Sunny days, keeping the pervs away....

I obviously have Sesame Street on the brain today.


We don't let our son watch a lot of television. He's only 16 months old - he doesn't need to sit and watch tv. *Note - I know that some of you who read this blog are nicer than me and allow your babes to watch television. I'm not knocking your parenting style, nor am I claiming to be a better parent, so please don't feel offended or leave me nasty comments.* He actually shows very little interest in the television. I do turn on Sesame Street for him at 10 a.m., though, because he LOVES Cookie Monster and Oscar and The Count. They're his peeps. I also turn on Super Why (another PBS show) in the afternoons if he's awake, as he loves being a "super reader" and helping Super Why and his pals solve the puzzles...even though he has no clue what's going on. That's it, though. He doesn't even sit and watch them, but he'll occasionally look up from our playing or coloring when he hears a familiar voice or likes the sound of the music. I allow these shows because they're educational, they're totally kid-friendly. I don't have to worry about him seeing or hearing anything scary or confusing...he doesn't need scary or confusing at 16 months of age. These shows are safe.

Or so I thought. The "Elmo's World" portion of SS started at its normal time - God help me, an entire half hour - and Elmo announced that, today, he was thinking about going up and down. A lot. Perhaps it's my Catholic school girl upbringing, but the first thought in my likely unfit-parent mind was not "Oh, yay - a lesson about opposites." Elmo was all about the up and down today. He asked his neighbor Mr. Noodle, who lives with his "brother," the other Mr. Noodle (who can often be found peeking in Elmo's window), to show him all about up and down. Mr. Noodle's eyes grew wide and I think his face even flushed a bit. After Mr. Noodle's perverted demo of how a see-saw works (I say teeter-totter - am I the only one?), the Up and Down Lady came on. She announced how she LOVES going up and down and proceeded to sing a song about ohhhhh, how she'd go up and down all day long if she could.

I'll take what she's having.

It was like a train wreck. I had to watch. Finally, at the end of the segment, Elmo announced that he was going to sing his own up and down song...appropriately titled "Up and Down," and sung to the tune of Jingle Bells. He invited his friend Mr. Yo-Yo to sing with him. At the end of the song, Mr. Yo-Yo stood up, as any good yo-yo can do, and announced the following:
"I gotta go walk the dog."

I'm sure he fully intended for it to be yo-yo rhetoric, but the creepy way he said it, with his husky, throaty voice...well, you know what he really meant.

Now he's got his own game show....

REMOTE CONTROL!

Does anyone other than my own pathetic self remember this horrible show from old school MTV? Ken Ober, hosting a show about...TV trivia, I think...and if one of the stoner contestants answered incorrectly their recliner plummeted to some unknown location below the set.

In any case, it was the theme song to this show that kept replaying itself in my mind as I was lying awake in bed last night. An earworm, I believe, is the appropriate name for such a thing.

Sleep is such a rare commodity these days. Between a cough that I'm pretty sure is related to tuberculosis, heartburn that I'm confident could qualify as torture in a POW camp, and a fetus who has decided that the underside of my lungs seems like a nifty place to take up residence for the next 2 1/2 months, I don't sleep much. When I don't sleep I tend to think about the strangest things. Like sex. Why is sex so strange? 'Cause I'm not having it, and I'm pretty sure I've forgotten how to do it. See the reasons for my lack of sleep.

I also get on a kick with a game I like to call "I wonder..." It's played like this:
I wonder what Barbra Streisand is doing RIGHT NOW? Is she sleeping? If so, does she sleep on her back, her stomach, her side? What's on her nightstand? Does she get up in the middle of the night to have a snack? I wish I could have a snack right now, but if I did then that would mean starting the inhumane cycle of acid backup into my eyeballs, and really, it's too cold to get out of bed. But I really want a Stringsters. I wonder if Barbra eats Stringsters?

And I could sit there (or prop up in bed with 6 pillows, as the case may be) for minutes or hours and obsess and borderline mind-stalk poor Ms. Streisand until A) I fall asleep, or 2) someone else pops into my mind.

