

S: macs and tomatoes

D: turkey tetrazzini and cauliflower

S: pumpkin cheesecake with whipped cream

And today

157.2 (yeah, laugh all you want)

B: ham and eggs

S: pumpkin cheesecake with whipped cream

L: turkey salad and macs

S: ummm... yeah, more pumpkin cheese cake with more whipped cream

D: turkey soup

S: 5 pieces of sugar free chocolate

If I wake up tomorrow to 157.2 I'm going to fall off the scale, laughing.

Still on

2008-11-29T08:43:00.002-05:00

and still up. Dammit! But not discouraged because despite the scale, my pants are falling off, which is a good thing except that I don't fit into my prepregnancy jeans, either. So I will just keep wearing my fat jeans which make my ass look like Michael Moore's. So appealing. If I have anything, it's appeal... to those with the hots for Michael Moore.

Anyway.

I woke up on Turkey Day to 157.2 which is two pounds over my goal weight for Thanksgiving. But with the weight lifting and running, it could be water retention in the muscle. Anyway, I feel really good and that's what matters most.

Thanksgiving Day

B: a jumbo hot dog (it was easy to make)

L: some macs and a big ass piece of sugar free chocolate (hey, it was a holiday!)

D: turkey, low carb gravy, baby patty pan squash in bacon, sweet potatoes baked with olive oil and rosemary, George Stella's low carb stuffi ng (which was a huge hit with my very non-low carbing inlaws), and low carb pumpkin cheesecake with sugar free whipped cream.

I use a lot of stevia instead of splenda, but I do use splenda. I didn't use enough in my cheesecake, though. It wasn't sweet enough. I'll adjust the recipe for Christmas.

Yesterday I didn't weigh because I left the house at 3:45 am to go shopping. I'm fargin' nuts. There is something inherently wrong with leaving the house in the middle of the night to shop. But anyway...

B: nothing

S: an enormous Diet Coke at Target

L: turkey leftovers

S: macs

D: more turkey leftovers

I'm so sore today in my arms from all the carrying I did, particularly at Kohl's which seems to have a very serious shortage of carts and shopping bags. I would have definitely spent a lot more had I been able to carrying more or had a cart. But, better for me and my pocketbook. Plus, I am sure I made some muscle.

Now, we're heading out to see Bolt in 3D. I'll have an enormous Diet Coke and smell the popcorn. That's one thing I really miss with low carbing: movies with popcorn. There's just no substitute.

Dead batteries

2008-11-26T22:13:00.002-05:00

I couldn't weigh in today as my scale batteries have died. I bought new ones today so we'll have a weigh in tomorrow.

B: nothing as I was still full from my enormous dinner

L: Cottage cheese, pecans, and stevia

S: macs

D: steak, mayo, green beans, and macs

S: macs

I ran 3 miles, too. I did the random hills mode on the treadmill and it was pretty intense. But fun. I think I'll do that again.

But, as usual, I'm exhausted.

And down

2008-11-25T23:01:00.002-05:00

157.5

Up and down and up and down...

And to think I was doing so well there for a few days...

B: skipped as I wasn't hungry and I made baked oatmeal for everyone and didn't partake

S: macs

L: small bowl of chili with slice of cheddar

D: huge NY strip steak with garlic butter, onions and mushrooms, and brussell sprouts with bacon

I'm feeling very water retentiony today. My rings are little snug, too. I need to drink more water, I guess, to flush out the system.

Up again

2008-11-24T21:43:00.002-05:00

158.7

Ignoring it. Not gonna get my knickers in a twist over it.

B: a hard boiled egg

S: 5 cubes of cheese and a couple of ham (preschool party)

L: burger and greens from Red Robin (and I ate the whole damn thing)

S: macs

D: left over roast with gravy, shrimp salad, broccoli

S: macs and pork rinds

I also worked out today for the first time since the strep throat (which was before I decided to shed these pesky 20 lbs). I did my upper body weights, biked 7 miles, and ran 3. Then, to celebrate, I sat in the sauna for 20 minutes. I love that thing.

Of course, though, now I'm exhausted. We'll see what surprises the scale holds for me tomorrow.

Another week down

2008-11-23T23:00:00.002-05:00

157.2

I did just fine at dinner this evening. Other than eating too much today, I did fine. I don't expect to see anything good on the scale tomorrow, but I'm still shooting for 155 on Thanksgiving.

B: cottage cheese with cocoa and stevia

L: shrimp salad with lots of tomatoes, big bowl of chili with cheese

S: pork rinds

D: turkey, salad, green beans, and a bite of sweet potato

S: macs and finished the bag of pork rinds

And up

2008-11-22T22:25:00.002-05:00

158.6

I choose to ignore the scale on days like today. If any of you out there are daily weighers, you know what I mean. There is no real reason for the scale to have gone up, but it did. Ignore. Mute. Fast forward.

B: 3 eggs, my weight in bacon, tea

L: steak caesar salad

D: cottage cheese, a bar of sugar free dark chocolate, some shrimp

I'm going to a friend's house for dinner. Actually, it is her parents' home. And we are guests. It is a preThanksgiving dinner. I eat carefully, but out of necessity and good manners I may eat more carbs than I normally do. My plan is to eat very lightly for all the other meals. Keep your fingers crossed.

Birthday Day

2008-11-22T09:20:00.002-05:00

157.2

It was a crazy, crazy day, to say the least. I plan on blogging a birthday post to Roman in the next few days so I'll spare you the details right now. Lucky.

B: nothing, didn't even have time to drink my tea

L: hot dogs, chili, and cheese

S: hot dogs, chili, and cheese

D: What do you think? hot dogs, chili, and cheese!

S: cottage cheese with pepitas and stevia

S: pork rinds

I got my period today so expect to see the weight go up for a few days. I hate that.

So tired... can hardly move

2008-11-20T22:12:00.002-05:00

I had such a terribly busy day today. I have to sleep. Plus, it is Roman's birthday tomorrow so I'll be having another busy day.

156.8

B: tea and macs

L: Diet Coke and half a hot dog and macs

S: macs

D: salmon, shrimp salad with romaine and tomatoes, and broccoli

S: macs (what else?)

Plugging away. Making progress. Going to bed.

Why I'm still up at midnight

2008-11-19T23:58:00.002-05:00

I'm stupid.

There. That's it. No other reason. There.

157.4

B: hard boiled egg, slice of smoked cheddar, and pepperoni

L: macs (no time for a real lunch)

D: huge plate of roast beef with generous amounts of low carb gravy, homemade!, and a shit ton of broccoli

I was so hungry at dinner I contemplated eating one of the children. But Iryna's too small. She wouldn't have filled me up. Reilly Kate, no doubt, would taste bitter. And Roman... well, his birthday is Friday. And I've got a party planned and all that. Plus, I already bought his gift.

I had no snacks today. This wasn't intentional. I was just running around from here to there and sprucing up the house for my inlaws arrival this afternoon. On the upside, I didn't eat much today!

I'll make up for it tomorrow, though. Exhausted and hungry is no way to go through life.

Pushed for time and in dire need of sleep

2008-11-19T09:56:00.003-05:00

I'm never going to get well on 2-3 hours of sleep a night. And yet, I was up, not feeling well, dicking around with that damned Snapfish. Evil. Pure evil.

Anyway, here's the daily entry for yesterday.

159.8

B: big bowl of cottage cheese with stevia and pepitas (raw pumpkin seeds)

S: macs and more macs

L: egg drop soup, mini sweet peppers, celery, and ranch for dipping

D: burger patty and a salad

S: more and more macs (almost done with the tin, thank God!)

No exercise. But a doctor's appt. Yay! More antibiotics. I need to get my life back!

Mondays Suck

2008-11-17T21:52:00.002-05:00

159.2

Mondays are terrible days for us. The kids and I are on the go all damn day long. We actually opted out of one of our planned activities today because I'm still not feeling all that well and I don't want spread the sick. But still, we busted our butts today. We even raked a bag of leaves from which Roman got a tick bite for the trouble. Yes, please, someone nominate me for Mom of the Year!

B: tea and handful of macs

L: a tomato and egg drop soup, then a salad with Newman's Olive Oil and Vinegar

S: more macs, what else?

D: 3 eggs, and a sinful amount of bacon (maybe 7 or 8 slices), two tomatoes

S: macs and tea

I know I drank a couple of glasses of kombucha, too, in the morning before lunch.

Not too hungry today. Probably because I was so busy. I worked out a little. Just some weights and 20 minutes on the stationary bike. I really was careful, though, not to get too close and I used a lot of Purell. Hopefully, I wasn't Patient Zero.

My day of rest

2008-11-16T20:45:00.002-05:00

159.9

Given the weight of the food I ate yesterday, I'm not surprised. Remember now, if you eat a quarter pounder, you are going to be a quarter pound UP until you rid yourself of it. If you catchy my drifty.

Another snacky, munchy day. Not as bad as yesterday, but again, I'm not feeling all that great. It was a pajama day, so deemed by my bedresting friend, Nicole, and I enjoyed it.

B: nibbled a couple of pepperonis, a little cottage cheese, and some macs

L: nibbled some more macs and a small bowl of chili (the last of it)

S: nibbled some more macs (thank God I don't live in Hawaii anymore -- the cost of those suckers will keep them out of my house!), two tomatoes, and some mini sweet peppers

D: bowl of chicken adobo

S: cinnamon pork rinds and peppermint tea (I had bought a case of the pork rinds and then didn't eat them so I'm downing them until they're gone)

I've been getting emails and messages from some of you. I'm so glad to have the company and hope that I can convert those of you trying low carb for the first time. Seriously, if I could go on a mission and knock door to door, I would. It is that life changing.

I have to tell you, too, that this is a GREAT time of year to start low carbing! Trust me on this. While others are gaining weight at a wicked pace, us low carbers will be maintaining or losing through the holidays. All the while we'll be eating all the holiday favorites, with a few tweaks here and there. Egg nog... the real deal, homemade with either stevia or splenda to sweeten. Pounds and mounds of turkey and ham. Green bean casseroles and sweet potato fries (yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus!! And he is here to tell you that SWEET POTATOES ARE LOW CARB!!! Although, me being the Grinch will tell you only for special occasions or for after you've lost the weight and wish to maintain). Smashed cauliflower so delish that my Irish mother in law has no clue they're not potatoes! Cheese and nuts and gin and tonics. Olives! Those little bitty sausages without their blankets. Veggies with dip. Sugar free cheesecakes (Cheesecake Factory, my friends!) and pumpkin pies with nut crusts. Real, rich, deep and dark chocolate (Lindt's 85% is my favorite). Coffee with heavy cream or top it with sugar free whipped cream.

Shall I keep going or have I convinced you?

Go anywhere, any restaurant, any party, and stay on plan. It's awesome.

Okay. I'll stop. I'm starting to sound preachy. And maybe I bit too fired up than one should be about eating. But... okay... I'm done.

There's been some recipe requests so here ya go.

This is the recipe I use for pumpkin sausage soup. It is so good that Mike says it has taken its rightful place next to pizza and steak as foods he could eat every day and not get tired of. Yes, that good. Plus, it's really easy to whip up and to keep the ingredients on hand. I keep dried and/or canned mushrooms in store for those times when I decide at the last minute to make it. But fresh mushrooms are definitely preferred.

Also, someone asked about shiritaki noodles. They are not my favorite food, honestly. Not even an adequate substitute for the real deal, in my opinion. Yet I do eat them. And I do so because they are super low calorie and they fill me up like a carby pasta meal does. They are better with cream sauces than with vegetable or broth based sauces. Here's how to deal with them. Open the bag, dump in a strainer and rinse them well. Then you want to parboil them for just a few minutes. Drain well and I dry mine in a towel by just dumping them on the towel and rolling the towel up loosely. Some people then fry them a little to get the liquid out. But that's just too much work for me.

Give them a try, though. So many people really, really love them. I could just be a weirdo.

Stuffed

2008-11-15T21:01:00.002-05:00

Yes, I am and still eating.

157.8

I woke up hungry today and, with the all day swim meet we had, wound up eating out of stress and boredom. Alas, it was on plan so I indulged. That's why I love low carbing. I can do that and still be totally within legal limits. Nothing is blown here. Of course, I wouldn't be at all surprised if the scale jumped a little upward tomorrow just from the shear weight of all that I ate.

B: huge bowl of chili, a bowl of cottage cheese with pecans and stevia, a handful of pepperoni, and a handful (or more) of macadamia nuts

Whew! And that was just breakfast!

L: half a double cheeseburger from McD's, some mini sweet peppers with dip, more cottage cheese, macadamia nuts (I think I might have eaten my weight in them today), and two Diet Cokes

We'll skip the idea of snacks as I was eating pretty much all day.

D: another huge bowl of chili, some more macs (did I mention I ate my weight in them?), and now I'm having cinnamon pork rinds with peppermint tea. And I'm so full I should stop.

In addition to be hungry and stressed, I am not feeling all that well. This is the worst I've felt since my third day on antibiotics and I took my last of that this morning. If I don't feel significantly better by Tuesday I'm going to have a follow up strep test done just to make sure.

Then I'm going to figure out how much my insurance pays for a naturopath and seek one out. My immune system, once an iron gate of defense, is now shot. Something's gotta give on this.

Going to bed now to watch something on the computer. I don't watch tv so I don't even know what's on, but I feel kind of watchy right now and I cannot possibly stay up to watch SNL. Somebody post me the youtube clips.

Misguided Nutrition

2008-11-15T09:07:00.002-05:00

Honestly, it's not their fault. The whole world sets them up for failure. Flawed studies based on previous flawed studies and really bad, lazy, and dare I say incompetent science has pervaded nutrition science for generations.

But, come on! The information is out there now. All they have to do is read a little. Read and prepare for a major paradigm shift.

Gary Taubes' book, Good Calories, Bad Calories is a good start. Hell, it could even be a start and end because I guarantee by the time they finish it, they'll have seen the light.

What set me off this morning? An email to Reilly Kate's entire swim team from a well intentioned... I guess he's a parent, I'm not sure.

Here it is:

Hi Team,

Please prepare yourself for the meet by drinking and eating nutritious meals. Parents, please help your swimmers by offering them high carbohydrate foods with low refined sugar content. Two days before the meet, swimmers should start drinking more milk or protein drinks, and water. High carbohydrate food such as pasta and rice are good for the day before the meet. Bananas, apples and nuts will be great as snacks. Boiled potatoes, bread, eggs, fruits, oatmeal, raisins are good for breakfast on the meet day. Please stay away from food with high fat or sugar content such as bacon, donuts, sausages, hamburgers…etc. They will slow you down and will prevent your body from digesting other food efficiently. You also need to hydrate during your meet, so please bring your water or sport drink. Also, please do not eat a big meal within an hour before your event.

Go Team!

I think we'll skip his advice. RK just had an enormous bowl of chili with brown rice. We'll be packing nuts and pepperoni, cheese sticks and cottage cheese. I might bring a thermos of meaty, bacon filled, high fat chili, too. We'll also bring some Kashi bars, clementines, and apples because, yes, it's not a bad idea for kids to have some carbs on a race day. But the above advice is a prime example of the bad science I'm talking about.

Ever closer

2008-11-14T22:33:00.002-05:00

158

B: a Diet Coke from a machine and a handful of Cocoa Roast almonds

L: half a hot dog and half a piece of pizza (minus the crust, of course) and about a gallon of Diet Coke (trip to Costco -- what can I say?)

S: a handful of macadamia nuts, mini sweet peppers, and rotisserie chicken

D: plenny good local kine chili (left ovah from yesterday)

S: pork rinds and tea

I was kind of weak on the veggies today, but I really wasn't all that hungry, either. I'm tired, though. It's late and I have a really long day ahead of me. Reilly Kate has a big swim meet. So.

Signing off... and feeling good!

I think I can I think I can

2008-11-13T23:16:00.002-05:00

159.7

I didn't eat breakfast really as I wasn't that hungry and just wanted to keep my focus on the laundry. Being a champion laundry folder takes a certain amount of concentration as well as agility, flexibility, and coordination.

I did manage a few handfuls of turkey pepperoni, though.

L: 3 eggs, 2 turkey sausages, and 4 strips of bacon

Hell yes I can eat bacon and eggs every day and lose weight. To the naysayers I say, "Shut up and eat your rice cakes and plain baked potatoes and don't bother me while I'm dining."

S: a diet coke and some raw almonds

Another S: broccoli and celery and ranch

D: Hawaiian style chili (made low carb by substituting the kidney beans for black soy beans), lots of it, too

S: pork rinds (and if you haven't tried them, then don't turn your nose up at them!)

I did some light weights and casual stationary bike. Nothing strenuous. I really want to be off the antibiotics and feel totally well before pushing it. Still, it was good to get back to the gym and move a little.

Taking my a bit less fat ass to bed now.

Whittling away at it

2008-11-12T22:18:00.002-05:00

160.0

B: cottage cheese, pecans, stevia and a cup of tea

S: raw almonds and kombucha

L: an enormous salad with Newman's Own Olive Oil and Vinegar and a bowl of egg drop soup

S: celery and dip

D: repeat of last night with addition of a bowl of broccoli and topped off with a square of Lindt's 85%

No exercise again today. Didn't have time at the gym as we got there late. I wasn't too hungry today. But I ate more it seems.

The thing I love the most about Atkins is the food tastes so good as compared to low fat, low cal crap. Plus, I eat huge portions. Can't go wrong with a diet that lets you eat as much as you want and the food tastes good.

I just might get addicted to that egg drop soup. It takes about 5 minutes to make and is the best fill me up and keep me warm meal around!

Lost a bit of it, anyway

2008-11-11T22:08:00.002-05:00

160.8

Gee, only 58 lbs to go to high school weight! Oh, so close I can taste it!

Speaking of tasting. Here's what went down the gullet today:

B: cottage cheese with stevia and pecans with two glasses of kombucha and a cup of tea

S: a cup of tea with a splash of heavy cream

L: salmon salad with pepitas on a bed of iceberg

S: handful of turkey pepperoni

D: chicken adobo on shirataki noodles

S: two squares of Lindt 85% dark chocolate with a cup of tea

I wasn't really hungry at all today. We ate dinner late because of Reilly Kate's damn swim practice. I hate swimming. That's all I have to say about that. Hate! But anyway, I wasn't even really hungry, but irritable so I figured I had better eat a good dinner. I didn't work out today, either. In fact, we all took an afternoon nap. Still mending from my near death experience. We'll see about tomorrow. I might lift some weights and then sweat it out in the sauna. I'm convinced those saunas are good at getting what ails you out of you through your pores.

Remember, if you see anything you want the recipe for or if you have questions about something I'm eating, let me know.

I'm losing it

2008-11-10T21:25:00.002-05:00

That's right. I said it. I'm losing it.

Twenty freakin' pounds of it!

I'm played games with this fat for long enough. Your fat housewife needs to drop 20 lbs so that I'm just the Fat Housewife again and not the Obese Housewife.

As you all know, I'm a low carber. And not just any low carber. I'm ardent. It's akin to religious fanaticism, really. Except, for whatever reason, I've had one hell of a time sticking to my plan. I don't know why, but I go off and have the wickedest time getting back on. When Mike left I had a chocolatefest that sent me straight into high blood sugars and glucose rages. You ever seen a rotund mama red faced and screaming at the top of her lungs, lunging at her children with a Milky Way Dark in hand while kicking the dog for coming near her candy? Bad, bad stuff.

Anyway, today I have kicked off the Losin' It campaign. I will not just lose these 20 lbs, but I will do so here, on the blog, in a very public manner. Why? Why would I do something as zany and yet entirely humiliating here? I mean, yes, I do this kind of thing all the time in real life. But here? On the blog? Well, because most of you that read this blog are people I love. And most of you need to lose at least 10 lbs. I want you all to see how easy, tasty, and filling losing weight can be if you use Dr. Atkin's principles. Plus, it'll keep me honest. I will lose all credibility (and so will my hero Dr. A) if I flub this up. Basically, it is totally all about me.

Every day I will post my weight (yes, I will post my weight in public, you sissies!) and what I've eaten for that day. Most of the food I eat is easy to make and find. Nothing special. If you see something that you'd like to have or make and want the recipe or need to know where to find it, post a comment and I will do a follow up. I will also post how hungry I was and what kind of working out I did. Just so you can see for yourself. I'm not going to tell you there won't be days where I'm hungry. There will be. But for the most part, eating low carb is painless. Enjoyable, even.

So here, goes. Come peer into my world.

Weight: 161.4

Breakfast: a cup of tea (I normally eat breakfast, but we had to fly out early this morning)

Lunch: 3 eggs fried in bacon grease, a handful of bacon bits, 6 turkey sausages, and a bowl of buttered broccoli (and this is what happens when you are too hungry at lunch time!)

Snack: handful of Cocoa Roast Almonds and a big glass of kombucha

Dinner: pepperoni pizza in a bowl (pizza toppings all dumped in a bowl and baked till gooey) and a salad

No exercise as I'm must getting my energy back from having strep throat. I did sit in the sauna, though, while Reilly Kate was at swim practice.

And I was hungry. Not terribly or painfully. But more like my brain was telling me it was time to eat. Mondays are really busy for us so we're all hungry on Mondays anyway.

The way I see it: The choice is clear

2008-11-03T21:53:00.003-05:00

They say one shouldn't talk about politics or religion in polite company. You know, politics and religion are my two favorite topics, and I am far from polite company. So far, in fact, I'm gonna throw in abortion. Right here. On my blog. The night before perhaps the most important election of my life.

I have to.

The kids and I have walked all over our little Virginia town, knocking on doors, talking to people about the election. I love field work. I love rolling up my sleeves and earning votes, walking the neighborhoods and meeting voters. Plus, I get to dip my fingers in the pot of democracy and sneak a little taste of the election. The brew this time around tastes pretty damn sweet, I gotta tell ya.

But one thing that keeps popping up, whether it's on a front porch or in my inbox or across my driveway, is abortion.

Such a volatile, divisive topic -- pitting good people against each other with fear and hatred, forcing voters to support candidates they dislike, and tearing apart our electoral process. Over the years, I've grown to loathe the topic, despite my militantly pro-choice stance. There is no safe ground on which to stand in the abortion arena. As a result, nothing really changes. Abortion rates stay the same. Laws shift ever so slightly. Everyone keeps their eyes on the Supreme Court.

For many reasons, this election is different than others in recent memory. I've met many people who want to vote for Barack Obama, but feel conflicted over the abortion issue. They, pro-life Christians, don't want to betray what they believe is a moral imperative to make abortion illegal. Despite the fact that pro-life Republican Presidents have occupied the White House more often than not since Roe v. Wade, abortion remains legal. Obviously, then, the solution to the abortion problem isn't just electing someone who is pro-life.

Maybe, just maybe the solution is electing someone who wants to reduce the need for abortion. To that end, Obama has pledged to get both sides to sit down together, to work together, and see that women and children are respected and prioritized. We are facing tough, really tough economic times ahead. The most vulnerable are poor women and their children. Women living under the poverty level make up the majority of abortion patients. Without economic protections and changes in our system of safety nets, we will see a marked increase.