Like Susan and Olivia from the original Sesame Street gang. Last night I couldn't stop wondering what happened to these two ladies. Almost everyone else from the old gang is still on the show - with the exception of Mr. Hooper, God rest his soul - but not these two ladies. Did they move on to bigger and better streets? Did they get into a fight with one of the puppets? Oscar too much of a grouch? I don't get it. Where are they? Maria and Luis and Bob and Gordon (Gordon has a grown child! Susan, come back to your son!) and Deaf Linda are all still there - ladies, come back!

I could sit here and Google all day long to find the whereabouts of these gals, but the whiff of fresh poop beckons, signaling that nap time is over. Such is life.

Where does the time go?

Two years ago today I found out I was pregnant with the baby boy. In fact, it was probably about this time that I was buying the pregnancy test from the Duane Reade at 83rd and Broadway in Manhattan. I was at the gym, working out next to Jesse Tyler Ferguson from The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, close to two weeks late in my cycle, and I decided to buy a test. I hadn't been feeling well, but I chalked it up to my body detoxing itself from the raw foods diet I was on. Little did I know...

The cashier at Duane Reade had asked me if I wanted the test double-bagged so that no one knew I was carrying it. I remember smiling and saying no, that it would be a good thing if I were pregnant and I wasn't embarrassed about buying a test. I was going to walk to the movie theater to catch a film, but my curiosity got the better of me and I hopped the subway home. I felt bad about not waiting until the Hubs got home, but I had to know.

Yes, I had told the cashier that it would've been a good thing, but not a week earlier had I gone to see a high-risk obstetrician for a prenatal consult, and learned that, with all the risks I would have going into a pregnancy, it would be better of me NOT to try to conceive. He was/is supposedly the best in the biz in Manhattan, so of course I trusted what he told me. I cried about it for a few days and realized that we'd likely be adopting and never having our own
child(ren). So imagine my surprise when the Clear Blue Easy Digital Test reader gave a big fat thumbs up for being knocked up. I remember I almost fainted, right there in my tiny bathroom that those NYC water bugs so loved to inhabit, and immediately started to cry. I was TERRIFIED...after all, I was told that the chances of losing a baby were "at least 65%," and because of my history of clotting I would be putting my own life at risk. I called Hubs at work, in tears, and told him I needed him to come home. He correctly assumed what was going on and boarded the subway for his hour and a half commute home. It wasn't until after the fact that I learned he had received an early sign that everything would be okay with me, with the baby, with the pregnancy. Apparently, on the train, he asked God for a sign to let him know that I'd be okay, that this pregnancy wouldn't harm me in any way. Almost immediately, the train doors opened, and he heard a bagpiper playing "Amazing Grace" in the subway tunnel. Now, if you've ever lived in NYC you know it's not uncommon to hear artists and artist-wannabes sharing their gift with the patrons of the NYC MTA. But Amazing Grace? By a bagpiper? Strange. And, oddly enough, Amazing Grace became a sort of a theme of the pregnancy, and we both truly began to believe that everything would be okay. Examples? Our first time at church after the pregnancy was confirmed, Amazing Grace was the opening hymn. Out of the zillion hymns that exist, THAT one had to play. Coincidence? When we were choosing names, we looked to see the meaning of the name Grace, which turned out to be gift from God, and we pretty much decided that, if the baby turned out to be a girl, her name would be Grace. When we learned we were having a boy, we struggled over finding the perfect name. We eventually heard the name Nathanael, and each got a "feeling" about it, just knowing that it was the right name for our son. Upon looking for the meaning of the name, we were surprised to learn that it, too, means gift from God. Coincidence? I really don't think so.

I fell in love with baby boy from the beginning. Never in my life would I have imagined the awesome power that mother love has. Never would I have imagined that I could love someone so much. Sure, I love my husband to the ends of the world and back, but come on, moms - back me up when I say that there is nothing - nothing - like the love a mother has for her child.

I found a book today in Borders that I've been after for a while. It's a kid's book - My Mommy and I by P.K. Hallinan. I had purchased the companion book My Daddy and I for Hubs for his first Father's Day, and baby boy loves it when Daddy reads the book to him before bedtime. The mommy version has been difficult to locate, but finally, today, I was able to find it. While the boys were off exploring the books I quickly read through it and wound up with tears in my eyes. The perfect book for the day.

Ill-logic

Pregnancy logic:
I was slightly hungry, so I ate a disgusting Mama Celeste pizza. I now feel sick and have terrible heartburn, so I'm eating a gigantic bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats.


Pharmaceutical logic:
Have rheumatoid arthritis? Take Humira - you might wind up with lymphoma, but hey - at least your hands won't hurt!

Chronic nasal congestion? Take Veramyst - it'll probably give you a nasal fungal infection, but your nose won't run!

The logical mind of a 16-month-old:
"I'm so hungry, damn it, that I'm going to throw this food on the floor!"
"I hate having the sun in my eyes, so I'm going to pull this car window shade right down on top of my head and scream until Mama pulls over to fix it."
"I love to color so much that I'm going to display my work all over the freshly painted walls in our new house."

And of my husband...
"I want to make life easier for my wonderful, beautiful, pregnant wife...so instead of putting the new roll of toilet paper on the roll itself, I'm just going to put it on TOP of the roll...that way she doesn't have to reach an extra centimeter when it comes time to wipe."

Thanks for the mammaries

Breasts.

Boobs. Jugs. Tits. Ta-tas. Hooters. Funbags. My personal favorite? If you've seen the original Carrie, you'll recognize the reference - dirty pillows.

I can see your dirty pillows. Everyone will.
Breasts, mama. They're called breasts, and every woman has them.
They're all gonna laugh at you!

But I digress.

I have boobs on the brain as of late because...well, I don't think mine plan on stepping up to the plate (or cup, if you will) for providing sustenance - liquid gold, as it is commonly called - once Gumdrop arrives.

I was able to nurse my son for 3 months, although not exclusively. My intention from the start was to be at his side (or he at mine, I guess) every time he needed feeding, and for my body to provide the goods. I delivered him via c-section, and supposedly women who have c-sections find it harder to nurse. Something with the unnatural delivery of the placenta. I also needed to inject myself with a blood thinner for weeks and weeks while pregnant and after delivery, and according to my second lactation consultant (Freaky Freda), blood thinners can hinder the body's natural production of milk. So when my son lost a pound in the hospital because he wasn't getting enough to eat, I should've known from there that something was going to go amiss. It broke my heart to feed him formula - mommy guilt had already set in, and I was, after all, failing him and I felt like I was doing him a huge disservice.

The nurses couldn't figure out why he wasn't getting enough milk. One nurse told me I had flat nipples. Nope - no flatness there! These babies pop out like a jack-in-the-box monkey the second they get cold. Granted, they're not porn star nipples, but they do just fine. The first lactation consultant I saw (2 days after giving birth) blamed my Boppy pillow and told me to throw it out. Sure - let's blame the $39.99 piece of softness for my inability to adequately feed my child. No wonder you're a lactation consultant - you're a genius! She asked questions like "Did your breasts get bigger during your pregnancy?" Yes. I went from a 36B to a 38C. "Did you begin to see veins running down into your breasts?" Yep. Check. Creeped me out, too. "Did your areolas get darker?" Like the girls from The Hills in Cabo. They sure did. She was baffled and gave me the name of 3 other consultants.

I've never tried harder at anything in my life than I did to build up my milk supply. I rented hospital grade pumps to try to stimulate my baby's natural suckling and watched as my nipples were stretched out to lengths that I never imagined possible. When I wasn't satisfied with that pump and the amount of milk I was getting, I bought a top of the line pump, only to find that it didn't do much of anything other than mock me with the "whir whir" of its motor as it attempted to suck from me that which was necessary for my son's survival. I took fenugreek until my sweat and urine and deep thoughts smelled like maple syrup. I drank awful amounts of fennel tea. I mixed brewer's yeast into yogurt and ate it while gagging. Two lactation consultants and an entire La Leche League later - my milk dried up, just like that. Shortly thereafter, I was diagnosed with thyroid disease and was told that this was an explanation for my inability to produce adequate milk. I was prescribed levothyroxine and was told that I'd be taking it for the rest of my life. Jazzy!