I started writing this earlier today. This evening a good friend sent me a link to this website. Prolife ProObama. How's that for God working in strange ways? If you are feeling conflicted, please go and take a look. Doug Kmiec has some really good articles on why he, a leader in the pro-life movement, is supporting Barack Obama -- even at the risk of being turned out of his own Church.

Okay, people. I need to go to bed. Election day is always an early day and I'm getting so tired, I'm falling asleep as I type.

Remember, get out and vote. Whatever you do, vote. And, if you're in Chicago, vote often.

Because my husband won't get his ass on Facebook

2008-10-31T21:33:00.003-05:00

I'd write something about them, but, honestly, I am done. I woke up this morning to a dachshund with a swollen eye and wound up running him to the vet to the tune of $600 and 7 pulled teeth. Combine that with the usual Halloween craziness and I am done. Like the turkey's done gone dry done. Like don't even bother with the dang fork done.

I'm going to bed.

Oh, and these pictures are in reverse order and I cannot be bothered to fix it. So. There. Sure hope CAPM MLF likes 'em.

Daniel is Traveling Tonight on a Plane

2008-10-30T19:51:00.002-05:00

My youngest brother is, as I type, going back to war. It's the third time he's left the safety of our land to head east, to do the job he is sworn to do regardless of the danger to his body or, perhaps more importantly, to his soul. Last time it was to Iraq. This time it is to Afghanistan. The risks seem to be greater with each assignment. He is smart and brave and knows it is better to fight the enemy through kindness, wit, friendship, and tea than with firearms, hatred, and fear. I hope his men follow his lead. They would be wise to do so, and then, he too would be safer.

We who love him must again hold our breath tightly in chests, keeping him safe with whispered prayers and silent tears. We'll busy ourselves, like we did last time, with the holidays and care packages and "Danny Club" dinners. But mostly, we'll pray. Fervently, ardently, we'll pray.

We lost one amongst us. For many reasons, she couldn't do it again and had to leave. She's missed. Sorely. An empty hole where once stood a sister. Alas, however, it is for the best. Patriots are a hard lot to live with and most people haven't the courage to continue standing. You see, patriotism isn't that intense feeling you get when you hear the Star Spangled Banner or see our flag waving proudly over Arlington National Cemetary. That feeling is pride. Patriotism is something wholly more profound and challenging.

Patriotism is the love of country over self, a willingness to sacrifice personally for the benefit of the state. Patriots don't put magnetic yellow ribbons on their cars and call it a day. They don't think sending cookies and used magazines to the troops is well enough. They don't wrap themselves in the flag or the American Legion and then insist that military duty is optional or, at best, falls somewhere after social obligations. True patriots don't gussy up for the military ball and then refuse to ship out. They don't disparage their fellow Americans for their religion or their dress or their language, either.

Patriots live within their means, refusing to contribute to our national economic hardships through their personal deficits. Patriots take government jobs for less pay than private sector jobs. They work unending hours to make our democracy work. They run for public office knowing far too well that not only will their reputation be dragged through the mud, but the reputations of their spouses, parents, and sadly, even their children. Patriots give money to the poor and don't begrudge the IRS. They vote for property tax increases to better our schools.

And patriots go off to war. In far away lands. They put that sworn duty above all else. All else. Above money, home, education, family, even God. Some fight. Some die. Some come home broken. Some are hardly home at all. But they all have a club, a Danny Club, who join their hands, weeping and hoping, praying and holding breath, till the day they come home.

And so we stand, till he does come home. We stand together. And we wait. And pray.

And now for something totally different

2008-10-26T21:26:00.001-05:00

Okay. So I thought I could handle it till the election. I mean, it is only just a little over a week away.

But I can't.

I can't take one more email. I can't take one more outlandish, outrageous, absurd lie about Barack Obama.

I just can't.

I've laughed till I cried at the daily emails sent to me by my well intentioned neighbor who is convinced that Senator Obama is a Muslim communist terrorist who should get deported, because, of course, he is not an American citizen.

But yesterday I spent the last of my patience with the crazy rumors when I talked to my Irish Catholic, Kennedy-loving mother in law who somehow got herself wrapped up in an email convincing her that Barack Obama is the AntiChrist.

If you don't like Obama because of his politics or his policies or his color or his style or his wife or his gender or his shoe size, then just say so. But please, I beg of you, don't forward internet nonsense. This stuff is winding up in the boxes of the ignorant and vulnerable and it can be downright dangerous. Surely, you haven't forgotten it is a sin to bear false witness on your neighbor.

Firstly, Senator Obama is not a Muslim. I would have NO problem with him if he was, but he isn't. He was baptized in 1988 at Trinity United Church of Christ in Chicago. He hasn't released his baptismal certificate because historically no presidential candidates do.

Interestingly, according to Fox News (and you can take that for what it's worth), John McCain has NOT been baptized. http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,296973,00.html

Senator Obama is, and always has been, an American. I know, it is hard for many of you mainlanders to believe, but Hawaii is indeed a part of the US of A. Barack Obama was born in Honolulu, Hawaii (same as my very American kids). His birth certificate can be viewed online, if you don't believe me. http://www.factcheck.org/elections-2008/born_in_the_usa.html

John McCain, however, was NOT born in the United States. He was born in Panama. But you don't see your inbox getting filled up with petty crap about that, do ya? No. You don't.

Oh, and yes, Senator Obama did register for selective service. On September 4, 1980 to be exact. His registration number is 61-1125539-1.

http://pajamasmedia.com/blog/obama-did-obama-actually-register-for-selective-service/2/

And ya know that crack headed email from missionaries in Kenya about Obama being Muslim and Odinga's cousin? Yeah, that was written by the same crack headed missionaries who claim our flag is satanic. And if you want to align yourself with them, well, then, you're a crack head.

http://web.archive.org/web/20070820011329/http://www.lorendavis.com/news_articles_sirius.html

Here's another huge conspiracy debunked... easily. The reason you can't find any copies of the articles Obama published as a professor at the University of Chicago is... drum roll please... because he didn't publish any articles as a professor at the University of Chicago.

Huh.

Senator Obama also really isn't an alien super hero from the planet Krypton. That was a joke.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vws9fTtQgz4

He doesn't eat live goldfish or huff poop. He loves his kids and his country and Chicago pizza. He wasn't born wealthy and didn't grow up poor. He's just a regular, old middle class dude that done good.

Oh, and Barack Obama never said, “My friends, we live in the greatest nation in the history of the world. I hope you’ll join with me as we try to change it.”

http://corner.nationalreview.com/post/?q=Y2M5NTgwNDhkZTJmYWQ1MDcwNjEzOGE0Y2ZhNzc3NzQ=

Did I leave anything out? If I did, please, by all means, clog up my inbox with it. I haven't anything better to do with my time than play research monkey to all the unpatriotic haters of American democracy who obviously sit around thinking of more insanity to add to the mix in order to avoid talking about the real issues that affect real Americans.
And remember, when you forward that crap, you too are guilty of bearing false witness and will have to atone for your actions.

Start with forwarding this email to start spreading a little truth out there.

For all you undecideds out there

2008-10-23T19:53:00.000-05:00

Listen to the wisdom of a 20 month old.

Our Sweetest Day Anniversary

2008-10-19T07:58:00.001-05:00

As some of you may know, 18 years ago today (October 18th), Mike and I fell in love.

To commemorate the day, I put together a slideshow of our years together. What can I say, my parents are in town and I had a few minutes to myself. LOL!

It's been a long 18 years, but I love him more now than I did then. With him so far away, I miss him, like the desert misses the rains.

As the song says, and I forgive him for being away for far too long.

I love, you. Happy anniversary. You better be home when we celebrate 36 in 18 more years.

A drowned mouse, a stuffed dog, and marky mark

2008-07-29T19:13:00.004-05:00

Who was the asshole that told me this shit falls in threes and that it's safe to come out now? Who was it? 'Fess up! Cuz this shit is still fallin' and my umbrella's about busted up.

Again, like before, it all started so innocently. I was outside hanging my laundry. Don't rub your eyes. There's nothing wrong with the monitor. I was hanging my laundry. Outside. In the sunshine. A very unAmerican thing to do, admittedly. And yet oh so Heather. A good deed to boot. And green. Good, green Heather.

Paving the way to hell.

So as I'm hanging my laundry, I hear I banging on the sliding glass door behind me and turn to see my sweet baby, wireless mouse in hand, pounding a rhythmic beat to the refrain so often heard from her, "Da-da Da-da Da-da Da-da." So adorably smiling and happy, I almost forgot to get angry.

But then I remembered.

"No, no, no! Put that back. Do not play with Mama's things!" I shouted through the door as I wrestled a gigantic, wet bra onto a deck chair.

"Heeeeeee!" Iryna laughed and stomped her feet with glee. "Da-da Da-da Da-da," she sang and pounded some more.

I dropped the bra which luckily just missed my toes or I might have been seriously injured with the weight of it, and took off to save my mouse. As I grabbed hold of it, ripping out of the hands of the babe, I notice something that sent me off the edge of Mommy Sanity and into the Abyss of Mommy Dearest: there was water, pouring out, draining out of my poor little wireless mouse. A steady stream of water. I just watched it like a mini Niagra Falls splashing onto the hardwood floor below.

"Boo da-da da-da duck duck. Whish frooo duck duck. Froo-ish duck," said Iryna in a language understood by her and her alone.

I don't recall much after that. I know I put her in her crib to cry her sad little self into a tizzy. And then I sat at my computer, cradling my dead mouse, mourning the loss of my only link to the outside world. As I've said before, the internet is my village. To lose it is like the Vikings coming in, stealing everything, kidnapping the women and children, and slaying all the men, leaving me all alone in the world. My village was burning down and my sweet little Iryna was the Vikings.

I know a few people called me during this time of shock and grief. I answered the phone with a curt, "In a bad place right now. You don't want to talk to me. Call back later." Funny, nobody called an ambulance or a firetruck. I guess my people know me.

Fortunately, there is happy ending here. Microsoft is sending me a new one. In fact, they are sending me a whole new set. Can you believe it? I called them up, and a very nice lady asked me, "What's the problem?"

"My daughter drowned my mouse and now it's dead," I explained.

"What's the name of your mouse?" she inquired.

"Ummm..." I hummed lowly. Then, to myself I thought, "I did dial Microsoft and not the vet's office, didn't I? I'm not that far gone into Lala Land to have done that. Or am I?"

"I... uhhhh... I didn't actually name it," I confessed.

"That's okay," she giggled, "There's a name imprinted on the underside."

So, wow. How's that! Your mouse, provided it's from Microsoft, actually has a name. And they're replaceable! Just don't tell Bill. I know he's generous and all. What with that killer foundation and his donating all those whoozy whatsits to the developing world. But I ain't in the developing world and I'm afraid if he hears they're giving out his mice to dumbasses who drown theirs, he'll put a recall on 'em and I'll be back to being the lone survivor in a burned out Internet village.

That was yesterday.

Last night I noticed Truman was panting a lot. But it is hot. And I've got the temperature set at 80 in an attempt to cut back on energy consumption. Good deed, green, yada yada, blah blah blah. Then he started drinking a lot of water. Again, though, it's hot. I put him to bed and forgot about it.

At about 5:30 this morning, he started barking and wouldn't stop. I figured he must have had to pee with all that dang water he guzzled. I dragged my half asleep ass downstairs and let him out. He made a bee line straight for his water bowl and drank the whole, freshly poured bowl all the way down. That's 18 oz. Without a break. Something was definitely wrong.

I let him out to pee and he hardly managed to get himself back up the two low steps of our deck. I picked him up and he yelped in pain. His belly was very large, distended, and hard as a rock. While he's fat and fluffy, nothing about Truman is hard or rock like. He's soft and jiggly. Rock hard is cause for concern.

I woke the kids, tossed a few cheerios at them, and we headed out to the animal hospital. After a quick exam, the vet came back to proudly display the xrays.

"I've got your problem!" she cheered.

At this moment, I envisioned swallowed magnets or a Hot Wheel. Maybe a baby diaper. Or one of my beautifully line dried towels.

"He's eaten himself sick," she said and smiled. "I'd heard that dachshunds are food driven, but he's practically eaten himself to death!"

I just sat there with a silly grin on my face trying to figure out what he'd eaten.

The vet pointed to the xray. "His stomach is four times as big as it should be. I'd say he has at least three cups of food in there. Perhaps more. Can you think of what he might have eaten?"

I rambled on and on about the baby throwing her food down to him. I admitted not having sat down to have a meal with my kids since Mike left. Something about how that is one of the few times I have to myself. Reiterating that my husband is gone for six months and that I am normally much more in tune to what is going on with my dogs and kids. So I really couldn't say how much food the baby's given him. But it couldn't be that much. Could it? On and on and on I went.

Then Reilly Kate piped in.

"He ate Freyja's treat bag," she said.

Then I remembered. I had found the treat bag laying on the floor of the family room, torn open and the contents eaten. I had assumed it was Freyja. And I didn't think it was that much. But it wasn't Freyja. It was Truman. And it was the better part of two enormous bags of Pupperonis, cut into tiny bite sized pieces.

They kept Truman all day, giving him IV fluids and some injections to keep his digestion moving. And cleaning up after his "plentiful bowel movements" (their words, not mine). All to the tune of $300. And I get to bring him back tomorrow for more xrays and fluids.

By the way, Reilly Kate admitted to having watched him do it, too. She just didn't think it was a big deal. And she didn't feel like taking it away from him. But $300 is about the cost of a kid's birthday party these days. Guess who just had her birthday party at the vet's office, complete with xrays and IVs and Pupperonis? Yep. RK.

And lastly, it was same said daughter that allowed her dog to eat himself practically to death that also decided she didn't like any of the pencils she had at her disposal and would instead take down all her Daddy's writing implements and find one she did like. Leaving the rest of said writing implements well within grabbing range of her baby sister who then grabbed herself a black Sharpie marker (why? why? why always the BLACK SHARPIE marker? Why is it never a pastel pink, washable Crayola marker?) and wrote all over herself, her clothing, the carpet, the guest bedding and the guest bed.

And it just ain't comin' out. Nor can I be bothered to try. Nope. I'll just sit here on the internet, hanging in my burning village and waiting for the shit storm to ease up. Anybody got a shitty umbrella they wanna send me?

This post has no title

2008-07-27T21:14:00.004-05:00

I'm a bit busy right now feeling sorry for myself. No time to blog. There's pizza in the fridge. And ice cream. I ate all the cake, though. I kind of figure if I ain't having sex, I better be having chocolate. Or I might die.

That said, however, I gonna put up some pictures. For Mike. And anyone else who cares to look.

I'll be back to cheery, blogger self in no time, I'm sure. Meanwhile, maybe you guys could entertain me. Ya think?

His shirt says it all, doesn't it?

Because really does a pretty girl want onion breath? No, of course not. But we don't waste food, either. We reuse! Red Onion Bracelets. It's so hot! That's Mama's Little Green Girlie Girl.

Every night the kids gather 'round the laptop to listen to Dadda read them a story. he recorded one for every day he's gone.

Showing off her Champs/All Stars ribbons. Little brag on the Devil Girl: She qualified for Champs on her backstroke which means she was one of the top seeded for her age catagory. She placed 5th, missing 4th by .2 seconds. She missed 2nd place by 1.34 seconds. Next year we're shaving her bald to make up time. She also got 4th place in Freestyle, but she only qualified for All Stars on that stroke. Which is still awesome, don't get me wrong.

The sad part is she's too good a swimmer now to even bother throwing her overboard. She'd just swim to shore.

And our boy. Who dumped a whole glass of water on his cast during dinner last night. Which means I get to wake up at the ass crack of dawn to take him back to the hospital so they can do a cast change which then requires yet another xray. Next time he eats with a garbage bag over his whole body.

Could it be the Kombucha?

2008-07-19T18:40:00.011-05:00

It seemed like such a simple thing. I was going to brew sweet tea in order to make my beloved kombucha. So much do I love my kombucha that one may call it an addiction. And yes, when you almost lose all you hold most dear in life for a mere sip of kombucha, it may be time to seek a 12 step program. If they indeed have such a thing for kombucha addicts.

But my addiction to kombucha is not where this tale of woe is headed. It is only the beginning. It is the first step in a long journey to...

... THE VORTEX OF HELL.

It was Friday morning when I filled a pot with water and set it on the stove. I have a flat top range that I use as a counter top when not in use. So I pushed everything over to one side and turned the free burner on. Or so I thought.

I sat at the computer reading the news when I happened to glance across the room and saw three foot flames leaping up off my stove and licking the cabinets above. A thick black smoke flowed from the flames that seemed to spread across the range. Immediately, I began screaming for the kids to leave the house.

"Fire! Get the hell out of the house. FIRE! FIRE!! FIRE!!! Get your sister and get out!!"

I don't know if it was my hysteria, the kids running and screaming, the ever thickening smoke, or the flames themselves, but the dogs scattered and hid. All but Freyja who was the first to head outside, but in an effort to Darwin herself right out of the gene pool, kept running back in. The kids waited and wailed outside as I ran back and forth trying to put out the fire and find the dogs. Of course, my efforts would have been more effective if a) I would have turned off the offending burner and 2) I would have stopped screaming like a freakin' banshee. But alas, I am not that level headed and completely allowed panic to rule the space between my ears.

After breathing in enough toxic fumes to cause Erin Brokovich to quarantine me, I sparked a smidge of reason and not only turned off the burner, but removed the melted and burning jar of peanut butter that sat on the burner I had mistakenly turned on. I then grabbed a hold of the dogs, threw them out of the house and blocked their return with an upturned picnic table. I opened the windows and we spent the rest of the day sitting outside basking in the thick, black smoke that poured out of our house till there was just the faint stench of burned plastic and torched peanuts.

When we braved it back in, I rummaged around in the pantry till I found another jar of peanut butter. Tragedy averted.

On the following Sunday, however, fire struck twice. As I was out with the kids, running the dogs, I couldn't tell you exactly what happened. Mike was home alone, grilling our dinner, unsupervised, and he ain't talking. Suffice it to say that when we returned, the house again smelled of burning appliances and our smoke detectors sat tabletop with their batteries disengaged. The neighbors have since told me there were four foot flames leaping out of our gas grill and one woman said she almost called 911.

Our dinner was charred, but we still had that jar of peanut butter. Tragedy twice averted.

And then, Monday. Monday is when things really started to catch steam, rolling downward to new depths of pathetically tragic.

Envision if you will, one fat housewife running with three children in a double jogging stroller and a German Shepherd Dog on either side of her. And so it was I, running along, midmorning on an enjoyable day. Until. A 60-something year old woman with her fluffy, well manicured poodle turned the corner and upon seeing the above mentioned vision of terror, screamed out to God and jumped straight into a bush, designer dog and all.

So shocked by this strange activity was Alyx that she didn't see the street sign and walked on the wrong side of it, causing the leash to jerk down on my thumb with such force that it tore my ulnar collateral ligament. I didn't know all that technical hoo-ha, however, until I decided the next day to take myself to the ER where the three kids and I sat on a gurney in the hallway (because they were so busy they had no free rooms) for three hours. The ER doctor and I had a discussion about casting my arm. It went a little like this:

Me: You can't put a cast on me. My husband is deploying in a few days. I need to be able to take it off.

Him: You can't take it off. Your hand has to heal.

Me: My kids need baths. And clean dishes. A torn UCL takes weeks to heal.

Him: But you need a cast.

Me: Are you gonna come by and do the scrubbing for the next month or so?

Him: What's the alternative?

Me: How 'bout a half cast thumb spica I can easily remove and put back on myself.

Him: Nurse! Fix our patient up with a half cast thumb spica she can easily remove and put back on herself. [then to me] How do you know all this, "thumb spica," "torn UCL?"

Me: [shrugged] Common knowledge?

Him: [walking away with a bested chuckle] Hell. I had to go to medical school for that "common knowledge."

Yes, I should have been on the high school debate team. I'm that good. But I got what I wanted. A very nice, sturdy half cast thumb spica that allows me to wash dishes, kids, dogs, and my hair.

Tragedy averted.

And so it was on Wednesday that I found myself one handedly doing laundry. The kids were helping me. Iryna was sorting lights and darks while Roman and Reilly Kate loaded the washer with towels. I turned the faucet in the sink on to start a tub of stains to soaking when I heard Iryna scream out in pain. The iron, which sits atop the ironing board in our laundry room, had fallen down. I assumed it just scared her or perhaps even fell on her foot. I bent down to pick it up with my one good hand and my concern turned to ice cold fear: Mike had accidentally left the iron on.

Just a quick touch had left my finger tips red and sore. Thank God, the iron hadn't landed on Iryna. It seemed she had just grabbed it as the palm of her hand and the outside of her thumb were the only parts burned. She screamed in pain as I iced and soaked her hand for the next two and a half hours. It blistered up and seemed very hot and angry, but not third degree. We contemplated another ER visit, but decided against it, opting for home first aid treatment and vigilant watching for signs of infection.

Once more, tragedy was averted.

With this much averted tragedy, however, one must ask how long can our luck last and what will befall us once we've bankrupted the pot of blessings?

The answer came the next day and has permanently changed our lives.

Thursday morning, as I one handedly emptied the dishwasher, Reilly Kate and Roman decided to rob the couch of its cushions and pillows to use as a means of creating a mountain. The stacked up their ill gotten boulders and when completed, jumped on said mountain. This then turned to something a bit more sinister: rough play involving jumping not just on the mountain, but on each other. We will never know the full story. I doubt even they know the truth of what happened that day.

But this much we've gathered from soulful confessions and angry accusations: Roman fell with his arm positioned awkwardly on the couch. Reilly Kate then either stomped or jumped on his arm. She confessed to me that she stomped on his arm, only intending to "leave a bruise." Roman insists she jumped on his arm. I hope he is right. Jumping has an element of fun to it. But if she did as she confessed and stomped with the intent to inflict pain and injury, I see no other element but sadism. And that scares me. I think it has also scared her.

When it happened, he began crying out in pain. As they are pretty brutal when playing rough, I naturally assumed he was hurt, but as has always been the case till then, he'd be okay. I yelled something akin to, "Knock that shit off right now! Pick up those fucking cushions and help me pick up the house. Roman, you'll be fine. Now, hush up and get to work."

Five minutes later he was crying just as hard as he had been when it first happened. I came out into the living room and inspected his arm, where he pointed. I saw nothing other than a little redness.

"You'll be fine. But this is why I always fucking tell you," I crescendoed, "not to rough play! When will you kids learn your lesson?"

And I stomped off to continue my one handed dish sorting. When five more minutes passed and he still was writhing in pain, I went back to take an even closer look. I turned his arm over to look at the underneath and that is when I saw a large knob sticking out, right above his elbow.

"Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my fucking GOD!" I cried out. Then turning to lash my fury on the one I knew broke my baby, "YOU!! YOU, Reilly Kathleen!! YOU BROKE YOUR BROTHER'S FUCKING ARM!!"

It was about 10:30 and we'd blown off swim practice that morning because both Reilly Kate and the baby had pretty bad coughs, so this caught us in the midst of an extremely rare, lazy summer morning. The baby and I were still in pjs. No one had brushed their hair or teeth. The dogs had been let out, but not exercised. I hadn't even eaten breakfast. I whirled around, only partially sane, throwing on clothes, grabbing diapers, and making a couple of quick calls.