So when this pregnancy was confirmed, I did some research and found that it's safe to take when pregnant and while breastfeeding, and that it would likely allow me to be successful at nourishing my baby-to-be because my hormones will be back on track. Sweet! Of course, it'll probably be discovered twenty years from now that it causes organ ooze and dysphasia, but hey - at least I should be able to nurse, right?

I'm thinkin' no. The girls? Well, they're not really any bigger. The veins? Can't seem 'em. Darker areolas? Not this time. Damn it. At this point last time, I could squeeze Burt and Harry (named them when I was 9) in just a certain way and make them drip. Not this time. This time it just hurts. I don't know if there's anything I can do to improve my chances of producing anything. I'm afraid if I Google the topic then I'll come across crazy rituals that involve drinking bat's blood, and I'll be so desperate to be successful that I'll try it.

I'm not knocking formula. As long as you feed your baby anything then you're doing your job. It just wasn't the route my husband and I wanted to take, and instead of enjoying the experience of feeding my son, I felt pangs of guilt with each and every suck he took of the synthetically produced garbage. It's damn expensive, and cleaning bottles is a pain. I know that I did what I could with him and I was hoping for at least the chance to be able to do the same with his sister. Perhaps the Boobie Gods and Goddesses will read my blog today, take pity on me, and bless me with some functioning jugs that will put Dolly Parton's to shame.

Otto Goes To Bed

I love Todd Parr. He's a children's author, and my son is in love with Otto Goes To Bed, a book about a loveable dog who would rather do anything but go to bed. But eventually Otto learns that going to bed brings forth a new day and new possibilities for fun. Learn more about the author here.

I've been inspired by Todd Parr to pen my own short story. I call it "Mama Stays in Bed," and I dedicate it to work-at-home-but-never-get-paid stay-at-home moms everywhere.


Get out of bed, mama!

But mama doesn't want to get out of bed. She doesn't want to think about all the things she has to do all day, like...

Making the bed...
Changing dirty diapers...
Doing the laundry...
And figuring out new and exciting ways to keep a 16-month-old entertained day after day after day while yearing for the opportunity to shower more often than every 3 or 4 days.

So mama stays in bed, ignoring the calls of her husband and child, and she dreams of all the fun things she wishes she could do all day, like...

Shower.
Have a cup of tea.
Read a magazine that isn't 4 years old, sticky, and in a doctor's waiting room.
Get her hair cut.
Go for a drive - just because - and listen to one of her cd's on the stereo instead of Laurie Berkner's Victor Vito on repeat for the 27th time.

But mama gets up, like she always does, pads down the stairs, and starts the day. Don't misunderstand - mama loves her baby boy, and would walk to the ends of the Earth and back for him through fire and bats and the landlords from hell - but boy, would she love a day off, especially before Baby #2 comes along and sleep as she knows it ceases to exist for-ev-er.

The end.

Todd Parr is way better at crafting stories than I am. That's why he's the author. I have advanced degrees in psychology, so I can analyze the daylights out of why he writes about what he does, but that's probably of no interest to anyone other than Mr. Parr himself. His books are difficult to find live and in person in the typical bookstore chains, but if you're so inclined, do a bit of Googling and read a synopsis or two - I guarantee that you and your child will love him as much as we do.


*disclaimer - this post was meant to be humorous, and to give a shout-out to the author of one of my son's favorite books. i didn't plagarize from mr. parr's book (i'm neither obama nor his speech writer), but simply adapted the story to tell my own. if you are mr. parr or some kind of representation for mr. parr and you see fit to sue me for alleged plagarism - don't bother. if you read my blog regularly, you'll know why.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice...

...well, then you must die.