We were back in triage in under an hour. Same administrators. Same nurses. Different doctor, thankfully. Oh, and with our own room this time. No measly gurney in the hall for us this time! No sir! Everyone was convinced that the arm was broken, but he was no longer crying or seeming to be in much pain at all. In fact, according to Roman when it first happened the pain "felt like squirrels chomping on my neck," but "now it feels like giraffes chewing leaves."

There was a glimmer of hope that, in the ER doc's words, "we may have escaped tragedy." But as the xrays would reveal, no, we hadn't. Not this time.

He had broken his humerus, right above the elbow, or more aptly, Reilly Kate had. It was a bad break, too, but not an uncommon one. The orthopedist explained that the problems with this type of break are many as the area is unstable and filled with arteries and nerves that complicate the mending process. He'd have to have surgery, the doctor told me, in the next few hours.

On Tuesday after my own ER visit, I had gone to the Verizon store as my phone seemed to have crapped out. So crapped out indeed was my phone, that they were unable to transfer any of the phone numbers out of my phone book. So, there I was on Thursday with my new phone in the ER being told that my son needed emergency surgery and the only numbers I had were Mike who wasn't picking up his phone (despite knowing that Roman's arm was most likely broken), my mom in Chicago, and my friend Nicole who while local was unable to help me as she had just had IVF and was on bedrest. Thankfully, my mom was able to grab the next flight out and Nicole's teenage daughter picked her up at the airport and dropped her off at the hospital. Oh, and Mike turned his phone back on.

Sending my baby off to have surgery just might be one of the hardest things I've ever done. As they wheeled a terrified and wailing Roman down the hall, my insides broke down and quivered with fear and guilt. I spent the duration of his surgery stuffing myself with pizza and ice cream while praying as fervently as... well, as a mother with a child in surgery.

The doctor put in two pins. But, he explained, that may not be enough to hold the parts of the bone together. He's hoping the bone knits quickly enough to hold it. We'll know if he'll need another surgery later this week. If he does, it'll happen shortly after the dr decides it. The nerves that control the fingers and hand run right through the area that is broken and subsequently pinned. Those nerves can be impacted by the break, by the surgery, by the pins, and/or by the post op swelling. The worst case scenario (that which the drs hate to tell you, but must) is that he will completely lose the use of that hand (his left, Thank God). It may be that he just loses strength and dexterity in that hand, or just the thumb, or even not at all. So far, so good. He's wiggling all the digits just fine and the swelling, while scary, seems well managed.

Most likely, even with all the best possible outcomes, he will need additional surgery during his lifetime. As he grows, the bones will grow irregularly and will become deformed. An osteotomy (like I had on my forearm) will hopefully fix this.

At this point, it's all wait and see.

Mike is still leaving on Tuesday for 6 mos in Afghanistan. My mom will be staying with us for at least the week.

Roman is still in a lot of pain and is on painkillers. But he's a trooper and is really coping well. Despite the pain. And anger he has at his sister. Please keep him in your prayers. He has a long, hard road to recovery.

A little something for someone who will know it is for her when she reads it

2008-06-28T21:53:00.003-05:00

Miss Manners

Returning engagement ring sends right message

In one state after another, judges are being asked to rule on whether ladies whose engagements are broken are legally required to give back the engagement rings to those cads they once agreed to marry.

There are several things about this development that Miss Manners doesn't understand:

1. Why are the courts involved in this question at all, when there has always been an etiquette rule on the books requiring that the ring must be returned when the engagement is -- for whatever reason -- defunct?

2. Why would a lady want to keep a token symbolizing love that has proved false?

3. Especially if she has been jilted, why would a lady forgo one of the grand gestures of all times -- flinging the ring back into the face of the despised lover?

4. How can Miss Manners be so naive?

To answer the last question first, Miss Manners chooses to be naive. That is because naive is the least unflattering characterization now used for people like her -- people who believe that personal conduct might be guided by something other than financial advantage.

Everyone else thinks it stupid for a lady who has gotten hold of a diamond to allow it out of her grasp unless the strong arm of the law comes and pries it away from her.

But Miss Manners is not so naive as to believe that disappointed brides have no care for their own dignity. Rather, she is afraid that they believe that their hope of salvaging dignity from this humiliating situation is to inflict whatever financial damage they can (which is the answer to the third question). And since breach-of-promise laws have gone out of fashion, they take what is at hand, so to speak (and that is the answer to the second).

Sometimes this is justified as recouping what has been spent on wedding preparations, and is invoked even when the engagement has been broken by the ring-wearer. More often, it is seen as compensation for emotional distress. Whether the charge is disillusionment or desertion, there is a punitive element.

"I deserve it," is the phrase the ladies in question often use.

Probably not, as it turns out. The courts are ruling otherwise. The comparison being made -- still in financial terms -- is to the down payment on a house; when the deal is called off, the payment is returned.

This reasoning brings Miss Manners to that troubling first question: Do we really want the law to enforce engagements? Of course, everyone expects the law to make up for all of life's disappointments. Nevertheless, a broken engagement, however painful, is one less broken marriage. Miss Manners does not defend heart-breakers; she only wants to protect the innocent from marrying them.

And she does want to protect the dignity of the wounded.

That is why she doesn't want them to furnish proof that they are so grasping that the symbolism of an engagement ring has entirely escaped them, and they see nothing but its monetary value.

What kind of punishment is it to show a cad that he was justified?

Quote of the Day

2008-06-23T21:15:00.001-05:00

"But... ummm... I can't give you spoons."

--Darrin, our waiter at Logan's Roadhouse, when we asked for the kids' desserts to go. He's obviously a scholar just waiting for his time to shine.

The #1 Thing I learned in San Francisco

2008-06-21T21:47:00.002-05:00

How could I forget to list the most important thing I learned in San Francisco? It was when I learned this particular nugget that made me think how very educational the whole trip had been and how I needed to compile a list of these nuggets to share with you all.

You see, I'm on a quest to know everything before I die. I mean EVERYTHING. And I'm almost there. But had I not been on this trip at this time with these kids, had the stars not aligned just right, I might have lost out on this little gem of info and died without having reached my goal.

So, without any further ado, I give the #1 thing I learned in San Francisco:

Half digested Rice Krispy treats are just as sticky post regurgitation as they are prior to eating.

Refer to #43 of my last blog entry to read about how I know this. And consider yourself lucky that all you had to do was read about it.

43 Things I learned while in San Francisco

2008-06-17T17:02:00.010-05:00

1. Just because you start a trip with a kid running a fever of 104 and just because said kid pukes upon his arrival at the airport does not guarantee the whole trip is going to suck.

But it is a pretty good indication.

2. TSA won't look twice at the plentiful bottles of liquid children's medicine, but don't you dare try to sneak an extra ounce of fruit juice by them. This is the War on Terror, people. Juice in the wrong hands...

3. Eating seaside is fun, particularly during a Happy Hour featuring $5 pineapple mojitos.

4. San Francisco is too fucking cold to eat outdoors.

5. When booking two adjoining rooms, make sure the second room comes with beds... and a t.v.... and that it's been cleaned in the last three decades.

6. Contrary to the name, nothing at Holiday Inn Express is festive or fast. The "Inn" part is somewhat accurate as the rooms do have walls and a roof. What more, really, can one ask for? I mean, besides a bed.

7. Outdoor pools in San Francisco are solely for the enjoyment of ducks and photographers because it is too fucking cold to actually use the damn things.

8. Taking your kids with you on a wine tasting tour is a great way to go out drinking without the expense of a babysitter.

9. Everything tastes better when eaten with good wine. Even $5 water crackers and $7 cheese.

10. The best thing to do when your son pours a whole blueberry smoothie in your Luis Vuitton purse is to walk away... with your wine bottle... and drink straight from it... and don't look into your purse until the bottle is empty.

11. Giving your kids the camera to play with is a great way to keep them occupied, get interesting pictures of the winery, and keeps them out of your hair while you get sloppy drunk on delicious wines.

12. A case of wine can be packaged and brought home in lieu of a suitcase. And really, the wine is medicinal. Clothing is optional.

13. When you are fat and still look 6 months pregnant despite being 15 months post partum, do not be surprised when the pourer suggest you taste "some of our wonderful alcohol free wines."

14. Napa is much warmer than San Francisco despite its proximity. Dress accordingly.

15. Laundromats still exist and it is still a quarter for five minutes in the dryer. There are also still a lot of weirdos hanging out at them. They still smell of liquor and piss. And your clothes still seem a little cleaner after a wash in the laundromat than the nice, clean non-piss-smelling washer at home. Go figure.

16. Full frontal nudity phases neither of my children. Even a painting of a naked, lounging man hung over the toilet in a women's bathroom. Neither child did a double take. Neither child asked questions. What does that say about my parenting, I wonder.

17. When your son asks to take a picture of you, expect a boob shot.

18. Nonrehearsal undinners should be held at dive bars in San Francisco. They are groovy.

19. Sushi in San Francisco is just not as good as sushi in Hawaii despite the geography and the Asian influence. Of course, nothing anywhere is as good as anything in Hawaii. And you can quote me on that.

20. People intentionally wearing white and, knowingly, still insist on playing with your pizza covered toddler will get upset with you when they too are covered with pizza. Two words here, people: stain fucking stick. No, "fucking" doesn't count as a word.

21. I miss hanging out at dive bars, drinking beer and smoking for hours on end. I'm not saying I'd go and do it again. I'm just saying I miss it. Like I miss having boobs that aren't long and thighs that don't rub. Ah, to be young again.

22. San Francisco is even colder than it looks in the pictures. Dress accordingly.

23. If you want to live with your head in the clouds, move to San Francisco. The clouds hover within head range. Literally.

24. Despite the fact that they all look the same, not all the bridges in San Francisco are the Golden Gate Bridge. And, despite the name, none of them are Golden. I just love that. Really, what I'd love is if they'd name one of the bridges Old Rusty and paint it a sparkling gold. Wouldn't that be a hoot?

25. Old military barracks can become quaint little reception halls. With some work. And imagination. And co-ed bathrooms. Ah, but they'll still have that smell. You know. That smell. Of old military barracks.

26. Deer are everywhere... except where my poor novice hunter husband is. Yes, as he sat in Virginia playing with his bow and arrow trying to conjure up the image of a deer in his mind, we were dodging them left and right in good old Cali. Go west, bald man. Go west.

27. My Garmin has a first name. It's D-I-L-B-E-R-T. My Garmin has second name. It's D-U-M-A-S-S. Ummm, that's pronounced doo-'mahs, ya dumb ass. And he is my love, my light. I'll be leaving Mike to marry him whenever they legalize marriage between people and electronic equipment. Until then, however, we'll be on the down low.

28. Bees can make some pretty crazy looking hives. Oh, and people who are allergic to their stings should either bring along an epi pen or shut the fuck up (yes, Mom, I'm talking to you!).

29. It takes three adults and three children exactly 2 hours and 7 minutes to get dressed for a wedding. That includes showering, shaving, and shitting multiple times (at least for one adult over the age of 60 who is allergic to bee stings that shall remain nameless to protect her identity).

30. My kids are the cutest freakin' kids on the whole dang planet. And they should be. They sucked it right outta me. Literally. Through the tits. No kidding. My brains and my looks. In the breastmilk. Why do you think they call it liquid gold?

31. One should always check the battery in your camera so as to avoid wasting 200 shots on the guests arriving to the wedding only to have it die before the ceremony begins.

32. You can always squeeze off one or two shots with your camera after the battery has died. Just make sure they are money shots, baby.

33. Love is sleeveless on a damn cold day on the beach in San Francisco. Hell, every fucking day on the beach in San Francisco is a damn cold day. But only love can make you do it sleeveless.

34. Just because you've been married for only 14 years but have had the same last name for 37 years doesn't mean anyone will remember what your name actually is.

35. When your camera will no longer turn on, that is when your kids will start posing for the cutest pictures. Fortunately, there's a professional photographer snapping up dozens of them. For the low, low price $59.95 per 4x6. Bastards!

36. Despite the exquisite food, the tasty mojitos, and the vast amounts of amazing wine, if there ain't no hokey pokey, then really, there is no point in having a wedding reception. 'Cause when you do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around, THAT'S what it's all about.

37. All pictures of me taken by Reilly Kate make me look far fatter than I really am, and I don't need any help in that regard. This is because despite stealing both my beauty and my brains, my evil offspring try to set me up for further failure. With this photo RK hopes to put the kibosh on my super model aspirations. Bitch.

38. Alcatraz was a men only prison. This is because only men would be stupid enough to think of being on a beautiful island surrounded by gorgeous views of San Francisco, being fed three gourmet meals a day, several of hours of exercise coupled with the occasional solitary time, without any responsibilities other than brushing your teeth as punishment. We women know luxury when we see it and if they had opened Alcatraz to women, there'd have been a sudden rise in crimes committed by women, mostly mothers. Obviously some bastards over there were thinking.

39. My friend Holly and her friend Barb are one in the same person. Same hair. Same smile. Same natural good looks. Same laugh. Same sing song voice. Same body. Same stance. Same funny personality. Same kids. I don't know how they did it. But they melded into one. And it's a little creepy. [fade in Twilight Zone theme song]

40. To San Francisco, June might as well be January. Have I mentioned it's cold?

41. Kids still can go up to the cockpit and explore the equipment. They just cannot do it in flight. Especially Roman since he looks so much like Osama bin Laden.

42. I have an until recently repressed pilot-stewardess fantasy. See picture for reason it is no longer repressed. Oy. And I should really post his ass. Yes, I took a picture of his ass.

43. Just because you end a trip with a kid puking upon her arrival at the airport does not guarantee the whole trip home is going to suck.

But sitting in puke, soaked down to your underwear, for 5 hours is a pretty good indication that the rest of your week is going to suck. Excuse me now while I go get a bucket.

Quote of the Day

2008-06-06T22:36:00.002-05:00

Now I can become the first woman president!

--Reilly Kate upon hearing that Obama clinched the nomination.

Swing Low, Sweet Charity

2008-05-28T22:03:00.008-05:00

John was one of the first people we met when we moved here over a year ago. He's one of those dynamic, charismatic personality types. A bachelor and a real ladies man, the kids took to him immediately and I have to admit, so did I.

He's athletic: both an accomplished swimmer and an avid tennis player with a keen interest in car racing. I'm not sure he plays golf, but I can tell you, nothing would look more natural than John on a golf course holding a nine iron.

He's well spoken and mildly opinionated with an infectious laugh and a devastatingly handsome grin. His comedic timing has more than once sent this weak bladder into quivering spasms. His tender, sweet side has had me moved to tears, weeping with the poetry that seems to just pour out of him effortlessly.

Like us, he's a traveller, having toured his way through North America and Europe. He enjoys international and exotic cuisines just as much as we do, trading traditional American garbage for hummus or Szechuan.

He has a penchant for Irish music and late night delirious dancing. He enjoys a good party with friends and family and can always be found in the center of the action.

And John is wise. Very wise. He has the soulful eyes of one who has lived, seen, and understands.

Yet John is just 5 years old. Life has dealt him a hand that has forced this maturity. John has Type 1 Diabetes. He literally battles it every day, all day. I've witnessed his sugar highs and lows and watched as his mother lovingly prick his finger to test his blood sometimes multiple times each hour. Yes, each hour. Hour after hour. Trying to get his blood sugar under control. It is heartbreaking. And yet for John, it is. It just is.

This Sunday the kids and I will be walking with John in the Juvenile Diabetes Research Fund Walk to Find a Cure. What I didn't know, before I met John is that Type 1 diabetes is thought to be caused by a virus and that a cure is right around the corner. I was stunned. A CURE for diabetes.

I swore that I would not donate a dime to anything outside the Democratic cause this year. But this tugged at my heartstrings. How could it not? It's for John. And for millions of kids like him.

Don't believe me about John? Take a look for yourself. You'll find, he's quite a kid. This is a quick video clip of a speech he made about the need to find a cure for diabetes. Watch it. Then follow the link and donate a little. Just a teeny little bit. The kids and I will match what you donate, dime for dime. So a $5 donation is really like a $10 donation. It's like magic that way. And for all you Republicans, remember, every dollar donated is one more I cannot send to the DNC. I knew I could appeal to you greedy types somehow.

Visit our donation page.

Going to the Dogs

2008-05-23T20:31:00.004-05:00

So many people have let me know that they have been thinking about us and Alyx and asking about how she's doing. I'm here to tell you that she is doing fabulous. She's almost completely healed from her surgery, although the spot where they shaved her is still bare. The chemo beads they placed in the incision spot have almost all dissolved. Her oncologist told us at her last appointment that we should "take her home and treat her like a normal dog." Those were the best words I could have heard.

We did have a bit of a scare following her surgery. The doctors were monitoring her kidney functions and the first few weeks her levels were quite abnormal. They talked of all kinds of things, including "renal failure." I held my breath and bribed her to drink more water with splashes of cage free, organic, low sodium chicken broth. But last week, when they retested her, all levels were well within the normal range. It seems that having two surgeries, one of which a pretty major surgery followed by chemotherapy, is a bit hard on 11 year old canine kidneys. Who'd a thunk it, huh?

But she bounced back and is doing great. She's back out there walking her two miles a day with Daddy and Freyja and playing and running around like the young pup she still is.

Speaking of Freyja, though... Wow. What were we thinking there? She's a delight and we really do love her. But... wow... ummm... handful? We've been having some food aggression issues which are scary. I mean they put dogs down for food aggression issues when they come to shelters. But our poor girl was virtually starved before she came to her foster family and she eats every meal like she hasn't eaten in days and she may not ever eat again. Add to that the chaos of small children and other dogs and you can see where the aggression lies. We've been feeding her by hand now and that has eliminated all the aggression. We also have her in obedience classes where I'm sure she'll soon outshine the other drab pups.

A couple of days after Alyx received the all clear from her doctors, Mike was playing with Freyja and called me over. "Hey, Heather. Have you noticed this lump on Freyja's mouth before?"

My heart sank. "Lump? What lump?" Sure enough, she has a lump growing within her right cheek. I took her to the vet and she assured me that it would be "very rare to see cancer in a dog this young." I laughed at this, "Like a mast cell tumor beneath the skin, right?"

She's going to have it aspirated when she gets her spay done next month. I don't know what we'd do if she too has cancer. We've blown our dog budget in the last few months. I won't even tell you by how much, but canine cancer treatment doesn't come cheap. Plus, we're having to build a fence around our backyard -- one that Freyja cannot jump over, all 55 lbs of her. And chew toys. Do you know how expensive chew toys are? Like 20 bucks a piece and when your puppy goes through them like they're cotton candy, that adds up. Oh, and don't forget the dog behaviorist who will be coming by for private sessions to rid her of her "rescue dog baggage."

Yes, we're doing our part to stimulate the economy. But we can't do it all by ourselves. Go out people and adopt yourself a dog!! Lots of dogs out there needing homes, especially those so called forclosure dogs -- dogs who's owners had to turn them over when they lost their home to forclosure. So get out there and stimulate by adopting a dog!

Anyway. That's our update. Truman, by the way, is as he always is. Just in case anyone is wondering. Poor Truman. He's such the middle child.

Blessings Abound

2008-04-24T21:08:00.002-05:00

We met with the oncologist today. It seems that that visit to the District to get waved at by the Pope is all paying off now. With prayer, luck, and about $3000, my baby has a 95% chance of beating her cancer.

They ran a battery of tests today including an abdominal ultrasound, a chest xray, and a buffy coat (which is a blood test to check if the cancer spread to the bone marrow). All clear!! Yay!

Thank God!! And thank you St Francis for your intercessions!!!

Monday she will undergo another surgery to take more of the surrounding area out and to place chemo beads throughout the incision. And this should, hopefully, we pray, take care of my baby girl.

But why can't I breathe a little easier. Where is that sigh? I still feel the weight of the world on my shoulders. And don't tell me to shrug. I can't.

The Pope Races Cancer

2008-04-23T20:01:00.006-05:00

So as you all know, the Pope came to Washington. But what you may not know is that yours truly sat roadside and received a papal blessing... of sorts.

You see, it all started a long, long time ago, back in the mid to late 1970s when our then pope -- the very Polish Pope John Paul II -- came to visit the very Polish city of Chicago (in case you didn't know, Chicago's got more polaks than the Bush family has idiots). My very Polish... er... Irish... er... German Lutheran mother decided to call us all in sick and sit down on the curb for 8 hours awaiting his arrival at the Polish Heritage Center. She sat with every Catholic medal, prayer book, rosary, and mass card ever gifted, inherited, stolen, or otherwise owned by anyone in our family for the last 17 generations (not all German Lutherans, of course) along with her two young children to whom she witheld drink, for there was no potty on the curb. There we thirsty three sat, yearning for the time when the pope would come by and give us Lutherans his blessing, freeing us to go home and once again drink to thirst.

In all seriousness, the moment that Pope JPII came upon the crowd, his head and torso popping out of the sunroof of some fancy car, I was awestruck. There were Polish dancers all around, music blaring, people screaming and waving, and yet for me it seemed silent and solemn and holy. He first turned and did a blessing to the center which was directly across from us. He then switched to face us, we three thirsty Lutherans along with about 40,000 Chicago Polish Catholics all crowded together on one city block. Making the sign of the cross, he blessed us. I got the goosebumps and tears filled my eyes. My hands shook and my heart pounded. It was a very powerful memory for me, one that remains to this day, 30 years later. I still have the medals my mom bought me for the occassion. I'll probably be buried with them.

So, when the new Pope showed up here in DC, I naturally didn't even remotely entertain the idea of dragging my three young children off into the city to fight the hoards of people clammering for a bit of papal love. Why, I'm not friggin' nuts here, folks! I am a busy mom with things to do and laundry to fold. I can't take time out of my day to make memories that last a lifetime... or... maybe... huh.

I sent out a message to my posse: the homeschool moms. I might be nuts enough to do this thing, but I am not crazy enough to go it alone. I'm dragging whomever I can down with me, dammit! And who do you think volunteers to come along with me? My dear friend Tami, a devout Mormon, of course. We latched our rag tag group onto another mother and her 8 children (Catholic converts!) and all of us trekked down to the District.

Much folly ensued that will be skipped over due to time and space constraints, but suffice it to say that my children weren't on a curb long enough to even get thirsty before the Pope came gliding by. Although, we did have a baggie filled with medals, a few crosses and crucifixes, a prayer book for each of the older children, and all the rosaries I had in the house. We were well weighted down as we raced to get there with only about 3 minutes to spare to secure a spot (which we did well!) and get our cameras out. Tami took this awesome picture.

It wasn't quite as magical as my childhood memories. I don't quite agree with the mother of 8 who said, it was the best "three and a half seconds of my life!" He was busy talking to the bishop as he drove by in his popemobile. But he did raise his hand in a gesture of papal salutation and I think that's the best we'll get from this pope. I'll take it. I take what I can get, after all.

The fact is that I'm not a big fan of this pope. I mean, I actually wasn't a big fan of the last pope, either. But as a child, I really had no opinion. I just knew he was the Pope, the head of the church, the heir of St Peter. As a child, that was enough. That was more than enough. That was awe inspiring.

On our way back home, I asked the kids what was more fun, seeing the pope or riding on the Metro. Unanimously they chorused, "Seeing the pope!" Even Tami's son Zack. So I guess I did manage to recapture that silent, solemn, holy moment, even if just for them.

My moment will come again someday... when once again I feel my skin prickle and my tears swell with pride. Someday, perhaps far into the future, when our pope is one who cycles with the moon. I gotta have something to pray for.

*************************************************************************************

About a month ago, while lying in bed fading into sleep, Mike informed me that we had been invited to go to a birthday party at the horse races. Did I want to go?

Yeah, sure, whatever was my noncommital type response and I forgot all about it.

Until.

Mike tells me that when he responded to the Evite, there was a lot of talk about women in hats and dresses and even a Lady's Hat contest. And that's when I knew. Mike hadn't gotten us into going to some dude's drunken birthday bash as the race track. Oh, no. He'd gotten us into some crazy southern ritual involving lace and chiffon and ascots.

Horse races, my white ass. These are not just horse races, people. These are Virginia horse races. And these aren't just any Virginia horse races. This is the Middleburg Spring Races. And this is the south. We couldn't just go in jeans and tshirts. Oh, no, no, no. We had to dress up. This is an EVENT. This is a social! This is a dress affair! To tail gate. And these tail gates are complete with table cloths and floral center pieces and catered food and all kinds of high heel insanity. You've never seen so much southern snobbery this far from Texas.

Iryna made a little friend, as you can see. She thought she was belle of the ball. But she's a Virginian, remember.

The kids had a blast, too, after they met up with a perfect stranger who allowed them to pick her horse and place her bets. Please note that Miss Jane (as she liked to be called) is a local Middleburg gal. They apparantly don't have to dress up. Or perhaps they just don't rate with the DC snobs that travel out to the country to walk in horse shit in heels. Hmmmm...

But, there was beer. And so, Mama was happy. Enough. Anyway.

*************************************************************************************

And the final segment of today's blog post:

My baby girl Alyx.

Six years ago a friend of mine came to stay with us for a few days while packing up and leaving the island for the mainland. She had three dogs. One of which was a pitbull who took an instant disliking to my Alyx. Before we could separate them, the pit tried to take a chunk out of Alyx's side.

Not long after that, Alyx developed a lump on that side. Being the worry wart mommy that I am, I took her to the vet immediately. He felt it, squeezed it, rolled it between in thumb and forefinger and declared it a cyst and nothing to worry about.

The cyst would remain. As we moved around, I would have our new vet look at it, each one agreeing with the initial diagnosis. I once scheduled to have it removed during a teeth cleaning. The vet completely forgot, but once again I was assured it was absolutely nothing and not to worry. Not one of them even thought to aspirate it.

Finally, I decided to have the darn thing removed as it had recently been feeling a little bit bigger. Again, during a cleaning as an almost after thought, our current vet took it out. It was about the size of a large olive. A few days ago she called to give the results of the biopsy which I was kind of surprised that the vet herself was calling me.

"It's a mast cell tumor," she said.

"Uh huh," I mumbled as I chopped red pepper.

"Stage II," she continued.

"Okay," I managed while thinking about what I should eat with the red pepper.

"I was kind of surprised when I got the results. I really thought it was benign," she went on.

This, this stopped me dead in my chop.

"Huh? What? Ummm... can you... uhhhhh...." I searched the counter tops quickly for a paper and pen. "Can you repeat the name of that tumor again and the stage it is in?"

We went on from there to have a rather painful conversation on what Alyx may or may not have to endure from here on in.

I'm absolutely devastated. Crushed beyond reason.

We are meeting with the oncologist tomorrow. We'll know more then. Until then, my friends, family, strangers who just stalk my blog because you are a glutton for my freaky sense of humor and foul mouth, please send good vibes, positive energy, prayers to St. Francis, whatever you got. Send them to my sweet gal. This is the dog of a life time. You dog people out there know what I mean when I say this. She is the dog of a lifetime. She is not yet 11 years old and I am not in any way ready to let her go. Not now. Not yet. I can't.

She's gotta fight.

Me & Lisa Hartman

2008-04-11T19:38:00.006-05:00

Today I was standing in line at Costco with the usual suspects, Demon Spawn Girl Child #1, Demon Spawn Boy Child #2, Iryna, and cream cheese, veggie platter, and a chicken, when out of nowhere the woman in front of me says, "You look just like Lisa Hartman Black."

"Me?" I asked, stunned and waiting for the punchline.

"Yes," she confirmed. "In fact, at first I thought you were her. Your eyes are exactly the same as hers. Really. You've never heard this before?"

I'm not making this shit up, people. I couldn't even if I tried. I'm not that smart or creative. If I was that smart and creative, do you really think I'd be sitting around wasting it on this blog and entertaining you? Come on, now.

So, I came home flying high and big headed. That nose ring really must be working for me, thinks me, foolishly. I mean, this was quite the boost to a big, old fat housewife like myself.

Until.

I looked up Lisa Hartman Black. I knew who she was, but I just wanted to really get a look at her. Ya know, to compare myself and all. I took my picture and then sat down to the Google. The results are stunning.

As you can see, I could be mistaken for her twin. We look that much alike. In fact, I was planning to grill my mother about this remarkable resemblance. My mind was racing, trying to figure out how we are related, because a resemblance that eerily close doesn't just randomly occur. I mean, I thought we must be sisters. My mom must have gotten herself knocked up in high school and the child she put up for adoption went on to become Lisa Hartman Black!

NOT!

I look about as much like Lisa Hartman Black as Bush looks like an intelligent world leader.

But just for shits and gigs I looked up her birthdate. Born in 1956. She's just 10 years younger than my mom, making her a full fucking FIFTEEN years older than ME!!

Yes, today I was told I look 52.

Do you think I can sue Costco for damages?

Land Called Paradise

2008-04-10T18:16:00.003-05:00

This was forwarded to me through one of the many lists I am on. I don't normally watch or read things that are forwarded, but I'm glad I did this one. Despite the hillbilly music.

To my dear friend Ala'a: May we meet someday in a land called paradise, but until then may God hold you and your family in the palm of his hand.

You know your closer to breaking a hip than being hip when...

2008-04-08T20:05:00.003-05:00

In February I turned 37. I know, it's hard to believe. But it is true. And with that advanced age (yes, the exact word they'd use if I were to become pregnant: "advanced maternal age") comes a modicum of wisdom. Remember now, just a modicum, though.

My little nugget of knowledge came in the form of a realization that my mother can no longer ground me for doing stupid stuff. That's right. I'm 37. I have three kids. Three dogs (well, now I have three anyway). A husband. A beautiful home... with a mortgage to prove it. I am a grown up. And she cannot ground me any longer. I am free to do stupid stuff and I don't have to hide it (because, mind you, I always did stupid stuff, but then I had to go through the whole hassle of hiding the stupidity and there are just some things that cannot be hidden.) Armed with this knowledge I made a lifelong dream a reality.

I got my nose pierced.

But alas, my dear readers, I was a bit late in achieving this goal so gaining my nasal jewelry wasn't without the humiliation that you've all come to expect from the Fat Housewife. Au contraire, mon ami, it was rife with humiliation. By the way, I haven't a fucking clue what that really means as I don't speak a lick of French, but it sounds pretty cool, doesn't it? That's what people with nasal piercings talk like. Cool talk.

When I first told Mike of my intentions, his comment was, "So, you're going to be the wife with all that shit in your face?" See Pulp Fiction for reference on this one. Then, I came down with the never ending sinus infection from hell which required no less than three weeks on antibiotics. Not exactly the best time to get a nose piercing, ya know? But while I was waiting for my mucus to change from a bright green streaked with blood (sorry about that if you were eating, but ya know, it's never a good thing to come to this blog and eat anyway), I talked it up to everyone I knew, probably so that I wouldn't chicken out. In my gabbing on about it, I found another middle aged housewife yearning to be hip: my friend Nicole. To be totally truthful, unlike me, Nicole isn't trying to regain her youth and be cool. She is willing to get the piercing as it is held in Indian beliefs to help with fertility and childbirth and she's planning an IVF this June.

Finally, I figure I'm well enough to plunge cheap metal into my face and pay for the privilege. We set the date and drag all three of my kids and her three year old son with us. Now, in Hawaii I brought my kids in tattoo places several times. It was no big deal there in the land of the laid back. But here, apparently, there are uptights who like to make laws preventing children under the age of 13 from entering such places. Laws that escaped me... and my friend Nicole, a former lawyer turned homeschooler.

So, envision if you will, two fat housewives trotting with four kids, one of which is a sleeping baby, into a tattoo parlour at 2:30 in the afternoon. The place was packed with people all under the age of 22, I swear. When we walked in, it was alive with chit chat and laughter, the humming buzz of tattoo guns throughout the store. But one look at us and it was as if someone said, "EF Hutton" (and when I make that reference it really dates me). All stopped what they were doing and looked up at us. I mean, every. single. person.

"They [pointing at the kids] cannot be in here," said a smiling young man with shit in his face. "At all," he added, just in case I was so old that I didn't understand that they couldn't even be in there just a a little bit. Ya know, us seniors sometimes don't understand.

"Okay," I replied, trying hard to act cool and calm and devil may care all the while blushing so hard from embarrassment that my crows feet must have stood out like scarlet footprints. "Can I... uhhh... ya know... ask you a question?"

He just looked at me and pointed to the door, but I wasn't about to throw in the towel that easily. You know me, I can't bow out with any grace left. I must be totally humiliated for it to be mission accomplished in my book.

"We... ummm... wanted to get our noses pierced... and I uhhhh..." I stammered.

The dude with the shit in his face kept smiling as he said, "The piercer doesn't work on Mondays."

"But I called ahead, on Saturday, and was told he works Monday through Saturday. That Sunday is his only day off," I replied, again refusing to leave with even a shred of dignity. Then I repeated, "Ya know, I mean, I called ahead," as if that would make all the difference and because I called ahead the piercer would magically set all things right, including making me 15 years younger and 30 lbs thinner and without the belly sag that an almost 11 lb baby leaves behind. Call or none, it did not matter.

"Yeah, he tattoos on Mondays. Come back tomorrow after two."

And with that, we marched our illegal offspring out of the tattoo parlour, utterly dejected, feeling old and fat and housewifey. Well, at least I did. Nicole seemed to be unscathed, self esteem in tact and all. But she is a year younger than I. That could account for it.

Today, we ventured back sans kids but plus one more fat housewife (you know us crazy homeschool moms love tattoos and piercings). No one really noticed when we walked in, and we weren't the oldest in the shop -- there was another woman there at least a few years older than we. Of course, she was there with her teenage daughter who was the one getting the piercing. But no one stared at us anyway.

We filled out their forms swearing we wouldn't sue them if our noses fell off and, of course, in my paranoia about looking for all the world, or at least this particular tattoo shop, a pathetic old woman trying to recapture her youth, I totally messed up where I was supposed to sign. Then, and this was the best, they carded us. You know. To make sure we were, ummmm, like over 18.

Dumb ass that I am, I asked if I could just show them my crows feet instead. Self deprecating humor, I prefer to call it.

Regardless of my wrinkles, they took my ID and my $60 (who would have thought it would cost so damn much of Mike's money to get some shit in my face?) and gave me a pink sparkly stud for my nose. It looks pretty cool, I must say, even on an old hag like myself.

TGI Freyja

2008-04-06T19:14:00.007-05:00

A few weeks back, I had promised the kids if they behaved during mass there would be a treat in it for them. No, I am not above bribery, thankyouverymuch. In fact, if a crack and whore party were to get them to actually listen to the homily, I'd spring for that, too. Fortunately, it hasn't come to that... yet.

As I am trying, sometimes in vain, to eliminate the chemicals and crap from our diets, I did not want the treat to be some food item. As I am also attempting to teach my children respect for the planet and conservation and to eschew the needless, endless cycle of American consumerism, I did not want their reward to be cheap, plastic toy that would only end up in a landfill in a few months time. Those who are thinking that the reward for behaving properly in mass should be the spiritual satisfaction of an hour of worthy worship either do not have very young children or their children are future men and women of the cloth. I myself am raising demon spawn.

So with this in mind, when I saw a sign at PetsMart that read "German Shepherd Rescue Today" I thought I had found the perfect treat: pet the dogs at PetsMart. With two dogs already, we certainly were not in the market for another dog. But it is always fun to pet dogs.

Yay! Everyone was happy! Loving on homeless dogs! No junk food! No Chinese crap toys! Pure, free fun! I'm a genius!

And then we saw her. I saw her first. Then Mike. This familiar looking pup, black and tan, with soulful eyes and a bashful personality. I asked the person holding her leash what she was called.

"Betsy," he told me.

I squatted down to introduce myself to Betsy and I knew, I just knew that she was mine. She looked so much like my Alyx and her personality was also a match. I insisted Mike come and meet her, too. He fell as hard as I did.

But being the responsible, sane, rational people that we are, we dragged ourselves away and drove home... with thoughts of Betsy on our minds.

"What are you thinking about," he asked me.

"None of your business," I snapped.

We weren't home ten minutes when we loaded the kids back into the car and sped back to the PetsMart to fill out adoption papers and give them a $10 deposit.

Now, I will tell you, the application process for these rescues in comically complicated. I've had many people say to me that it seems more difficult to adopt a dog than a child. I assure you, this is not the case. It is far, far more difficult to adopt a child. But, it is still unbelievably difficult. I had to provide three local references. Our dogs veterinarians had to be contacted and their shot records had to be released. We had to have our home and yard inspected.

All the while we were told, "We will match you with your dream dog as soon as you are approved."

Ummm... no. No matching us with our dream dog. We are only interested in Betsy.

"Yes, yes. We will match with the best dog for you and your family."

But, as it had only been a few days and we really are good dog people, I assumed it would be fine. I mean, we had been very specific on our application that we only wanted Betsy. Very specific.

Our home visit was on a Sunday and when I didn't hear from my case worker (yes, people! The Doggy Rescue provides you a case worker! Don't ya love it?) by Tuesday night, I emailed her and asked when we'd be able to bring Betsy home.

This was her response: "Oh, sorry for the confusion. You were interested in Betsy but Betsy got a new home last weekend. Is there anyone else you'd like to meet or are you planning to attend the Pet Expo this weekend."

I was totally, utterly, devastatingly crushed. We all were. It was like a funeral around here. We were in love. We had already adopted her in our hearts. I had even made Betsy's picture the wallpaper on my computer. And we'd lost her. I was told that that is how all rescues operate and that the mistake we made was falling in love with a dog prior to approval.

Huh? Since when are adoptions like arranged marriages? And who are these people to match me with my dream dog? They don't know me. Sure, they know my dogs' health histories, they know I have a dirty laundry hamper in my kitchen, and that I have a bunch of dead grass in my back yard. Sure they have the phone numbers of three of my friends and the ages of my kids. But they don't really know me. How could they match me with my dream dog?

Mike raged against the machine and I emailed our case worker to remind them that we weren't interested in any other dogs.

And yet, she still emailed me about dogs. Last weekend, while in southern Illinois for my nephew's first communion, she sent me this picture of "Misty," an obviously boy dog with a girl's name. When asked, my case worker got on the case and phoned around before emailing me back that they are totally, 100% certain Misty is a girl.

So now I've got this hermaphroditic puppy being offered to me as my dream dog. What the hell does that say about me? I mean, I'm all for mixing it up in the bedroom to spice up a seemingly endless 50+ years of unceasing monogamy, but how the hell do they know that? And we don't do dogs, hermaphroditic or otherwise. In fact, animals are out of the bedroom when there is spice of any kind going on. So how exactly is this a match?

But, being the sport I am, I play along and try to schedule a meeting with our transgendered Misty. I then get this email:

"I've talked to the puppy's foster and she doesn't feel the puppy would be a good fit for you. The puppy had been returned twice to the shelter because of nipping young children and is already nipping the foster's teenager.

Sorry, but I don't think it's going to work."

Well, of course, we don't want a nipper. But if you've ever had a puppy, you know that there is nipping and there is mouthing. They are two very separate things. I wanted to make sure that this was actual nipping they were talking about. Before I could follow up, however, I received an email from another person in the rescue group. We'll call her Kay. Kay tells me that she will be picking up a puppy that I might be interested in. So I emailed my case worker and she tells me that Kay's dog and the Divine Miss Misty are one and the same hermaphroditic nipper. I then email Kay and explain that we are not interested in Misty as she is a nipper to which Kay tells me she doesn't know who Misty is, but she picked up a sweet and beautiful pup called Amelia who "is just a baby and only doing baby things, mouthing because she still has her baby teeth." She gave me the name of the foster taking care of Amelia and I emailed her.

Are you still with me because it gets even more confusing.

The foster emails me and tells me that she too has never heard of Misty but she does have an adorable puppy called Amelia. Unfortunately, she doesn't think we should meet Amelia as Amelia is a nipper (but not most assuredly does NOT have a penis). Oh, and she added her confusion that we would even be interested in adopting from us as we had taken our name off the list of approved adopters.

Holy Mary! Pray for us!

My head was spinning at this point. The emails were coming in and out of my account at a rate that kept me pinned to my laptop. It honestly was the most entertainment I've had in a long time. Like a bad novel, I just could not read fast enough to get to the end and put myself out of misery!

And then, in the midst of chaos, came an email from an angel. She explained that she was fostering a pup called Misty but that she felt "Misty" wasn't a name befitting a German Shepherd so she had been using the name "Freyja" instead. She wrote a nice, long email about Freyja, her personality, her brief history, and her health. When I questioned the state of her sex, she sent me a picture and assured me that upon close up inspection, there weren't any surprise parts hiding in the recesses of Freyja's vagina.

To make a long story slightly abbreviated (What? You think I don't already know I'm long winded?), we are now the proud parents of a bouncing baby German Shepherd Dog called Freyja (say it with me now, FRAY-uh). We kept the name, partly because it is a very cool name (Freyja is the main Goddess in Norse Paganism and is the Goddess for whom "Friday" is named after) and partly to honor the couple, Danielle and Jeremy, who fostered her.

In one short week, they took a puppy who had lived her whole, be it brief, life outside and taught her how to behave in a home. Although covered in mud and fecal matter, they bathed her in their tub and loved her despite the smell. They took her to the vet and gave her medicine. They held their breath while she slept, afraid that perhaps they were too late in her rescue and she might slip away to the Rainbow Bridge. She is a wonderful dog, really, and we have a lot to thank her fosters for in that. A true mitzvah. They rescued a member of our family and for that we are indebted to them and eternally grateful.

So, stay tuned for Freyja tales. There are bound to be many.

Quote of the Day

2008-04-02T20:02:00.002-05:00

The only thing a Republican likes more than his money is the sound of his own voice, and he really can't get enough of either.

-- Mike's take on the Dark Side

One Bad Egg, One Beautiful Girl

2008-04-01T21:08:00.002-05:00

Seven years ago today, in a hangover stupor, I stumbled toward the bathroom and peed on a stick. It wasn't that I thought I was pregnant. It wasn't that I wanted to be pregnant. It was just that after years of negociating with Mike on whether or not we'd have children, I had "won" the arguement and he'd stopped using condoms. Just as the birth control went out the window, I had second thoughts and decided we needed to wait a few more years. Yet still didn't use any alternative methods of birth control. Unsure then of my pregnancy status, I figured I'd better test as my lifestyle of drinking and smoking and smoking and drinking would all but guarantee my birthing a brain damaged drooler.

As the second line turned a bright pink almost immediately after my urine hit the stick, I stupidly thought, "This isn't right. I'm just so dehydrated from all that booze last night that my pee is concentrated. I'll guzzle a gallon of water and retest in an hour." Somewhere deep down, though, I must have known it was true as I stubbed out the cigarette I was smoking and didn't pick up another one for almost a year.

A few hours and numerous pee sticks later, I woke Mike up with the original stick and "So what are you doing December 10th?" He, of course, thought I was pulling an April Fool's Day prank. It wasn't until he sat up, looked closely at the stick and at my silly grin that he accepted it.

Now that baby I was just starting to grow that April Fool's Day seven years ago sleeps upstairs, on the top bunk with a Harry Potter book tucked under her pillow that she thinks I didn't know she hid there. She's missing a tooth, bottom left, her first baby tooth to check out and make way for the teeth that will see her through to her death. She's fighting yet another cold, running a fever, and waking up to read her book and drink water every 20 minutes or so. Unlike her parents, she's a skinny little thing with a passion for money and self promotion. Like her daddy she's a fiery red head with curls and legs that like to run. Like her mama she's a hard-to-read, moody bitch. But Reilly Kate is nothing if not original. Lord, that child is orginal.

In January, we went to a Madeleine Albright book signing. Madeleine Albright had given the key note address at Mike's master's graduation ceremony way back in the day. We had brought a picture of him shaking her hand to have her sign. When it was finally our turn, Reilly Kate marched straight up and asked, "Do you remember Daddy?"

Being the woman that she is, Secretary Albright said, "Of course I do!" All her handlers as well as the other patrons laughed which Reilly Kate didn't appreciate at all.

She then proceeded to inform Secretary Albright that she was planning to become "President of the United States... for two terms!" Big plans, she has. High aspirations. I just hope she takes Madeleine Albright's advice and works hard, studies hard. Reilly Kate's the type who thinks it all should just come to her because... well, because she's Reilly Kate afterall.

She is the center of our family. Hell, she's the center of this blog. As Mike has always said, "You'd have nothing to write about without her blog fodder." And so I wouldn't.

No April Fool's prank here today. Just a mama's thoughts on her little girl on the anniversary of the day she found out she was to be her mama.

Foiled Again

2008-03-25T21:09:00.002-05:00

Where we left off, I, your poor, fat housewife, was sniffly, bitchy and without a Kitchen Aid mixer.

I am still sniffly, bitchy, and without a Kitchen Aid mixer, but there's more now. It seems someone, somewhere, some powers that be, some higher power, perhaps, is preventing me from stimulating the economy. Like some cosmic financial cock blocker is fending off my attempted stimulation.

What, you may ask, am I blathering on about? Well, I'll tell ya Ms. Impatience Pants.

I got an email from my dear friend Cristie, telling me that she read my blog post about the Kitchen Aid mixer and that Amazon had them on sale for 179.99 which was still a damn good price. My heart leapt! I began to sing. Sure, it was $30 more than the sale yesterday, but still well under $200. I began whipping up egg whites effortlessly and unattended, in my mind. I skipped on over to Amazon, with joy in my heart and my credit card on file. I was there as quickly as I could have been, stopping for nothing and... no. No, by the time I got there, they were up 20 more dollars, putting them just one penny under my 200 limit. I just couldn't do it. Not now, anyway. Times are tight and all that jazz.

So then later, I find myself at Target, rummaging through the clearanced Easter items. We had to toss out a lot of our Easter decorations due to a mouse infestation. Long story on that one that I'll take with me to my grave. Although, if bribed with love and praise, the story could be coaxed out of me. Anyway, I'm in the Easter clearance aisle and there's nothing left. Just a bunch of crap candy and a few baskets.

Clearly saddened and dejected by my failure to spend, a salesman at the electronics counter calls out to me.

"We've got a lot of items deeply reduced," he called out in a fiscally seductive tone. "Lots of floor models which give you an extra 40% off." He was killing me softly with his song.