Dear HP/Hewlett Packard -

Why, oh why, must you continue to manufacture and sell pieces of crap? Our first mistake was purchasing a desktop computer from you several years ago. Apparently under the influence of drugs, we decided at a later date to purchase one of your printers. After the long and painful and expensive death of my then-top-of-the-line photo printer I decided to give you another chance a few months ago when I made the decision to purchase the HP Photosmart C5200 All-In-One printer/scanner/copier. It received rave reviews by several personal contacts, and when one of them showed me the quality of the color photos it printed out, I was sold. We purchased our first C5200 from a major electronics store - it worked great for 2 days, and suddenly, out of nowhere, drivers started disappearing and the printer ceased to be. Several phone calls to your help desk later, we learned that it was a printer - not computer - issue, and you offered to send us a new printer in its place, and all we would have to do is return the old one...at your cost. Nice touch. We received the new printer in record time, installed it, and we were pleased to see that all was well. For about a week. Then drivers started disappearing again. Your techs this time around were not as helpful and owned up to the fact that this is an ongoing issue with this particular printer model. Four uninstalls/reinstalls later...this piece of junk still doesn't work. I can't scan. I can't print. I can't help but hate you.

I'm changing your name from Hewlett Packard to Hopeless Plastic. Or Happily Purposeless. Or third-rate, sub-par, devices-don't-work-longer-than-the-life-expectancy-of-the-common-housefly pieces of crap.

And since I'm on a roll...

Dear Crayola -

Look. You obviously have smart people working for you. You were, after all, able to make crayons and markers (or barkers, as my little one calls them) washable - a word that all moms everywhere yearn to see on the packages of anything that could potentially ruin/stain anything in the house. But come on - can't you do something to make your crayons unbreakable? Your Tadoodles, while a cute idea - are just useless pieces of plastic that you somehow feel justified to sell for close to $10. The pear-shape coloring utensils are, in fact, a good idea - but it would appear that most toddlers find it easier to grab them upside down, which defeats the purpose of why they're made the way they are. Okay - no big deal. Maybe your engineering peeps were having a bad day. Here comes the unforgiveable part,
though. Part of the appeal of the Tadoodles crayon is that it isn't supposed to break. Unless, of course, your child turns it upside down (which is necessary to be able to color with the thing), and upon doing so, notices that the crayon is anything but secure in the pear-shaped holder as it falls to the floor, picks it up, and breaks it in half. Also? The Tadoodles markers? They're only "100% washable" if you hover over your child with a damp paper towel while he's using them. My son's adorable once-tan-now-pink lion outfit can attest to that. I hate that what started out as a box of 16 fat crayons for little hands has turned into a Rubbermaid container of 9000 colorful wax bits. I love you, Crayola. I still get tingly when I open up a brand new box of 96 crayons. I find coloring with your products incredibly cathartic. In fact, my only reason for having one child and getting pregnant with another one so soon was so that I could continue to purchase your products and not get funny looks from the cashiers in Target. So do me - and moms everywhere - a favor, would you? Make your crayons indestructable. If a nuclear bomb were to go off tomorrow, I'd appreciate it if the crayons were still standing.

The ick factor

You know you're a mom when...

1. You go to take a bite of your toast, the one and only thing you have in the house for breakfast at the moment, and you realize, by the smell, that you you haven't quite gotten all of the poop out from under your fingernail from an early morning diaper change. The grossest part? You're starving, so you keep eating, since you probably already ingested some at this late point in the morning, anyway.

2. Your precious baby is sick, and you see that he's making that face - the face every mom learns to recognize - and you realize that he's probably getting ready to vomit. Before I was a mom, my first instinct would've been to run in the opposite direction. Now? I hold my hand under his chin, rub the back of his head, and tell him, "If you're going to spew, spew into this."

3. The sight of boogers used to repulse me. The mere thought of boogers could bring me to my knees...especially a toddler's boogers, which seem to have amazing, endless properties of elasticity to them. Now? If the dreaded booger bulb is nowhere to be found and my child has one visible in his nose, I'll just pick it out. And wipe it on my pant leg/bathrobe sleeve...whatever I have, because let's face it - who really has Kleenex around when needed the most?