And there, at the electronics counter I fell in love with a camcorder. It was lovely. It was tiny enough for my pocket. It had a good picture quality and didn't require any disks or memory cards or anything. Best was that it was $130 marked down to $90 and then an additional 40% for the floor model.

With joy in my heart and American Express in my hand, I told the hunka hunka burnin' sales that I'd take the darn thing. He began to ring me up and while doing so, started to take the camera off its stand to box it up. In so doing, he tested it. But it would not turn on. Then he looks to try to get it off the stand and it won't come off. I see him grab the scanner gun and scan the UPC code.

Like watching a loved one flat line, I didn't need an expert to tell me my transaction was dead. I just needed to know why.

"I'm sorry," said the man who played me, "I did everything I could. But this... this... this just isn't a camera. It is merely a display model with no working parts."

I dropped my head down to my chest and heaved a great sigh of sorrow and savings.

"I'm so sorry," he repeated. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes, there's one thing," I said. "Can you point me in the direction of the Kitchen Aid mixers."

Flabby Keister!

2008-03-23T20:32:00.003-05:00

Or Happy Easter, if you prefer. But I know mine is much more Flabby Keister.

Ya know, Easter is my favorite religious holiday. I love Christmas (and really, who doesn't?) and Halloween is always fun, too. But I really dig the whole Lenten season and the culmination of it all on Easter. I always have. Even as a young child. But today kind of a 7 on a 10 scale.

First of all, I'm sick. Yes, you read that right. The woman who openly mocks the poorly conditioned, immuno challenged weaklings that whine incessantly about their allergies and their sinus conditions that breed asmatic children with ear tubes and grossly enlarged adnoids has been sick since Christmas. Seriously.

Second, mass this morning sucked. I have had several conversations with different people over the last week about C&E Catholics and the irritation others feel at their presence at mass on Christmas and Easter. I had even thought about writing up a post about how I rather enjoy seeing them pack the house on the holidays. How I feel this is time to reach out to them, bring them back into the church. There were a few years that I too was a C&E and I could have used to have someone reach out to me.

HA! My high horse bucked me off so hard I think I cracked my fucking tailbone.

We arrived at church a full fifteen minutes before mass. Now, I know that isn't enough time. I had planned on getting there a half hour earlier, but I had three children to get dressed and a terribly grumpy husband who acts like a 15 year old every Sunday morning. "Do we have to go to mass today?" "I don't have anything to wear." "I think I'm coming down with something." Anyway, we got there later than I wished.

The parking lot was filled. The streets were filled. We wound up parking about a 1/3 of a mile away and walking back. By the time we walked in, the bells were ringing and there was only one small spot left for standers within the santuary, which we snagged. All those walking in after us were stuck out in the vestibule.

Have you ever had to stand the entirety of Easter Sunday mass with three small children? It was hell. Pure hell. Roman whined and laid in the aisle. Reilly Kate shoved gumballs in her mouth and blew bubbles. Iryna dumped a whole bag of crushed Veggie Booty and then screamed while trying to pull up my shirt in a demand to nurse. Add to it, my 15 year old husband kept bugging me with, "Can we go now?" "You wanna go now?" "When do you want to leave?"

We did survive, but not before I put a curse on every single face I didn't recognize. As the parish is enormous, I'm sure I cursed people who attend mass daily. But I don't care. Someone obviously cursed me and I'm just passing it on. Like the bad cold I've been fighting for weeks now. I'm just passing it on.

Lunch was nice. We went to this Brazilian BBQ joint. If you haven't gone to one yet, go! It was fabulous! We topped it off with sugar free cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory. Also, fabo!

Then we came home. Mike and the kids were out playing in the yard and I stayed in, farting around on the computer for hours. Rather than do anything constructive with my time, I learned all about how to create a home altar (um, yeah, like I'm going to do that anyway!). In my quest to decorate my home altar in my mind, I went to Amazon to find electric flickering candles. As I always do on Amazon, I first head to Today's Deals. There I find... WHAT??? WHAT MANNA FROM THE GOOD LORD ABOVE IS THIS?

A 5 qt Kitchen Aid mixer for $150!!

The Doubting Thomas in me says, "There's a catch." So ignoring the fact that Amazon is warning me there is only one more in stock, I went off to google the specs on the mixer. Huh. And I find that normally $250 is a good price.

By the time I raced back to Amazon to get it, they were all sold out. Nothing. No mixer for me.

Ya know, I've been wanting one of those for about 5 years. I price them all the time. But alas it is not to be.

There you have it. I am sick, evil, and lacking a mixer. Thank God I still have Kleenex, holy water, and a whisk. How's that for upbeat?

There's no place like... Mom's Closet?

2008-03-10T20:21:00.002-05:00

As you may or may not know, I'm now the proud member of a homeschool group. Yes, those of us so independent minded that we refuse to send our children to institutionalized learning facilities cling to one another like little monkeys in a hurricane. And we have a book club, too. We're reading The Wizard of Oz.

I'm hosting the club which is pretty interesting as I have never even been to a book club before. I'm a good bluffer. After all, I did teach English in Korea for a couple of years. That qualifies me as bluffer extraordinaire.

I've invited all the children to dress up as their favorite character from the book. Reilly Kate is trying to decide between the Tin Woodman and Toto. I'm pulling for Toto as he will be a much easier costume.

Roman wants to be...

Dorothy.

"Dorothy is my favorite character," he insists.

"But what about the Lion? He's cool. And he roars and everything." I push, just slightly.

"Yeah, he's cool. But Dorothy is my favorite," he maintains.

"But the Lion talks like this," I tell him in my best Southern drawl. I do accents when I read to the kids to help them distinguish each character. The Lion is a hick in my world.

"Yeah, but Mom [which sounds like Mah-ah-ahm with a whine], you said pick my favorite character and Dorothy is my favorite character."

"I'll have to put your hair up in pig tails," I inform him rather snappily.

"Alright," he sighs.

"And you'll have to wear a dress," was my final blow to his budding manliness.

He looked down at his feet and took a deep breath. Then he looked up at me and said, "Okay. I'll wear a dress."

And so it is, that my son, his father's only son, his father's father's only grandson, his father's father's father's only great grandson (need I go on?) is dressing as Dorothy this Thursday.

I'll keep ya posted.

Vegevore or Meatatarian

2008-03-07T20:25:00.004-05:00

Vegetarianism has spread through our homeschool group, like ukus (Hawaiian for head lice) spread through Roman's preschool. Fortunately, both have skipped our house, although, I'm not holding my breath on the ukus (pronounced oo-koos).

My kids are both confirmed carnivores. They love meat. Love it. We've never kept the source of meat a secret. In fact, we have focused many a dinner conversation on the fact that an animal had to die in order for us to eat it and we therefore will not waste food, but will eat it -- respectfully, thankfully.

Reilly Kate must have been about two when she first talked about going hunting. I don't remember specifically what brought it up, but we were talking about cute, little, fluffy bunny rabbits.

"Do people eat bunnies?" she asked.

"Ummm, yeah. They are farmed and hunted. And they're kept as pets, too. They make great pets," I offered.

Nodding, she said with confidence, "When I get big, I'm gonna go kill a bunny rabbit so I can eat it."

She then proceeded to describe, in great detail, how she would go into a forest and kill a cute, fluffy bunny and throw it over her shoulder to bring it back to her house to cook and eat.

That's when I knew vegetables would always be a side dish on her plate.

Since moving here, to what we affectionately call "rural DC," we have been buying beef and pork from a natural, sustainable farm in Delaplane, Virginia. We've made several trips out to the farm, and have even been invited to meet our "beef" prior to slaughter. Much to the kids disappointment, I turned that offer down. Looking face to face with my dinner would turn me into a vegetarian faster than you can say PETA.

Mike took the kids out to the slaughterhouse to pick up our processed pork. When they walked in, there hung a freshly killed, skinned deer, sans head. Now, had either Mike or I, being the city kids we were, seen something like that at our kids' ages, we'd have been so scarred that Thanksgiving would have been all about Tofurkey and eggplant. But our kids took it all in stride.

"Look," said Roman, pointing. "Blood."

"Where's the head?" asked Reilly Kate.

"Why'd they cut the head off?" echoed Roman.

"Well, nobody eats the head," answered Mike.

"How come?" they inquired.

Yeah, a little freaky for former vegans like Mike and I -- oh, I haven't yet mentioned our vegan years when Thanksgiving actually was all about Tofurkey and eggplant? But I think both Reilly Kate and Roman have a healthy understanding of the food chain and accept their place in it.

So imagine my surprise when Reilly Kate says to me that her homeschooled and recently turned veggie friend, Zack, told her a secret -- a secret that she wasn't to tell anyone, even me. Of course, she doesn't keep secrets from me, YET. Out pours the big secret:

"Cows have to be killed for us to get burgers," she whispers.

"Right. Yeah. You know that already," I said.

"Yes, I know," she continued to whisper. "But I didn't know it was a secret."

From now on we'll pretend to pick our burgers off the burger bush. Hopefully, no one will hear the carrots scream or the berries whimper. And hopefully, we get the ukus and not the veggies. It's easier to cure the ukus.

Scene & Herd

2008-03-03T21:10:00.003-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, while readying ourselves for swimming lessons, Reilly Kate asked me, "Can I please wear my zucchini today?"

Annoyed, irritated, and overburdened all the while running 20 minutes late, I snipped, "Your what? You're wearing your bathing suit."

"But can I wear my new one? The zucchini you bought me for Disney World. Please?"

"Whatever. Just put your suit on and get ready," replied Mama Dearest.

A few minutes later I looked up to see my gorgeous daughter in an adorable Tinkerbelle tankini.

Proudly, she said, "Don't I look good in zucchinis?"

Yes, my sweet. And I'll bet you'd look good in portabellas, too!

Later that day, though, after misbehaving while she was supposed to be doing some math problems, I took away a few toys.

With tears streaming down her face, she begged, "No, Mama! NO! Not my aerobics cube!!"

Ah, if only solving an aerobics cube would help me look better in a zucchini.

Never to be outdone by his sister... or more aptly, normally outdone by his sister, but not this time...

Roman. My sweet, sweet boy.

Today he got very angry with me for refusing his request to bring toys with us to a homeschool playdate. While I was bent over changing Iryna's diaper, he punched me several times in the buttocks. Despite the extraordinary padding I have back there, it still hurt. I turned on him and paddled his rear, then sending him off to his room (for those of you nonspankers, Good for you and keep your comments to yourself -- I too was a nonspanker once... And if you want to stay that way, just shut it or I'll send you my kids for a month and you too will no longer be a nonspanker).

A few minutes later, a teary eyed Roman emerged from his room.

"Ca-ca-can I come do-do-down now?" he whimpered.

"No. No you cannot," I yelled from high upon my Mommy throne at the bottom of the staircase. "Just who do you think you are that you hit your mother like that? Huh? Who do you think you are?!?!" I demanded.

"An asshole?" was his guess.

I had to walk away to avoid him seeing me laugh. I walked away while yelling, "Get back to your room and think about that some more."

(Okay, now you nonspankers may go ahead and think exactly what it is that I always said, "Violence begets violence." Go ahead. Think it. Think it loudly. Think it condescendingly. But don't you dare post it on here. I'll come and spank your ass if you do.)

And lastly.

A birthday picture of the sweetest baby that ever passed through these hips. She is now sleeping well, and happily in her crib. All by herself. All night long. Wish I could say that about my first two demon spawn... er... I mean, angels from heaven who still at the ages of 4 and 6 do not sleep through the night, do not sleep in their own beds, and do not sleep happily. Ever. Not that I'm crabby and sleep deprived or anything.

Anyway. Here she is in her birthday hanbok.

For AC

2008-02-21T18:42:00.004-05:00

Yet another mother. Another friend of a friend. Another virtual stranger, with cyber strings to my heart. Another mother. Burying her child. Tomorrow. Slipping the body of her only flesh into a cold, dark grave. Sitting alone and lonely, surrounded by mourning throngs of loved ones who haven't a clue. None of us do. How could we?

How could we know how to say goodbye? Forever. So soon. He was only 19 months, little Finn was. Not quite a baby anymore. Walking. Playing. Showing a love for animals, and for Mama and Daddy. Yet still too young to clearly mutter "I'm a big boy." Too young for a Big Wheel or his first day on the slopes. Too young for this. Too young for goodbye.

"I'm sorry," they'll say. "I'm sorry for your loss." But a mother without a child hasn't just lost -- she is lost. She's lost within her very being. Trapped within death. Defined by it. Just as the birth of a child shifts the soul of a mother, the death of a child decays the mother's soul. We are nothing without children. We are empty, bottomless graves.

An empty grave. Tomorrow. As Erin tucks Finn into his final sleep, kisses his forehead, and holds his hand, I pray she feels his spirit soar into heaven. He will not dwell in that cold place, but warm our memories of him. He'll shine in cherished photos and linger in the soft smell of his favorite blankie. He will beat within her heart every day of her life. And deep, deep in her soul, may she find her motherhood. May she find it and hold it and cherish it, just as she did Finn.

Godspeed, little man. Sweet dreams, little man.

Deja Vu

2008-02-13T21:23:00.003-05:00

It actually started last night, the ice storm that swept into town. Again, I heard the sound of the ice hitting the windows and felt the chill in the house competing against our overworked furnace. I awoke to find the world decorated with beautiful, crystal ice jewels just as it was the day my sweetness was born. I wish I had taken a picture of it. I was too busy worrying about whether I should drive the kids to their activities or stay safely home. We stayed home. How my midwives made it here the night that Iryna was born, I will never understand.

But it is amazing to me that this ice storm has revisited us at the exact same time this year as it did last. As I type this, I sit not even two feet from the very spot on which she was born. One year ago.

One year ago, she was born "Irina." A spelling error we later found out. Or, more accurately, a cultural error. We thought we were giving her a Ukrainian name. We gave her a Russian name. And don't you dare say, "It's all the same," around a Uki. They don't take too kindly to that. Post Soviet Ukraine has even changed the name of Kiev. It is now Kyiv. And don't ever, EVER say "The Ukraine." Thems fightin' words, I tell ya. So apparently it was a colossal error.

One year later, Iryna naps in her bouncy chair, blissfully unaware that the name on the wall in her bedroom does not match the name now on her corrected birth certificate. Of course, she spends so little time in her bedroom anyway choosing instead to sleep snuggled warmly between the very two people who created her. She sleeps each night bathed in love and down comforters, sipping milk straight from the tap, and edging out the dog for more territory. She's making her way.

One year ago, she wasn't tiny, but she was delicate. Her fragile newborn skin burned from too long a soak in amniotic fluid. Her long, elegant fingers grasping for security. Her perfectly formed mouth seeking out nourishment and comfort. Her head surprisingly void of hair. She was bundled in fleece: warm and toasty and sweet.

One year later she is still sweet. My sweetest baby yet. She loves to give hugs and smiles. Her giggle is infectious and she isn't stingy with it, either. She sings. Lordy, that girl loves to sing. And she'll sit quietly playing at my feet during mass or the kids' swimming lessons, something the other two would never do. People comment all the time on what a great disposition she has. My reward, I tell them as I motion to the older two. But she really is. She's like a prize. Or a big heart shaped box of chocolates. A Valentine. That's what she is. She's my Valentine.

Happy 1st Birthday to my sweet, sweet, peace and love, Valentine baby.

4 going on 40

2007-11-20T22:13:00.000-05:00

Yeah, yeah. I know I haven't been blogging. I know. Ya see, I had this idea. I had this idea that I'd get my own cool digs in cyber space. I hired a very talented mom to make me up some cool digs (cuz you know I ain't cool all on my own). I paid money to get my own URL and all that jazz. You can go check it out if you want. www.udderlyheather.com It's there and it looks great. The only problem is a show stopper: I don't know how to use it. It is on WordPress which as it turns out is a lot friendlier to those people who are well skilled in the art of cyber stuff. I'm just a simple minded fat housewife and I know when I'm licked. So we can all just go and look at it. Admire the handy work and the great expense from Mike's hard earned money. And I guess we'll all just stay here on this old blog from Blogger.

Hells bells.

Maybe I can find someone who can move all my cool stuff from WordPress back over here to Blogger. I don't know. I don't even know if that is possible. But whatever.

I'm not on here tonight, of all nights, to just ramble and whine about my fucking blog woes. Oh no. There's a bigger, more important reason than that. Four years ago, on this very evening, I was laboring with the birth of my son, Roman Hayes.

I just cannot believe it was four years ago. He was the tiniest little guy. Really, really small at 8 lbs 3 oz. Small for my babies, at least. He was almost three weeks early. I went out and bought him a couple of preemie outfits because the little one piecers I had were fall off his narrow little shoulders.

Now he's a big boy. He goes to preschool. He's a gymnist. He can write his name. He sings and dances and loves his Mama. He's a blond like me and he has my eyes. He also has my wicked sense of humor. He's a terrible decision maker. He loves chocolate and is a snuggler. His favorite person in the whole wide world is his older sister, but he is everyone's little buddy. And he's got a temper. A hot one. Do not piss him off. When he's grown up and 6 and a half feet tall, don't say you weren't warned.

So tomorrow he turns four. I can tell you that he is very unhappy about this. You see, my little Rome is a Peter Pan. He does not want to grow up. He doesn't want to get big. He does not want to move out of the house. He wants to stay a little boy "fo evah."

This fall when we went through his old clothes and got rid of what he'd outgrown, he was devastated. Not because he was so attached to the clothes. No. He was upset that he'd actually grown. He's unhappy that people are singing him "Happy Birthday," as he doesn't want others to know that he is now 4 years old. He'd rather keep that information all to himself. That's not to say he isn't totally psyched about getting some gifts tomorrow, though. He's all about that. He'd prefer if we didn't keep reminding him that he's another year older.

Poor kid. A midlife crisis before completing preK. Thankfully, he's still got all his hair, no younger girlfriends, and he hasn't even figured out what a sports car is yet.

So folks, I'm going to go wrap him up some gifts so the day won't be a total loss for him and then I'm gonna go sneak in a snuggle before getting myself to bed. I've been messing around with that other blog for too long tonight and I'm starting to go cross eyed.

I'll post some pictures on here tomorrow. And if anyone knows anything about WP, please let me know.

It's been a long time since me rock n rolled

2007-08-24T18:16:00.000-05:00

I'm almost done with my summer of swamped. Things have been so crazy the last few weeks that the thought of sitting down and blogging at the end of the evening instead of staring at the walls in a partially vegetative state made me cry tears of agony. I just couldn't do it.

Just like I haven't been able to put down the carbo-junk and eat like a normal person, despite my most valiant efforts. I've gained ten pounds since my last blog post. Hmmmm... correlation?

Anyway, very soon I'll have my own URL for this here blog and a whole new image. Things will be very cool and I'll once again fill your heads full of histrionics and needless verbiage.

I do, however, have to share a recent milestone with you. After much correction and a bit of bribery, Roman Hayes has begun using "I." Yes, no longer do we hear "Me going with you." "Me hungry." "Me Roman." (pronounced of course "Me woman," which was really rather confusing to nice old people who ask him his name).

Instead, we now hear things like, "Let I see." "Excuse I." "Give I that."

Leapt right from that frying pan straight into the fire. The poor boy will never speak properly.

Me going to never correct him again. I just hope he can someday forgive I.

Sittin' Pretty in Pink

2007-07-28T23:00:00.000-05:00

I know, I know. I haven't blogged in a long time. Stay tuned. I will. Soon.

In the meantime, enjoy some chubby baby love.

Fly High

2007-07-16T20:42:00.000-05:00

Why is it that even when someone is very old, ailing, and very obviously close to death, that their actual death comes as a surprise to those of us left behind? Is it also a surprise to the one who dies, I wonder.

My grandfather died tonight. Just a short time ago. I'm stunned despite the fact that the last time I saw him he looked very much like a corpse still breathing. He was in the hospital, quite drugged up to blur the pain of a broken hip, devoid of all color and his usual dishumor. So much like a dead man was he that Reilly Kate was scared to touch him or even sit near him.

But then, I started the kids to singing. Reilly Kate, Roman, and I. We sang and he sang with us. Row row row your boat, in rounds. Grandpa, who the kids called Papa, took the second round. And we all sang as I saw the life flicker boldly across his face. I cried then knowing it would be the last time we'd see him. He'll be cremated by sun up tomorrow and, according to his wishes, there will be no memorial service.

I'm not sure how the kids are going to take it. I know they'll miss him every time we go to Chuck E Cheese's. And every time we have a hot fudge sundae. In their pure, simple faith they'll find some comfort in the idea that he's with Jesus and their beloved GG who died two years ago. Things are so much more complicated when you get older and harder to find comfort.

He lived a good life, a long life. He was ready to go, my grandpa was. He'd done it. Seen it. Ate it. Danced it. Sang it. Razzed it. Felt it up. He was a card for sure and I can plainly tell you that the nurses who cared for him are breathing a sigh of relief now. No longer will a half dead patient try to french kiss them and then bellow at them for bringing him food he doesn't want to eat. Such was my grandpa.

Alas, though, time marched on and he was ready to check out. No longer even finding pleasure in the nurses.

Maybe death comes as a surprise to those of us still living because we never truly think the doors will close to those memories we hold dear. Because no matter how hard we try to keep memories alive, they get dusty and fuzzy and old. And the time that goes by between dustings gets a little longer, the memories get played back fewer and fewer times. And then those dearly held memories become rarely thought of memories.

I can hear him now, though, yelling at my grandma. "Mother! Water!" I'm sure she's just thrilled to back to his beck and call. Insert eye roll here. Hang tough, GG. It's only an eternity with the old buzzard!

In closing I'm going to put up a few recent pictures. Just a few memories to try to keep out and dusted.

Reilly Kate trying to negotiate with Papa for more Chuck E Cheese tokens while my father in law looks on.

Roman checking on Papa's ticker.

Irina and Papa meeting for the first time.

Love you Grandpa.

Nothing to see here

2007-07-11T19:59:00.001-05:00

Really. There's nothing to see here right now. I'm too tired to write. I'm just drained. Running these freakin' kids to all their little summer activities while being the sole food source for the other one... plus, the waterpark and the play dates and the this and the that. Then there's the cleaning and the laundry and the damn dogs' vet appointments. Oh, and let's not start on our whole health insurance fiasco. I'm to spent to even write "eat shit and die insurance motha fuckahs!" Yep. I'm spent.

I've got something I want to write about, too. I just don't want to muck it up because I'm tired (and my keyboard is dying to boot). It an important topic to me. And, if written write, will be wildly entertaining to those of you in the bleachers.

I just have so much going on right now. As in this week. Too much. Way too much.

Oh, and stay tuned. Sometime before fall there are going to be some big changes around here. The blog, that is. Not here at the Carpenter's house. Nothing changes here. Well, except the yard. Where Mike is tearing out all of the Carpenter's trees. But that's for a whole 'nother post. Tomorrow. I'll post it tomorrow.

Back to what you were doing, folks. Go on. Keep it moving. Nothing to see here.

Go Cubbies!

2007-07-05T20:47:00.000-05:00

They actually won tonight!

Oh, sure they lost yesterday and all. But that's part of the beauty of being a Cubs' fan. By the age of 12 we're well seasoned to disappointment. Darwin's theory has weedled down through generations of Cubs' fans ridding us of the weak and easily crushed. Let them go and be Sox fans, both Red and White. We, the strongly pessimistic will happily continue to be Cubs fans knowing full well we'll meet our maker before we'll see a World Series. And that's just fine by us... most of the time.

But every once in a while I let my dreams get the better of me. Stupid, I know. But yesterday, going into that game, the Cubs had won 10 out of 11 games. They were showing real promise of winning a game that I would actually be there to see. Something that has never happened to me, no matter the dozens of Cubs' games I've sweat through in my lifetime. I tried to keep myself in check. As we sat in our seats, right in front of some Nats fans, I congratulated them on what was sure to be a great Nationals' victory.

"No, the Cubs are looking good," they said. "Your team'll do well."

About five minutes later, the first home run of the day rocketed into the stands and the Nats had the lead. It only got worse from there.

After having stood in 4 different lines, missing a full inning, so as to spend close to $40 for 4 hot dogs, 2 bags of chips, and 2 pops, Reilly Kate and I walked back to our seat to the thunderous cheers of a happy Nationals' crowd thrilled at Grand Slam.

"Uh oh," I said to Reilly Kate. "The sound of this can't be good for us."

"Why?" she asked.

"We're Cubs' fans, sweetie. That's why."

And so it was, that my children should be indoctrinated into what is a rite of passage for those in both my and Mike's families. They came home crashing from a Cracker Jack high, whining from exhaustion, playing with their souvenir bobble heads, and dreaming of the day that the will Cubs win.

I think we have a better chance of winning the Mega Millions lottery. But a kid's gotta dream.

By the way, my Burn my Flag post had pictures on there, through Blogger, up until sometime yesterday. All my other pictures are still on there. And these seemed to upload just fine. But mysteriously my flag burning picture along with a lovely pose of the BITCH turned into red Xs. Huh. Wonder what that was about? Alas, there's Photobucket. They've made it all right now.

Burn my flag

2007-07-03T22:39:00.000-05:00

<If you haven't already heard, The Cunter's in the news again. It works well, you see, to spew filth and bile when promoting the paperback version of a book filled with filth and bile. This time, when asked nicely by Elizabeth Edwards to stop the name calling and personal attacks on not just her husband, but her whole family, our cowardly Ann just flipped her stringy, bleached hair around with her skeletal fingers and mocked our electoral process. Our political dialog is ailing and it's vectors like Cunter who spread diseases of hate, lies, and bigotry that are wholly to blame.

For what reason I do not know, but I went to her site. I was reading her maniacal rantings on how unfairly she is being treated by the media and the Edwards when I came across this little gem: Liberals are driven by Satan and lie constantly.

But in light of it being the 4th of July and all, I figure I won't even bother refuting such insanity but will instead focus on patriotism. And I'm gonna tell you a bit about the difference between our Satan driven, lying liberal household and Republicans.

In our house patriotism means something real and deep. It isn't red, white, and blue. It isn't flashy or fun. It doesn't involve care packages of cookies to troops who are already very well, if not over -fed. It isn't a yellow ribbon magnet on the car (because God forbid it be an actual sticker that might do some damage to the paint job) or square dancing at the local VFW. It has nothing to do with AmVets or the pledge of allegiance or marching in a parade.

No, no. In our house patriotism means sacrifice. It means giving of yourself for the benefit of the country. We honor those who make those sacrifices. We truly support them with more than empty words and ribbons on our tree. Perhaps it is because we spent so many years as part of the Army and still continue to serve within the military community that we feel this so strongly. Perhaps for us it hits closer to home. This war, for example, is more than just ideological bantering or patriotic flag waiving. For us it is real as we watch our friends and family members go off to fight, as we consider the possibility of that one of us may go there to serve (I'll let you guess which one and it ain't the one that's lactating).

You see, in our liberal household, our commitments and sacrifices go deeper than voting or attending school board meetings. Don't ever accuse me of not being patriotic. One thing Republicans think is that they hold the market on patriotism. Supporting our troops is a whole lot more than cheering them off to their deaths or allowing the sons of privilege to join the Air National Guard in times of crisis (and then getting them off the hook for going AWOL). If I hear one more schlump express their sincere hope that my brother or cousin or husband doesn't have to go off to this suck war knowing full well that they voted for that asshole that started it, I'm going to light my flag on fire.

Yes, you heard that right: I will burn my own damn flag.

And there's where conservatives also show their brains to be diminutive. Burning the flag is a form of speech. Freedom of speech is what that flag represents. To burn the flag as a means of expression is to exercise the very freedoms that people have sacrificed for. Am I driven by Satan? Hell no. I'm driven by patriotism.

You know, once while in high school, in the middle of dinner, my dad and I got into a huge argument over the flag. I advocated the right to burn the flag. My dad, not quite seeing my side of things, got overheated and threw my "pinko communist ass" out of the house. It lasted about an hour with me "living" on the front porch for the duration of dinner. After which I was allowed back in to apologize for my beliefs and sent to my room.

The funny thing about it is that my parents, god love them, used to have a flag out on display at their house, unlit at night, tattered and worn, and in the winter months, frozen to the side of the house. I've since convinced them to cease with the flag worship and abuse. Because, the flag means nothing in and of itself. It is our country and her citizens that have meaning.

I challenge Republicans to prove that they too are patriotic, that they too understand the real flag of our country. First, since they voted for Bush and he has fucked the budget and put us in so much debt it'll take generations to dig us out, I propose that each Republican household double their tax contributions. Voluntarily, mind you. But just take what you owe the IRS at tax time and then double it. That'll just about do it, I think. For the money part.

Now, for the personal sacrifice. One person from each Republican household needs to take up a position in Iraq. No, not join the military. Not just those serving in the military are serving in Iraq. There are plenty of jobs for civilians, contractors and the like. You needn't be young or in good shape. And there's plenty of money to be made while your there, too, thanks to your Republican friends in Congress. So get your ass (or the ass of your loved one) over there for a year or three. Because, honestly, this is YOUR war.

As for me and my hippy liberal, Satan driven, pinko commie ass, I'm taking my kids to a Cubs' game tomorrow. And I ain't standing for the anthem, either. So there!

Kung Fu fighting Nellie Oleson

2007-07-01T08:15:00.000-05:00

At that same Chinese restaurant that I got the false fortune a few days ago, they had the standard Zodiac placemats. All of us looked up what we are and read the description. I've always hated mine. I'm a pig. So there I 'd be, a chubby kid at a restaurant, and I'd have to tell everyone "I'm a pig." Oh, the laughter at that. Such fun. Fuckers.

Well, some Chinese food genius figured out that calling an American a pig right before they order lunch makes for a much smaller bill. They've since changed the name from "pig" to "boar." I'm a boar now, thankyouverymuch, and I'll have the large order of kung pao.

Reilly Kate is a snake. Here's what it says about the snake: Wise and intense with a tendency toward physical beauty. Vain and high tempered. The Boar is your enemy.

In case you missed that, let me repeat it: The Boar is your enemy.

I'm a boar.

Now, I wouldn't exactly say that my oldest child and I are enemies. I love that kid with more ferocity than I ever imagined possible. It was she that changed my very soul, created me into a mother, turned my whole life on its end. She is the very center of my universe. She is the heart of our family.

And yet we just can't manage to get along. Not since the day she was born. We've clashed and collided, bringing down to our level anyone who foolishly stepped into our battle zone. We go together like vinegar and oil: we're hand in hand, nothing without the other, but just not mixing well. She's the vinegar: overpoweringly sour, sometimes downright bitter. I'm the oil: fat.

For a long time I mourned the whole mother-daughter best friends scenario I had painted in my head as soon as I found out that I was carrying a girl. There have never been girly days out shopping for pink dresses and hairbows. My daughter likes to think of herself as a boy and while she loves having long hair, would rather it unkept, wild and hanging in her face in a rocker from hell kind of way. She doesn't watch intently as I put on my make up each morning like I did as a child when my mom got ready. Although, Roman does that occasionally, it just isn't the same. We've given up on ballet in lieu of soccer and I don't know the first thing about that. Not that I really knew anything about ballet, either, but I think I could fake it better.

Instead, starting shortly after we arise from slumber each day, we start an ever so clever choreography of verbal tug-o-war regarding everything from what to eat for breakfast to the weather. No topic is too trivial, no hour too early for a good banter. She has even discovered a certain pitch at which she can talk, or howl depending on her mood, that cuts right through me like nails on a chalk board. She can do the same pitch with her whistle and insists that this one note is the only note she can do with her pursed lips. It's intentional. I know it.

The thing is that the more I see other kids her age with their parents, particularly their mothers, I appreciate our struggling relationship. Probably a byproduct of our sparring, we know each other well. Very well. I know what motivates her to lie and when she's liable to hit or not want to share. I know what it is that she does that irritates grown ups and she knows how far to push the limits. It doesn't even so much as cut down on the frustration that comes with dealing with kids this age, but at least I know.

So many times I hear other moms say, "Oh, Johnny would never do that," or "Suzy doesn't hit," or "No, no, he would never say such a thing," and, personal favorite, "We don't have a problem with that." Kids have their parents so conned and manipulated. They're sneaky little shits with dumb fucks for parents. The parents defend their kid even when they know they shouldn't, making excuses for piss poor behavior and disrespect that should be met with swift, unapologetic punishment. I see more and more of these beasts posing as angels at the playground all the time. At least my beast looks like a beast.

I call this phenomenon the Nellie Oleson after that character on Little House on the Prairie who looked sweet but was possessed by the devil and whose parents' enabled her diabolical ways. It seems this disease has been around since the beginning of time, the only difference being that in the past towns only had one or two families like this. Now, it seems, most families are like this.

If either of my kids stick their tongue out at an adult behind my back, I expect that adult to either admonish my kid immediately or to straight away make me aware and I will do it myself. But, as you may remember, Nellie Oleson would stick her tongue at anyone who dared enter her parents' store and her parents, instead of putting a stop to it, would believe her denial. This madness is epidemic and frightening.

And it only, apparently gets worse as the kids get older. So called "helicopter parents" hover over their college aged kids, calling their professors to discuss grades and school administrators should their precious ones run afoul of the policies. What's worse is these parents are proud of it, even sporting shirts and bumper stickers proudly proclaiming their stupidity. I'm all for soccer moms. It seems I have become one, albeit unwittingly. But come on, people. If your kid fucks up, he fucks up. Don't make excuses for him -- straighten his crooked ass out.

I guess we pigs and snakes have it easy in that regard. I won't make excuses for her and she won't want me to cling on when she leaves the nest. Perhaps in our dysfunction we've found the healthiest relationship of all.

You just gotta read this

2007-06-28T21:48:00.000-05:00

If you've ever wondered why it is that with all the time I've spent in Korea, surrounded by Korean people, immersed in the Korean language that I still don't speak Korean more than to tell a rude cabbie his mother's got a bald pussy then you need to read this post over at my friend Dave's blog. It's hilarious!

Kooky Cookie

2007-06-27T21:56:00.000-05:00

Just in case you needed proof that there is really nothing to those little fortune cookies they hand out at Chinese restaurants, here's what I got yesterday night.

Yeah, right. And I've got rock hard abs and sculpted delts and am always mistaken for Jennifer Aniston.

Blame Faith

2007-06-26T19:55:00.000-05:00

The kids and I just returned from a week long visit to sweet home Chicago. It was a good visit filled with family and friends and more fun than Mickey and his World. Or at least almost as much fun. But regardless of all the fun, there was a death and dying theme to almost every day we were gone. Seems like death has been making abnormally frequent rounds, hovering over like a gray cloud on a windless day.

As usual, it takes a child to point out the most obvious of life's lessons.

The sole purpose of this visit was to see my oldest, dear friend Holly and her kids. They live all the way on the other coast so a meeting half way in Chicago was convenient. Holly, pictured here because she told me that I could NOT put a picture of her on my blog and I really wanted to show her that just like my grandma taught me I can do anything I set my mind to, is a tall, athletically thin, gorgeous blonde who makes this short, squat, dumpy, old fat housewife look even shorter, squatter, and dumpier. She lives in an insanely huge mansion with her close to perfect husband and three great kids. She's got a fabulous, practically together life and I'd be pea green with envy but for the fact that she lost her mom in April to a brain tumor. To me, after, of course, losing a kid or spouse, losing one's mom has got to be the suckiest shit to swallow down.

Now, most of us, at some point, will have to bury our moms. Tis part of the natural course of life. But Holly's mom was 60 -- too old to be young, but too young to be dead. As we frolicked with our kids at Holly's mom's house in the woods, I was plagued by a melancholy itch that her mom should be there, even if just to remind us to keep the kids' shoes off her sofa. She's missing out on grandkids and gray hair, rocking chairs and wrinkles, highballs and hair appointments. She didn't bury her own mother or see her granddaughters graduate from the kindergarten. She missed out on life, good and bad.

I talked to Holly's much older stepdad about his second wade through grief and realized he's still mired in shock at having to bury the young wife he thought would nurse him in his elderly years. His gut is racked and his hands too idle after years of nursing the wives he has outlived. The whole situation just doesn't seem right or fair.

On the last day of our visit, Holly and I took all the kids up to visit the family of an old high school friend. Bob died in September of last year leaving a huge, gaping hole in the lives of his stunningly beautiful wife and two most awesome boys. Coincidentally, it was a brain tumor that also took Bob. When I found out about Bob's passing through an ailing high school grapevine kept alive by the ever so curious Holly, I was stunned with the sorrow that filled my heart. I hadn't talked to Bob in almost 20 years. We both walked out of high school and never turned back, even for the 10 year reunion. I'm sure he thought about me about as often as I did him -- just about never. If even that often. But something about his death just hit me below the belt and I was left gasping.

Around about Christmas, I contacted Bob's widow, Andrea. Immediately we hit it off. I really liked her and, quite frankly, I don't like most people. Our kids connected, too. In fact, it was their sons' picture that Reilly Kate packed with her when she tried to run away. As we sat in Bob's dream home on the 10th hole of a suburban golf course, perusing his senior year yearbook, chatting about life and kids and death and kids, I was struck by how much I missed Bob. Not for me. For him. For his kids. For his wife. I shouldn't be sitting in that kitchen, I thought. He should be. So much was stolen from them all, I wanted to find the culprit.

Andrea and I have remained friends, exchanging occasional emails and visiting whenever I'm in town. Our kids seem strangely close, without the usual fighting over toys or bickering and teasing that accompanies young children thrust together practically unsupervised while their mothers sit chatting. Many times over the past few months I've thanked Bob for bringing us together while whole heartedly wishing he never had.

On the drive back from our visit, Reilly Kate asked me why Nathan and Wesley's dad had to die. "He had a brain tumor," I told her. "Like GG, he got sick and the doctors couldn't make him well and he died."

"But why?" she asked again.

"I guess that's God's plan, baby," I offered.

"I hate God's plan!" she exclaimed at a volume close to a yell. "It's stupid!" she continued while kicking the seat.

"Reilly Kate!" I was shocked not just at her words but by the very real anger that accompanied them.

"I do! I hate it! I hate it and it's stupid. God's stupid!"

I knew I had to do something to try to explain the unexplainable. Five years old is just too young to lose faith in a just and loving God.

"It isn't stupid, sweetie. There's a reason-" I was cut off.

"Yeah, I know," she interrupted. "People die to make room for new people," she said, dripping with disdain. "But he wasn't even old! It's not fair!"

"No, it isn't," I agreed.

"See? That's why it's stupid," she said.

I had nothing to say to that. It is stupid. It isn't fair. It sucks. And sometimes maybe God is stupid.

She settled into her carseat with MP3 player to gaze out the window. About 15 minutes later I heard her singing to her VBS songs.

"I'm trading my sickness...I'm trading my pain...I'm laying it down for the joy of the Lord..."

I guess her faith isn't shattered after all. I wish I could say the same for mine.

Say CHEESE!

2007-06-18T21:44:00.000-05:00

Really, now. What else would you say in front of the White House?

Quote of the Day

2007-06-16T09:23:00.000-05:00

"That lady had wrinkles in the shape of a frown like she had 20 kids or something."

Reilly Kate's description of the woman at Kohl's.

Welcome Wagon

2007-06-13T20:07:00.000-05:00

If ever you feel the need to bring down your self esteem, you should give some thought to a visit our way.

Over Memorial Day weekend Reilly Kate's godmother came for a visit. The first morning as I puttering around in the kitchen, I heard from downstairs the glee-filled giggles of my little angels. Andrea was playing with them. Pure joy. Then I listened a little more carefully. I heard Roman's sweet voice: "Giddy up, old lady. Giddy up! Giddy up, old lady."

Andrea, by the way, is an extremely youthful looking 36.

Just a few days ago, Irina's godmother came for a visit. Shortly after arriving we decided to go to a waterpark and Wendy changed into her bathing suit: a flattering blue and white floral tankini. Reilly Kate came up to her, wrinkled her nose like she'd just smelled a pile of wildebeest dung served up on a china plate, and said, "Is that your suit?"

Reilly Kate by the way was wearing a head to toe UV suit that makes her look more like a brightly colored pink spaceman than a 5 year old on her way to the waterpark.

They're lovely children. Really lovely.

And this is why I'll keep her

2007-06-10T20:06:00.000-05:00

Friday morning, right after stepping out from a cool summer morning shower, I turned on NPR and heard the unmistakable voice of Martin Luther King, Jr. Reilly Kate was sitting on our bed playing with the baby. She looked up, listened for a moment, and then asked, "Mom? What's that guy complaining about?"

"That guy is Martin Luther King, my dear. And he's complaining about injustice," I explained.

So began one of those amazing "unschooling" moments when I got to teach my daughter something about history, civic responsibility, racism, sexism, humanitarianism. I told her about peaceful resistance, standing up for what was right regardless of personal danger, and how one person can change the entire world. We talked about MLK's life and his death. We talked about how important it is for good people to speak out against evil. It was a good lesson.

After it ended, I went about my dressing. Ten or so minutes later, Reilly Kate came in and said to me, "When I get big, I'm going to Darfur to stand up for those people. I'm going to stop what happened to Daniel from happening to kids there." [She's referring to the jewish boy, Daniel, in "Daniel's Story", an exhibit at the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, who was imprisoned in a concentration camp during WWII]

"Ya know, that's very dangerous, baby. Darfur is a very dangerous place and there are mean people who would not like you trying to stop what they are doing there," I told her.

"I know. I know it's dangerous," she said. "But Mama, somebody has to stand up to those meanies. Who will protect those kids? I'm going to go there. I'm going to go there when I'm a grown up... or maybe when I'm six," she explained as if it were all very clear to her and should be plain to all of us as well.

"Well, if that's what you want to do, even though it is very, very dangerous..." I started.

"I do! I do! When I'm a grown up... or maybe when I'm six. How 'bout when I'm six?" she seemed in a hurry to single handedly end the genocide in a nightmarish corner of the world that she couldn't even find on a globe. Though, I was beaming that my five year old knew more of it than most Americans could be bothered to learn... and then actually wanted to do something about it.

"Well, not when you're six. But if you did go there and stood up for those people, then I would be very proud of you. Remember, it only takes one person to change the world."

"Awww... but I wanna go when I'm six. Mama, please?" she begged.

All I could do was reach down and hold her close, squeezing her a little tighter with each subsequent "please" she'd eek out until, of course, she'd said "please" about 300 times in a two minute span and I snapped at her in a very unmotherly tone.

That kid. If she ain't breaking my heart with her smart mouth and obnoxious antics, she's making it burst with pride, joy, and love.

That's a Keeper

2007-06-07T20:47:00.000-05:00

We were at Kohl's today and after being warned 2,349,182 times NOT to climb on the side of the cart because she might tip it over, Reilly Kate tipped over the cart -- with Irina in it. Fortunately, I was within arms' reach and caught the baby and the cart before either could hit the floor. Given my penchant for histrionics, I screamed as I performed aforementioned rescue, bringing even more attention to the entire scene. Yay me!

I sat Reilly Kate down and gave her a berating in the most civil tone I've ever berated her in. So enraged was I that if I had brought my voice level even one notch above a steady, audible whisper, I'd probably have lost all control and escalated it up to full blown shrieking. After a few minutes, when I could push the cart without shaking, we proceeded with our shopping.

After some time, Reilly Kate started talking very loudly, saying ridiculous stuff to try to embarrass me in retaliation for her berating. A lovely girl, isn't she?

"What?" she screeched. "You don't want me anymore?"

At least she wasn't screaming "Help me! Somebody call the police!" like she's done several times in the past.

"I never said I didn't want you, Reilly Kate," I told her.

"Why? Why don't you want me?" she asked with a wail.

"Well," said a woman standing nearby, "I could give you five reasons and I've only seen you for about 20 minutes."

And there you have it. I wish she'd shared with us her reasons, though. I have about 2,349,182 and could use five more. But I'll keep her just the same. For now.

Monkey Business: The Sliding scale of Sanity

2007-06-06T21:40:00.000-05:00

You have to excuse me. I've been teetering on the edge of insanity lately. Seriously. I gathered every. single. toy. my children own and dumped them all in the middle of my basement. I feel for my cousin and her boys. They're coming to stay with us and will need to learn quickly how to navigate a toy mountain in the dark. I'm not sure if they offer classes for this at sporting goods stores or what. If anyone knows, please post on that.

So as I said, I've been teetering on the edge. But I rallied today and have my brain firmly planted on sane soil. For now. I managed to somehow seal up that incessant blathering my daughter is so prone to. I gave her music and headphones. If you haven't plugged your kid into some music, let me HIGHLY recommend it. Sure, she looks like a 16 year old angst ridden teen, but what the hell do I care if she shuts the fuck up for longer than three minutes?

Ah, yes. The silence was golden. And just what the doctor ordered. Hell, the kids didn't even fight since Reilly Kate wouldn't even acknowledge Roman's existence while she grooved to The Killers, Green Day, and Pink. Not even when he took to throwing sticks at her head. She didn't even pay him so much as a glance for his efforts. Sure, he walked away feeling lonely and dejected, but the hell do I care if it keeps them from screaming at one another for longer than three minutes?

Better to have a well balanced mother, I always say. Even if the balance is fleeting.

Our weekend, in case you were wondering (because I know my enjoyment of weekends is a pressing issue for my blog readership), was hectic but shit tons of fun. Oh, sure, it made me wish my husband had a weekend job in Siberia, but that's par for the course when one has a busy summer weekend planned that doesn't involve guzzling copious amounts of beer. But that's more his problem than mine.

On Saturday, after Reilly Kate's soccer game, we went down to Kings Dominion. Tons of fun for the kids. Roman is, apparently, an adrenalin junkie. He rode on every roller coaster and daredevil ride a person of his stature is allowed. This picture was taken on the kiddie version of The Clipper. It was his first thrill ride ever. I was a wreck, so nervous was I. But my three and a half year old baby ran straight up to the damn thing, demanded to sit in the very last seat, and then proceeded to raise his arms straight in the air. It was only after I just about stroked out (remember, my mental state as of late), that he put his arms down, fingers safely curled around the bar in front of him. My heart, by the way, hasn't stopped racing since. I'm too old and too fat for my kid's adventuresome spirit.

Reilly Kate loved her some race cars. Too bad for her, it appears she has inherited my complete and utter misunderstanding of navigation and vehicle control. Good thing they keep these things on tracks. We avoided the bumper cars completely. Just don't think it's a good idea for her. Do you? At least she kept her eyes open. I mean, no hands is one thing, but with your eyes closed you can't even brace yourself for the impending crash.

And then there was Irina. My sweet little cherub who is quite honestly the easiest baby I could have ever dreamed of. She is the least of my problems, completely absent of worry. She's a true delight. And she's discovered her toes. She's an ardent worshipper of the foot, it seems. Just loves her some foot action. A real foot fetishist, she is. I'll let you guess where she inherited that from. And, ummm, it ain't me so don't guess that.

By the end of the day, the kids were really wanting to win stuffed animals. You know, those damn games that you spend 20 bucks to win a fucking $5 piece of crap made by political prisoners in China. Well, Mike did win one. An ugly Pokemon thing that he gave to me as an apology for the temper tantrum he threw. Yes, Mike. Anyway, the kids were buggin'. I saw one of those Amazing Houdini type things where the park worker is trained to guess your weight or age or whatever. I told Mike that I really didn't think anyone would guess my weight within five lbs. Dumb move on my part because Mike then was insistent that I go and do it and win the kids some animals. So, after discarding my pride in the nearest trash can, I waltzed up to the Houdini, paid my five bucks and had her guess my weight.

"Turn around," she directed.

I did as told, sucking in my gut and wishing I had stuffed my pocket with whatever it is in my purse that makes the fucking thing so god damned heavy.

"I'm going to say... 130," she said.

I laughed. "Is that really your guess?"

"Well, I can't change it now, can I? Get on the scale."

There, in the middle of an amusement park, on a crowded weekend, in front of God and everyone -- oh, and did I mention it was Mike's company picnic? Yes, so in front of God, everyone, and all those that Mike works with, I stepped on the scale.

183.

Yes, I beat that Houdini bitch by 53 lbs. So bad was her beating that I won EACH child a stuffy.

Yep, it pays to be fat. In technicolor monkeys.

Mama said there'd be days like this

2007-06-04T07:32:00.001-05:00

There are days I just wish my husband would go away.

Those days are called "weekends."

Assholes of America

2007-06-02T07:17:00.001-05:00

Need I say more?

No.

Will I say more?

Of course.

This asshole was so hell bent on contributing to the assholing of America that he circumvented American border authorities, the FAA, Homeland Security, and even the Canadians (don't mess with mounties, man!). And now he expects us to believe that he meant no harm, that it wasn't his fault, that he was told he posed no threat.

Hmmm... you believin' that shit? 'Cause if you are I got a dachshund to sell you that's sweet, obedient, and will never eat any of your electronics.

Where they hell is his sense of responsibility for his own actions? He knew he had a drug resistant form of TB (he only later learned it was the worst type of drug resistant TB) and they advised him not to fly. Regardless of what his future father in law or any of the other swinging dicks over at the CDC said, he should have come to the only decent conclusion: stay his fucking ass home with a god damn mask on.

But no, our asshole didn't do that. No, he's rich and rules don't apply to him. Peasants. They are the ones that should obey. They are the ones with communicable diseases. They.

No, he felt that his vacation was too important. He couldn't just get married in the good old US of A. No, he just had to get married in Greece and then spread his good ill all over Europe. Shit, as if America doesn't already have a bad enough reputation. As if Americans travelling abroad don't already have to sew Canadian flags on their backpacks. As if there aren't enough American lawyers fucking shit all over the globe.

So our happy little Typhoid Mary and his no doubt whiny wife came up with a brilliant scheme to get him in and out of a variety of soveriegn nations. And really, what is a wedding without foreign travel and the sharing of terminal diseases? The next time I get married, I'm going to Africa to catch AIDS.

I started to write about my many wishes for the American asshole, Andrew Speaker. Like I wished he would survive this disease. I wished he and his blonde bimbo would produce a beautiful baby. I wished that after the birth of said child, our asshole's balls would shrivel up like itty bitty raisins, lacking both life and luster. I wished his manly member would hang lifeless from his body, unwilling and unable to do anything more than dribble urine in his Depends. And then I wished that every single day of his only child's life he is stricken with the worst panic that someone would stupidly, selfishly get on a plane, a bus, or an elevator with an airborne deadly sick and stricken that precious child. I wished that he couldn't let his kid go to school for fear that someone might sneeze or cough. I wished that he'd spend the rest of his life in an agoraphobic state, fearful of everyone and every germ.

Then I remembered Matthew 5:44. It's part of my email signature, in fact, to remind me, and others, that it is useless to hate your enemies. "I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despite-fully use you, and persecute you."

So I won't wish anything but good health and long life on our asshole. I am releasing my anger and replacing it with happy thoughts. However, any of you who don't hold to this love-your-enemies philosophy, please feel free to borrow from the above wishes and plop your pennies into the well. I've got some pennies you can borrow, too.

This is the kind of shit that can only happen to me

2007-05-31T15:53:00.001-05:00

Mike bought me a beautiful watch for my birthday. It's a Bulova with 16 diamonds (my birthday is the 16th of February). I love it. I wear it every day. I just don't use it.

When we moved to Hawaii, I got pregnant within a few weeks. I never held a job while we lived there. I lived on Hawaiian time which requires no watch. It's a laid back, I'll get there when I can kind of living. I threw my watch away and didn't miss it for a minute.

Now we're back on the mainland where the kids have to be involved in a minimum of two activities or they'll never get into to preschool, let alone a good college. People live by time, checking their watches throughout the day and running around like a people living on their last few moments. It's nuts.

And I've fallen right into it.

So I have this watch, right. And I don't use it. Mike asked me yesterday if I was liking my watch and I fessed up that I really haven't even used it, although I wear it daily. I have even gone so far as opening my cell phone to check the time before remembering that I have my gorgeous watch on my wrist. I live off of surrounding clocks and I run around like a person living on her last moments.

He wisely suggested that I try to remember to check my watch and that perhaps I would find myself running on schedule. And so, I tried.

I put my watch on post shower as usual. But this time, I looked at the time, and each time I went to do something else like clean baby poop off the carpet or remove mud from Truman's mouth (yes, he's taken to eating mud now instead of $80 video games, thank god!), I would check my watch.

It's the most amazing thing, people. A watch. A clock readily available to tell me what time it is. And the most amazing and truly liberating thing happened. I was not just on time, I was early. As I herded up the youngin's and got them out the door, I happily looked down at my watch and saw that I was about 3 minutes ahead of my usual time to leave. This meant that I could actually do the speed limit and I wouldn't have to scream at my children to click themselves into their seats faster and I could actually stop at stop signs instead of just rolling through them. I was over the moon.

Then I started the engine and out of habit checked the clock on the stereo. It read 9:58. Roman's swimming lessons started at 10AM. I shook my head and looked again, just in case, you know, I had a screw loose or something that made me see 9:58 when in reality it was really 9:42 as my watch so lovingly told me. Sadly, I when I looked up the damn clock read 9:59. I looked down at my watch and I swear I saw it smiling at me, smiling a beautiful yet deceiving 9:42. Wicked, wicked watch.

Refusing to believe it, however, I ran back inside (not just to check the watch, mind you, but because I also forgot to pack Roman's towel). All the fucking clocks now read 10:00, on the nose. I sprinted into the van, screaming at the kids to buckle up, popped that puppy into gear, and sped away doing well over the speed limit and rolling through stop signs. We made it to his lesson in five minutes, including the race from the parking lot, through the recreation center and the steamy locker room, into the pool area in, carrying the baby in her carseat, the swimming bag, the diaper bag, the towel, and a partridge in a pear tree.

It would have made a delightful story to share with the other Tuesday/Thursday swimming moms, but, unfortunately for me, they're all bitches. So I just sat mumbling to myself and giggling. They probably think I'm suffering from delusions... delusions of punctuality.

But still, it's a really pretty watch.

Bad dog. Bad day.

2007-05-29T19:42:00.000-05:00

You know it's going to be a bad, bad day when it starts off with this:

"Mom! Truman ate Roman's LMAX."

And sure enough, the day continued as the early morning predicted. I couldn't find Roman's swim trunks so he had to wear a pair two sizes too small. The van was on empty and, in fact, still is. And the interior of my house is entirely yellow, with the exception of my pink bedroom. It just pisses me off.

Woe to the few people that called me today and attempted to lighten my mood. I argued against my own statements... within five minutes of making them. And bit the head off of anyone who tried to agree with me.

And I'm sick of stinking. It's like being stalked by an old sweaty dairy farmer who had to milk the whole herd single handedly in scorching heat and then threw up on himself. Every where I go, there's that smell... because, well, that smell is eminating from me. Showers do little to help. Ah, yes, envy me.

I washed just about every single dish I own today and somehow still have a stack in the sink. And my kids toss their garbage on the floor all over the house like they're starring in a PSA on littering. Laundry, I'm convinced, procreates on its own which is kind of disturbing as it's being done in my kids' bedroom while they sleep. I miss Almin.

The worst part of the day is that that damn, fucking dog ate a fucking hand held video game and made it through without even so much as a stomach ache. Fucker.

Memorial Day

2007-05-28T20:53:00.000-05:00

Sometimes all you need to say is in a picture.

25 Signs You're a Grown Up or 25 Signs I need to Grow Up

2007-05-24T21:29:00.000-05:00

I got this list in an email and found myself shaking my head to almost the whole list. I think it's worse that I it seems at 36 I'm desperately trying to cling to my youth...

Here's my edited version:

1. Your house plants are alive, and you can't smoke any of them.

All my houseplants ARE dead and I've thought about smoking them. The lone cigarette that's been sitting in my coat pocket for a year screams my name daily and when it gets really bad I think, "Can one smoke african violets legally in this state ?"

2. Having sex in a twin bed is out of the question.

Having sex in a king sized bed is out of the question with three kids and a dog in between the two of us. Sex in the family room is completely possible provided I can stay awake long enough.

3. You keep more food than beer in the fridge.

I do keep more food in my fridge than I do beer. That's why I gots me a BEER fridge. And that puppy is full of beer. And, of course, 2% milk for the kids.

4. 6:00 AM is when you get up, not when you go to bed.

Sometimes, for me, it is both.

5. You hear your favorite song on an elevator.

This hasn't happened to me yet. I think of myself as pretty hip in the music department. I have to tell ya, my ring tone is "Don't cha wish your girlfriend was hot like me" by the Pussycat Dolls which I thought was highly amusing when I was heavy with an 11lb baby and a 52" waist.

6. You watch the Weather Channel.

I don't think we have the Weather Channel. I don't need it. I send RK out every morning to see what it's like. If I need more, I do as our internet savvy prez does, I hop on the Google.

7. Your friends marry and divorce instead of hook up and break up.

This one I'll grant you. But I've got to add that they still hook up which is probably contributing to the divorce rate. Oh, and then they remarry. And still hook up.

8. You go from 130 days of vacation time to 14.

Where the hell do I go to get this 14 days of vacation time? Is there an HR department around here? I'm going to go look in the basement. I bet that's where Mike's got it hidden.

9. Jeans and a sweater no longer qualify as "dressed up."

If they are free of baby poop and puke and spit and... well, basically if they are devoid of all bodily fluids and... ummm... solids, then they qualify alright. It's just that it's pretty fucking hard to be free of all those things for more than 10 minutes.

10. You're the one calling the police because those damn kids next door won't turn down the stereo.

If they're waking up my kids during Mommy's free time, then you are GOD DAMNED RIGHT I AM! If, however, it is during the day, then I'm thrilled. The louder the better so I can't actually hear my kids fighting and trying to kill one another.

11. Older relatives feel comfortable telling sex jokes around you.

I'll do you one better. My grandfather, the first time he held Irina, said, "Whoa. She's heavy." Then holding up is hands in a circle the size of a basketball said, "That hole must have been this big!"

I leaned in to him and said, "Yep. It sure was when she came out. But thanks to Kegels, you could hardly get a pencil in there now." His jaw dropped that I would say such a thing. But I didn't stop there. Oh, no. Not I. "That's right. I've got more tricks than a Thai whore."

12. You don't know what time Taco Bell closes anymore.

Hello? I was just pregnant. Midnight hunger. New baby. Up late. Don't want to cook a thing. Hell yeah I know what time Taco Bell closes and it is NEVER!

13. Your car insurance goes down and your payments go up.

Not sure about this. I'll have to go find the accounting office. Probably near the HR department.

14. You feed your dog Science Diet instead of McDonalds leftovers.

Oh, no. Mama's babies have NEVER eaten McCrap. No, no. I'll feed that shit to the human babes, but like hell with holy water will I ever allow that waste to enter the mouths of my dear dogs. Of course, Truman eats his own shit. But he's more Reilly Kate's dog.

15. Sleeping on the couch makes your back hurt.

If I didn't sleep on the couch while nursing I would be lacking those three precious hours I get each night.

16. You no longer take naps from noon to 6 PM.

Never been a napper. Sleeps for the dead, I always say. I saw on a barista's apron a slogan that I've adopted, "Life's short. Stay awake."

17. Dinner and a movie is the whole date instead of the beginning of one.

Oh, are you talking about the mac & cheese, chicken nuggets, and broccoli we just had followed by a half hour of Dora? Is that it?

18. Eating a basket of chicken wings at 3 AM would severely upset, rather than settle, your stomach.

Food doesn't upset my stomach. Not having food upsets my stomach. See above post regarding Taco Bell.

19. You go to the drug store for ibuprofen and antacid, not condoms and pregnancy tests.

Umm... no, I do go for condoms and pregnancy tests. And the occasional hemorrhoid cream. Hey, I had an 11lb baby!!!

20. A $4.00 bottle of wine is no longer "pretty good stuff."

If I'm drinking it straight out of the bottle, I'm sure it's "pretty good stuff."

21. You actually eat breakfast food at breakfast time.

I eat whatever, whenever. I think people who need breakfast food are rigid and inflexible and probably vote Republican. Besides, what besides coffee does one really need in the morning anyway?

22. "I just can't drink the way I used to," replaces, "I'm never going to drink that much again."

At this point in my life, I usually say both. That's really pathetic, eh?

23. 90% of the time you spend in front of a computer is for real work.

Well, yeah. 90% of the time I'm in front of the computer I'm lactating which falls within my job description.

24. You no longer drink at home to save money before going to a bar.

I no longer get to go to a bar. Hence I've installed a bar in my home. Now I drink at the bar and need only stumble mere feet to sleep on the couch. It's a beautiful thing. And once I've rolled those african violets into stogies, it'll be even better.

25. You read this entire list looking desperately for one sign that this doesn't apply to you.

I read this whole list and thought how pathetic it is that I'm 36 and don't agree with most of it. I need to grow up. I must still think I'm 25. Fortunately, I have mirrors to keep me grounded. Damn those things.

Quote of the Day

2007-05-23T20:35:00.001-05:00

"Play dead."

-- Reilly Kate upon being asked what she should do if someone were to try to steal her or her siblings. My Mr. Stranger Danger talks aren't working so well, I guess.

Blog blog blog

2007-05-22T21:40:00.000-05:00

I'm a sucky blogger. If the blogosphere was a high school, I'd be the class dork who eats lunch with the hall monitors, gets lost and walks into the wrong class, and has a boyfriend in Canada who just couldn't make it to prom. Now that I think of it, I think that was me in high school, too.

I've never really clicked with other bloggers. I don't really read blogs. I once tried my hand at a blog community and made a few blog friends, but they all rightfully drifted off when I stopped reading and commenting on their blogs. All but Thordora over at vomitcomit. She must really love dorks 'cause she's never left. God bless her. And if you want to see how a real blog looks, head on over. It's all neat and organized with links and such. I'd put her link up, but I haven't a clue how.

The reality is that things are pretty hum drum around here. I've received many compliments on my writing and suggestions that I try to publish some of this drivel. I'm not sure I'm ready for that, but as Mike was driving around the other day seeing how the higher ups live, he came home and demanded that this blog start bringing in some money.

A blog that can bring in money? Is that possible?

I did a little surfing and found not only is it possible, my friends, there are some really less than literate mommies out there doing just that. Crazy.

So, I'm thinking this place is in need of a face lift. I have a problem when it comes to html -- I can't html my way out of a paper bag. Not that one would need to html one's way out of a paper bag. But, if I did need to, I wouldn' be able to. Don't suggest a class (as Mike so brilliantly did). I don't have the time to learn. Basically I need someone or some team of ones that does this type of thing. Make me a pretty blog. Transfer all my archives over to the new blog. Get me a .com address. I've googled some companies and may contact them, but I'd employ a mom who does this kind of thing at home to earn some extra money. If anyone knows of anyone or has used someone to have this done, let me know.

Lastly, it seems that many blogs around the net have give aways. That's right. All you have to do is comment and you get entered into a raffle to win stuff. I don't know where they get the stuff, but they get stuff, good stuff, and give it away.

Well, I don't have stuff. But I got several things just as good as stuff. I've got a husband, three kids, and two dogs. All going up for raffle. First out the door... er... I mean, the first prize to be raffled off is MY HUSBAND. He's good at... stuff. He's got his own... stuff. And he's... he's... a good driver and... umm... he... sits well. And reads. And he can sit and read at the same time. He comes complete with clothes, uniforms, dress clothes, and gardening attire. He's potty trained, meaning he puts down the seat. And sometimes even loads the dishwasher. Yep. Some lucky reader out there is going to be lucky. Just your luck. Enter to win!

Leave me a comment and you may be the lucky winner. Go ahead show me some love! I dare ya.

Love it

2007-05-22T06:44:00.000-05:00

Someone mistook me for a teenaged babysitter today. I heard him ask Reilly Kate, "Do you have a babysitter now?"

"No," she told him.

"Well, who's that in your house? Looks like a babysitter," he insisted.

"Who? That? That's just my MOM!" she giggled.

Of course, that someone was Kevin from Planet Weird so I'm not so sure I should take the compliment seriously. Perhaps he's trying to just butter me up and get on my good side.

They're still at their over the fence summer courtship. Every single day he comes out and sits on his swing, the two of them talking. Every single day he invites her to hop the fence and come swing on his swing. Every day I tell her no, his yard isn't fenced in, she is only five and therefore cannot go over to his yard. Yesterday I even invited him over to ours. I felt all warm and fuzzy after his mistaking me for a teenager. But he's far too shy or something for that.

"No thank you," drawing out the last two words with such a strange emphasis I know there is more to it. Perhaps it violates some mating custom on their planet.

Speaking of folks from Planet Weird, Reilly Kate and Roman were discussing who her boyfriend really is.

"You're boyfriend is Kevin," said my three and a half year old boy. I just have to wonder where the hell he even heard such a term and how he figured out what it meant. And what floozy is he the boyfriend to?

Anyway, Reilly Kate adamantly denied Kevin was her boyfriend.

"Then John's your boyfriend," Roman said with confidence. John is a nice little boy that is in Reilly Kate's swimming class. Very cute and nice and normal. It'd never work between them.

She denied John, too.

"Then who, Tutu? Who's your boyfriend?" It seemed Roman really wanted to get to the bottom of the mystery man.

"My boyfriend is Brett and he's a grown up."

I'm so glad Brett's on the other side of the planet, modelling his way through Asia. I'm sure he's glad of it, too. Poor guy. I didn't have the heart to break it to Reilly Kate that Brett already has a girlfriend and that she too is a grown up.

I wonder if Kevin knows about Brett. I wonder if there's dueling on the Planet Weird. This summer romance is shaping up to be quite the drama as seen from my backyard deck. Stay tuned....

Artwork by RK

2007-05-20T21:43:00.000-05:00

A beach ball with some dog poop. Of course. What else would one want for Mother's Day?

Golden Slumber

2007-05-18T21:30:00.000-05:00

A friend of a friend. A flimsy connection. Wouldn't know her if she bumped right into me. But my heart aches, my soul weeps. For her. I mourn. With her. She lost her 5 month old baby girl. On Mother's Day. Not that it would have mattered what day. Mother's Day.

The sweet innocence of a new life shattered. A bright future burned out before the flame could even flicker. A daddy without his girl. Two sisters without their third. A mother whose milk doesn't know to quit flowing. Faith shattered. What was God thinking?

A baby laid in their arms only to be ripped away mere months later. A sweet faced girl never to grow into beauty. Promises of kindergarten graduation, a drivers license, first loves, growing old, getting wrinkles and gray hair... all broken by a peaceful death in her sleep a hundred years too soon.

As my baby lies next to me each night, I lean in and whisper, "Don't leave us. Stay, sweet love. Stay." It's a fear all mothers have. It is now one mother's reality. Her baby drifted off, too far to ever come back. If only they came with anchors to our hearts.

What was God thinking? To take one child away will force the rest of us to appreciate what we have a little more? Perhaps. I had a bit more patience today. My love flowed a little freer. I took more pictures. A lot more. Maybe that was little Abby's destiny. We all must meet it. Some just sooner than others.

Golden slumber kiss your eyes,
Smiles await you when you rise.
Sleep,
pretty baby,
Do not cry,
And I'll sing you a lullaby.

Care you know not,
Therefore sleep,
While I o'er you watch do keep.
Sleep,
pretty darling,
Do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby.

If you are so moved, memorials can be made to the DuPage Community Foundation, Attn: Abigail Catherine Mueller Children's Fund, 2100 Manchester Rd, Building A, Suite #303, Wheaton, IL 60187.

Dr. Who?

2007-05-17T21:45:00.000-05:00

The new chiropractor is working out well. At the first visit, I walked in with my entourage of two kids whose volume level shakes skyscrapers, a wailing, hungry baby, and big, droopy, leaking boobs. He greeted me with, "Don't worry. I have three kids, too."

Thank god!

The receptionists helped watch them while I got xrayed. Yes, I finally consented to xrays. What can I say? He was very convincing. And it doesn't hurt that he's cute, too. Oh, haven't I mentioned that he's cute? Yeah. Adorable. Smokin' bod. Gorgeous eyes. Sparkling smile. He even smells good. It totally sucks.

I hate good looking doctors and if I had the time, I'd run for office just so I could propose legislation that would outlaw good looking people from practicing medicine. There really is NOTHING worse than standing bare but for a hospital gown, big saggy tits drooping down to the waistline, fleshy belly hanging loosely, dimpled ass sticking out the back, while a spiffly dressed, slickly coiffed, hard bodied Dr. Studly Hotterson does his examination. Or, in my case, redoes the xrays as he explains "You're just too thick to get accurate xrays. We'll have to retake them from a different angle and hope for the best."

Yeah, mortifying.

It reminds me of an incident I had once with a dermatologist. You see, I had this mole. It was down... down there... in the nether regions. It was big and growing. It looked just like those moles they print in pamphlets and leave lying around tanning booths. I'd ignored it, let it go and let it go. I really did not want to go in to have it examined. I just kept envisioning the scenario.

The doctor walks in and says, "What can I do for you today, Ms... [looks down at the chart] Peet?"

"Well, doctor, I've got a little something I'd like you to have a look at. If you'd just come just come a little closer [as I spread open my legs]... No, no, closer, Doc! You're gonna have to get a lot closer. It's down here. Just take a peak. Come on! Just a peak!"

So you see, I really dreaded the whole thing.

Finally, one day, I mustered up the courage and pulled out the preferred provider list from our insurance. It listed all the dermatologists in the Tampa Bay area. I decided the least painful way this whole mole exam could play out was if the doctor I went to was an old, crinkled up man with hardly any memory left. I scanned the list over and again for about an hour searching for a name that said I'm over 70 with one foot in the nursing home and I'll never remember your face if I see you on the street. I found a mile long Greek name that just screamed out OLD. It was something like Wrinkledupolis Oldmanos. I called, made my appointment, and showed up on the prescribed day.

After taking off all my clothing and doffing the flimsy paper gown I'd been handed, I settled in on the exam table, complete with comfy paper liner. I sat swinging my legs and trying to keep my mind on things going on at work (I was working on a pretty big political campaign at the time). Then came that simultaneous knock and walk that doctors are infamous for. I looked up fully expecting to see Wrinkledupolis and was met face on with Adonis.

Oh my god, was he a fine looking man. One of the best I've ever met. So fine that I wanted to jump down off the table and make a run for it, but I didn't want to go back to the office without my clothes on. I resisted the urge to scream out, "I've been duped! Where's the old man? Get me a doctor over 60! How dare you be so hot!" Instead, I turned a shade of crimson not easily found in nature and began to tell him my tale of the yoni mole.

"Well, let's have a look at that mole, then," he said.

I wanted to die.

While he removed the mole he asked me what I did for a living and we immediately started talking politics. Lucky me. Not only was the doctor who was removing the grotesque mole from my privates Hotty McStud instead of the Shrivel Prunerson I'd ordered, but it seemed Hotty McStud was a Democratic contributor. Most excellent. Oh, and isn't that interesting, he knows my boss. How lovely. Yes, yes, in fact, he knows quite a few of the people I work with. Gee, great.

"Would you please take your robe off so I can do a total body mole check?" he asked.

There I stood, naked as the day I came into the world as he chatted up about the recent Democratic races.

"Do you know about the golf fundraiser tomorrow?" he inquired as he inspected my skin for any suspicious lesions.

"Yes, I'm on the planning team," I told him while trying not to exhale as I sucked in my belly and prayed to die.

"Great, will I see you there?"

"I'm sure. I'll be there all day. Find Bob and you'll find me," I informed him while making a note of staying as far away from Bob as possible.

"Cool. I'm on a team with some college friends of mine," he said, then added, "Could you lift your breasts so I can check underneath."

I did as I was told. I stood there, freaking butt ass naked, one breast in each hand, hoisted up high so that the hottest doctor in all of Florida could peer under in search of moles. And if that wasn't enough, then came the corker.

"I'll buy you a drink tomorrow and you can tell me all about what it is you do," he said, taking a break from his search to flash me a Ken doll grin and a wink.

Needless to say, I spent the whole next day hiding, literally hiding from the man. I'd jump into the bathroom, hide behind people bigger than me. At one point I even held up a golf bag in front of me just to get out of his line of sight.

And I never, never, ever went back to any dermatologist again.

The mole, by the way, was benign despite its appearance -- which makes the whole fucking doctor's visit even more of a tragedy that could have been avoided.

So far so good with the chiropractor, though. His good looks are off set by his fatherhood and understanding of my beasts. We'll see how long this all lasts.

Funsday

2007-05-16T07:09:00.000-05:00

As we drove across the country we saw lots of cars towing campers and fishing boats and all kinds of outdoor activities going on. When we passed a couple of blokes in a boat casting their lines without a care in the world, or at least looking like they were at rate, Mike said, "I'd like to do that."

"Do what?" I asked, not quite comprehending what it was he wanted to do as we are not what you'd call outdoorsy types.

"Go fishing," he replied.

"Fishing? You don't fish," I said while scanning my brain for any memories I might have of him involving the drowning of worms as a recreational pastime.

"I use to," he said looking off into a time gone by, stored somewhere in the recesses of his aging brain. "I'd like to fish again sometime."

"Well, then, go fishing sometime," I told him. With a giggle I added, "In your spare time. The 5th Grunsday after next is a bit free."

"There are a lot of hobbies I'd like to pick up again," he said, thoughtfully. "I need a day for fun stuff. Hmmmm... I'll call it Funsday!"

And then he proceeded to serenade me the remainder of the 14 hour long trip to his own version of Manic Monday. It went a little something like this:

Just another manic Grunsday
Wish it were a Funsday
'Cause that's my fun day
My I don't have to run day
It's just another manic Grunsday

He really thinks he's clever. He sang and laughed and sang and laughed. I started to wish I had a set of earphones to the DVD player so like the kids, I too could tune into 14 straight hours of Rolie Polie Olie instead of the manic Grunsday Funsday comedy show.

Is it any wonder I'm just this side of being medicated?

Roadies!

2007-05-12T19:53:00.001-05:00

We went on a covert mission on Friday to give my mom a heart attack - because what else would we give her for Mother's Day? Mike and I and the kids road tripped our way to Southern Illinois University for my youngest brother's graduation. We didn't tell a soul except my other brother and his wife and we only told them because we're staying at their house. Hell, I didn't even tell the blog.

It was a 14 hour drive that the kids were excited to take. They'd never had the opportunity to drive that far before. Think about it. They lived on a small island that takes about an hour and a half to drive around completely. Then they lived in a major Asian metropolitan area in which you could drive for fourteen hours, but you'd still be mere blocks from home, stuck in a traffic jam that's a daily reality. Needless to say, they were excited.

We started off our trip pumping our fists in the air and yelling out "Road trip!" Well, all of us except Reilly Kate because she just couldn't be bothered.

Then about six hours into it, we stopped for gas and when we hit back on the highway, Mike and I pumped our fists and yelled "Road trip!"

Roman responded with "Airplane trip." Gone was the glee, the excitement, the fist pumps. He wanted to find an airport and hop on a plane for the rest of the trip.

By twelve hours, we turned back to the carseated ones and chirped "Road trip."

Reilly Kate wouldn't even look at us, so pissed off was she. Roman, with his mean face on, glared and yelled back, "Road poop!"

I guess they may be world travellers, but truckers they'll never make.

Things aren't always what they seem

2007-05-09T08:37:00.000-05:00

The butt crack is a bonus. Adds a little somethin' special, don't ya think?

This a "like father, like son" story. One of my mother-in-law's favorite stories about Mike was when he was about Roman's age. It seemed wee Mike had a fascination with trucks, which he pronounced just as Roman. One day when they were leaving church, he looked out and there was a large truck going down the street. He yelled out, "Look at the big FUCK!" And then he pointed...just as a large fat man crossed his path, stopping right in front of aforementioned pointed finger.

And now you all know the story of the Big Fuck.

Summer lovin', happened so fast

2007-05-05T06:31:00.000-05:00

I do believe Reilly Kate has a c-r-u-s-h on the neighbor boy, Kevin.

We met Kevin when we first moved in, but haven't seen hide nor hair of him since. Or anyone in the neighborhood for that matter. I'm assured that everyone is holed up their houses as a result of frigid temperatures and not a reaction to us. You can't help but wonder, though. Since the weather has turned nice, Kevin has been out in the backyard, swinging on his swing. We still haven't seen any of the other neighbors. Still holed up, I guess.

Kevin is a nice, 9 year old boy. And if I were 5 I'd think he was absolutely hunka hunka. He's got nice eyes and a great smile. Plus, he's weird. A perfect match for Reilly Kate. Mike stood out there one day as the two were talking over the fence (his house is behind ours so our backyards are only separated by a dilapidated split rail fence) and said it sounded like two aliens from the planet Weird.

Now, I don't use the term "weird" lightly or derogatory. There are variations of weird. Weird can be great. Or it can be just weird. Reilly Kate is weird weird with a streak of great weird that flares up occasionally. Kevin too seems to be weird weird. On first impression, he seems almost autistic. Perhaps he is. It's not something you really ask another parent.

"By the way, your kids seems a little off. Is he a 'tard?"

No, that wouldn't win me any popularity contests. So I ain't askin'. I'll just do my own observations and come to my own conclusions and keep them to myself. And this blog. Which is easily found with a quick Google to my name which is all over this here blog. Yeah, I guess I'm broadcasting this to all who cross my path and have access to the internet, which is everyone not living in a third world country. Shit. No wonder I'm not so popular.

Okay, back to the c-r-u-s-h. Every night we've been eating our dinner outside on the old deck. It's been beautiful, bugless weather which I figure we might as well enjoy while it's here. All through dinner Reilly Kate talks so loudly it's as if her mouth were a bullhorn.

"Mmmm... this dinner is GOOD. I bet KEVIN would love it. KEVIN loves dinner. And worms. KEVIN loves worms. I bet KEVIN will be coming out soon. KEVIN goes to all day, every day school. KEVIN's in 3rd grade. But KEVIN is home from school now. And KEVIN will be coming out any minute now."

And sure enough, before dinner is over, Kevin is there on his swing swinging. And saying, "Hello. Hello. Hello," over and over and over. He'll keep going until everyone in his view says "Hello" back to him. It's a bit annoying. Plus, he has taken a shine to Alyx, our German Shepard Dog. He was terrified of her at first, but now, for whatever reason, has decided she is his buddy. "Alyx. Alyx. Alyx. Alyx." over and over and over until she finally comes up to the fence. Then as soon as she leaves, it's "Alyx. Alyx. Alyx. Alyx," all over again.

Reilly Kate then finishes her dinner and runs between her swing in our yard and the fence that separates ours from his. Back and forth. The two swing and talk. Like Mike said, two aliens from the planet Weird.

It never dawned on me that Reilly would have a c-r-u-s-h on Kevin. I don't know what I was thinking, but I really thought that 5 was a bit young for that. Then again, at 5 I was in love with Shawn Cassidy and Mickey Melfi, a childhood friend I was determined to marry, keeping Shawn as a part time lover. I would cry when Mickey had to be dropped off at kindergarten, fearing that he'd marry one of his schoolyard playmates. 'Cause you know all those kindergarten "playmates" are just whores after my man.

Yesterday Reilly Kate came running up to me, a love struck, silly grin plastered on face. "Mama! My secret plan is working," she whispered.

"What secret plan?" I asked.

"My secret plan to get Kevin out here."

"Does your secret plan involve shouting his name all through dinner?" I inquired.

"No. Of course not," she replied and went off running up the hill toward the fence. As she ran she spread her arms out wide and yelled, "Kevin! I'm poetry! I'm POETRY!"

"Your what?" he asked.

"I'm POETRY!!" she explained.

"I'm cannonball. CANNONBALL," was his reply.

"Me, too. I'm cannonball and poetry."

And on like that the aliens from the planet Weird went, doing their strange courting ritual. I'm just glad it hasn't progressed to the exchanging of worms. Although, I did notice Reilly Kate digging up a special few and setting them aside the other day. It can't be too far off.

I've been robbed!

2007-05-02T20:59:00.000-05:00

This being my last baby, I kinda hoped to have one of those itsy bitsy teeny weeny babies. You know, the ones that everyone goes "Oh, my GOD! She's sooooo tiny!! Just like a little doll." But, I got behemoth baby. Which is fine since what she lacks in petiteness (is that even a word?), she makes up for in beauty (she is after all her mother's daughter!).

As a big baby, one might assume that she then would naturally be slower to start her mobility. This would be my trade off. She might be big, but she won't be all grown up and sitting up and walking and stuff. Bigger babies have more to balance and more weight to bear and a harder time orchestrating all that. Right?

Guess not.

So, who does that remind you of? I'll give you a hint. Look here.

I'll have to go back and check the baby book, but this might even be earlier than RK. What, oh what am I in for now?

I know what. I'm in for a double scotch. Neat. That's what.

Quote of the Day

2007-04-30T20:53:00.000-05:00

This quote of the day is accompanied by a picture. A portrait actually. A self portrait done by Reilly Kate.

On the left is Reilly Kate. In the middle is Irina. And on the right is the co-sleeper with a Boppy laying inside. She drew this a couple of months ago, when Irina was first born. I found it in her sketch pad today while sitting at the chiropractor's office.

Me: Why do you have such big boobs here?

Reilly Kate: They're not big. They're not drooping or anything. Not like your boobs.

I'll get her. I swear, one day I'll get her. And her little dog, too.

Assholes of America

2007-04-28T19:36:00.000-05:00

Have you ever spent three hours in Costco only to go home with only half of what was on your list?

Yeah, me neither.

Okay, okay. I'm a liar liar pants on fire. I have. Yesterday. Three fucking hours. Costco. And my kids are still without their beloved Dino Nuggets. Petrified crap, breaded and deep fried.

Not only was I in Costco for three hours, but I had a run in with one of those Assholes assholing America. Here she is.

Before I explain what happened, let me preface it with a warning to any of you Assholes out there that might stupidly think of posting an Asshole Defense here in the comments section: Don't.

That's it. That's the warning.

So there I was well into my second hour of shopping at Costco with three visits to the bathroom, one water break, a diaper change, two visits to the snack stand, and a nursing mega session under my belt. By the way, if you are ever caught at Costco with a hungry nursling, go check out their patio furniture. Fabulous place to stop and lactate. Cushy chairs. Room for the older kids. Fantastic. Not worth the $1200 price tag to sit it on my twenty year old dilapidated deck, but still fine for a feed.

Anyway, so there I was stressed out, the baby was crying, and we were still shopping when we came across the Vita-Mix stand. As usual Costco was filled with those sample stands and the kids and I sampled our way around the store. Reilly Kate went up to the stand and said, "Mama, can we have one of these?" Both kids always ask me before just grabbing a sample in case it is something I would rather they not have.

I looked at the stand and saw it was empty. Nary a sampler to be seen.

"There's nothing there," I told her.

"Please Mama?"

"Reilly Kate, there is NOTHING there. There isn't even a person standing there, honey," I explained.

"Please?" she continued begging.

As you can see, Reilly Kate has a very hard time accepting the word No.

"You know what? Fine. You go right ahead. Take whatever you can find," I snapped, knowing full well there wasn't anything on the tray for her to have.

It was at this point that Roman went up to the front of the empty sample stand and put his hand up on that stand. There were many different things on display there: pineapples, pamphlets, juice, paper cups, a mixer. I was standing exactly where in the same spot I was when I took that picture (sans the Asshole standing there, of course). All I saw was Roman putting his hand up where there would have been samples.

Out of nowhere comes flying that woman, the Asshole, phone in her ear, forked tongue a-wagging.

"NO! Get your hands off of there!!"

Then turning to me, "There are KNIVES up there!! He has NO business--"

Then back to Roman, "You have NO business putting your hands up there. GET AWAY FROM HERE!"

Then back to me, "Why is he over here? He has no business over here! He could have gotten cut!!"

Roman came running back to me, shocked, embarrassed, shamed, and scared. I soothed him through my own shock.

"He was just looking for samples," I muttered.

"He has NO business up here. You should be watching him," she snarled as she slammed the lid down on a box that I now know contained knives. She then went back to her phone call.

"This woman isn't watching her kids. The kid just came up and... Yeah... I hate that. ...just watch your kids..."

"Maybe you shouldn't have left the knives out," I muttered, tears filling my eyes, as I gathered us up and walked away.

Half way down the next aisle I became enraged. There she is chatting away on the damn fucking phone, leaving sharp ass knives in reach of any of the many children running around Costco, knowing full well that kids are going around tasting the samples, looking for more samples. That stand, the very, exact stand is the place they put the freshly baked brownies the last time we went there. It is a high traffic spot. Lots of kids running around. But she couldn't be bothered even put the lid on the box of knives before she wandered the store to chat her afternoon away.

And then! And then! She has the fucking GALL to point a crooked finger at me? Oh, no. No, no. Not just then. Not with the day I was having. Not while my baby was crying and I was making my way down the frozen fish aisle. No, no.

So you know what I did? I got out my camera and announced to the kids that we were heading back to that stand. We were heading back and taking her picture. Because all Assholes deserve to have their day on the blog. And the Vita-Mix Asshole was not going to be cheated her time to shine. So here she is people.

It's not my best work, but it's about all she's worth anyway.

Cleanliness is next to Godliness

2007-04-26T20:08:00.000-05:00

Ever look down at the jeans you've been wearing all day and realize you have baby poop smeared all over them from the diaper blow out three days ago?

Yeah, me neither.

Cracked

2007-04-25T22:03:00.000-05:00

I'm off to a new chiropractor this afternoon. I had to ditch the old one. Well, he wasn't really old. He was fairly young. And I hadn't really been going to him long. Thrice, to be exact. But, as many doctors do, he pissed me off.

I think I'm not out of line here on this one, though.

On my birthday, February 16th, I went in with my two day old, almost 11 lb baby to have my neck adjusted. I was in so much pain, and so saggy postpartum, that I looked like a lopsided gimp with a reverse hump. So not attractive.

I pathetically gimped my way into their office. After filling out a small biography, I was handed a DVD player and told to watch the video. I sat with this little screen in my lap, hunching over it (which I'm sure was doing my spinal alignment a world's wonder), trying desparately not to fall asleep while adjusting my newly engorged milk bags and praying that I didn't leak through my breast pads.

Imagine my shock and horror when the receptionist takes me back into a little room to administer a pop quiz on the video.

"Please fill out the questions in short answer form," she instructed.

Like I fucking knew there was going to be a quiz. If I had, trust me, I wouldn't have been quite so concerned about my tits or the spasm in my shoulder blades. As you all have figured out by now, though, I can write a whole lot of crap. And crap I wrote. I just wanted to pass the test enough to get to see the doctor. I felt like Alice in Wonderland attempting to see the Oz... er... whatever the hell. I finished without begging to just see the doctor, which I contemplated doing but getting on my knees, which were still sore from all the kneeling I did during labor, might have sent me over my pain threshold.

"Now, please read this paragraph aloud and explain to me what it means to you," were the receptionist's next instructions.

I laughed. I really thought she was kidding. Until I saw the very serious look on her face. I mean, I haven't read aloud in class since the 3rd grade. I wasn't even sure I could pull it off as sleep deprived and uncomfortable as I was. What if I was illiterate? Would I get tossed out? I cleared my throat and read, ending with a verbal load of crap that had to suffice as "what this means to me."

After about 40 minutes of both verbal and written exams, I was allowed to see the doctor. I felt like I was graduating from mere suffering lug to potential patient and perhaps even most favorite test subject. I looked for caps and gowns, but nothing. At the very least they could have played Pomp and Circumstance, for all the work I had put in.

I'll give you the short version of the visit. He wanted me, at 2 days post partum, to get xrays. I know what they say. I know it is supposedly safe, that it doesn't affect your milk or your baby. But I had just had a baby. My milk had just come in a couple of hours before. Everything was so new and while my baby wasn't a small newborn, she was only 11 lbs. Hell, I could lose that much weight by lopping off a finger.

I refused. Especially after he told me that they didn't have any aprons. I just wouldn't do it. We went round and round. Finally I asked him, "Would you xray your food right before eating it?"

"Of course not," he replied. "But I am not asking you to xray your food."

"No, you are asking to xray my two day old baby's food."

With a hurumph and a grimace, he dropped the subject.

Then he went about his adjusting. He wanted me to lay flat down, face first, into a massage type table. Yes, flat on my front. With my enormous, hugely engorged udders. It would have been like trying to lay flat on two mini pontoons... that squirt.

"I can't lay like that," I told him with a smile.

He grunted a dirty look at me and said, "Yes, yes, you can. Yes."

"No, no I can't."

"Yes. You must."

"Have you seen the size of my breasts?" I ask as I point to the most obvious pair of tits in the whole damn clinic. I mean, my GOD, these things were the size of Thai watermelons and drooped like a basset hound's ears. You could NOT miss them. Especially since they were framed so nicely by damp breast pads.

So I settled in on my back. And there he had me lay while he fiddle faddled with his equipment and who knows what else. As I sat there, being post partum and all, I could feel the ummm... well... the post partum blood dripping down my back. I'm sure as a man, a single man at that, he had no clue that after one has a baby one bleeds like a river flowing through Egypt. And when on your back, that blood doesn't flow nicely into the pad placed carefully in the underwear for collection purposes. No, no, gravity simply just doesn't work that way. It flows straight down the crack of your ass and unless you're wearing a diaper, it soaks through your panties creating a snake like looking stain on the back of your pants.

If he had adjusted me as soon as I laid down, I'd have been okay. But I was laying flat for well over five minutes. Feeling the flow, I decided to sit up, which given the distastrous state of my abdominal muscles meant a really unique maneuver I refer to as the swing-shift-push. You swing your legs over, shift your weight, and then push up with your hands. It's like a sit up without the actual use of your abs. And it creates somewhat of a scene.

"Just lay back," he snapped. And so I did, destined to an afternoon of stain sticking the only pair of jeans that fit my pathetically post partum figure.

He did the adjustment and then finished off with a popping pressure gun thingy to my neck. I don't know what that thing is supposed to do, but it did nothing but scare the dilly will out of me.

He gave me a list of instructions.

"Don't sleep with any pillows. Lay flat. Use ice three times a day. Do some gentle stretches, but don't move your neck around a lot. Don't hold your baby."

I laughed.

"I'm serious. You cannot hold your baby."

I laughed again, but with the slowly dawning realization that he wasn't kidding.

"You cannot make like this," he said as he demonstated a cradle hold.

"I have to. I have to feed her."

"Let your husband hold her while you feed her."

Now, if you heard this after having just given birth two days before what would you do? I'll tell you what this weird bird did. I laughed the laugh of a lunatic while tears streamed down my face. I was sobbing and laughing and I must have looked a complete mess.

"Yeah, okay. Yeah. Right," I laughed.

Then I got serious. Darkly, meanly serious.

"I get it. You are my doctor. You are telling me what is best for me. But I am the mother of a 2 day old baby. I'd have to be cold and dead before I wouldn't hold my baby."

And so ended our visit.

Then I was handed the bill. A bill of $250 plus $40 for the popping gun to the neck treatment. The harrassment and hassle were free. Lucky me.

I went back there two more times. Primarily to announce to all the women patients in the waiting area that Dr. Dumbass had advised me to not pick up my 2 day old baby. By the time I was through with him, he was the butt end of a lot of jokes, especially from the blue hairs. God love 'em.

So I leave to find greener pastures... or at least nicer chiros.

Is it Grunsday yet?

2007-04-24T20:13:00.000-05:00

My poor, poor husband. He just hasn't enough time in the day, enough days in a week, or enough weeks in a year. His honey-do list is ever growing, with the new house, new baby, new job...

Today I found him screaming, while swatting, at a bug in the kitchen.

"DIE!! I haven't the fucking time for this!! Will you just die already? God dammit! DIE!"

You know it's bad when the slow death of a flying insect is backing up the schedule.

But there is good news, my friends. My ever clever husband has created an 8th day with 26 hours during which he doesn't have to sleep. He has christened it Grunsday and has shifted a number of his current projects (such as the construction of the swingset, the sorting of the toys in the basement, the cleaning out of the garage, and the writing of the book on the history of Korean foreign policy) to this day.

Though, so far all that has really come of it is mumbling under his breath, "Is it Grunsday yet? Is it Grunsday yet?"

I guess I should go check on that bug.

I'm sure Grunsday will come soon.