4. Being sprayed with snot and Cheerios from a massive sneeze isn't quite as gross as I would've imagined.

And this pretty much sums up the last 7 days of my life. Jealous?

Little girls, little girls...

Seriously, what is it about having a baby girl that turns your average, not-overly-girly mom-to-be into someone who begins obsessing over bedding and blankets? I don't recall having OCD about baby boy's nursery decor while he was still in utero. Maybe my husband will disagree with me, but I just don't remember it being that way. I knew from the start which adorable jungle-themed bed set I wanted for his room. This time, I am obsessed with the color scheme for the new baby's room-to-be, scouring the internet for things that will match it. My latest obsession is the aden+anais swaddling blankets that come in pink and brown. I need them. I can't stop thinking about them. I've attempted to order them several times, but they're on backorder, and the shipping is astronomical and I always cancel out at the last second. I don't own a darn piece of clothing - or anything else, including Pepto Bismol - that comes close to resembling the color pink, yet I am pretty sure the fate of the world (and the nominee for the Democratic candidate for the presidency) rests on whether or not my daughter has these blankets.

Damn it. I happened to glance to my left just now. What did I see? My pink Razr. In all fairness, though, it's more of a fuschia color than pink. Okay. Enough of that. Lauren from The Hills has the same phone, so it's cool.

Also? Diaper bags. I was a bit more fanatical when it came to picking a diaper bag. I didn't want it to scream "LAME DIAPER BAG" therefore implying "LAME NEW MOM." I wanted it to be trendy, but not so trendy that it looked like I was trying to be trendy. This time, I'm looking for a diaper bag that is made for moms with 2 babies. I found one. I need it. I have to have it. It's uber-trendy and all the cool moms have one. It was featured on The View. I *could* use my current bag, but it's definitely a boy bag. I need a transgendered bag. I'm trying to gather the courage to purchase the bag online, but never in my life could I imagine paying close to $100 for something that will hold crumbs and be stained with spilled breast milk and spit up and will occasionally sit on a public restroom floor harboring e. coli and SARS and MRSA and crabs. And strange short and curlies.

I've gone off topic.

Could someone out there score me some Tessalon Perles? My primary care doctor doesn't seem to care that every time I cough I'm pretty sure my cervix dilates another centimeter. This would not be good, as I'm pretty sure the baby doesn't have eyes yet, and then she wouldn't be able to ogle and enjoy the fabulous blankets I'll be purchasing for her.

*disclaimer - i'm not *really* looking to score the tessalon perles over the internet - that would be illegal. although, if someone were to offer them to me it sure would take a lot of arm twisting not to accept them. seriously. this cough is a bitch. i neither advocate nor condone the exchange of drugs, prescription or otherwise, in an illegal manner. unless you can get me some tessalon perles. so if someone sees fit to try to sue me over that statement, go for it. refer to a post made on 11/30/07 - i *still* got nothin'...except this cough.

Milestones; Missing limbs

Hitting a milestone is supposed to be a good thing, right? So why am I not overjoyed at the thought of hitting a new weight milestone? A weight I never in my life imagined I would be? A weight whose number begins with a number I should never, ever have MY weight begin with? Surely it can't be my fault - this baby must be huge. Forget the fact that I polished off two batches of cinnamon buns that my mom made for me in record time. That has nothing to do with anything.

And? My feet? Gone. They have simply disappeared. It would appear that way, at least, for when I look down I can no longer see them. Instead I see a huge round mass that my 15-month-old lovingly refers to as a ball.

Mission accomplished

We're moved. The lousy apartment in the ghetto neighborhood is no more. The move was not without its bumps and bruises, though. But it would be too easy for things to run smoothly, no?

The hubs was in the ER the night before the move - when lots of packing still had to be done - and didn't get home until 3 the morning of the move.

One of the cats got temporarily lost.

Something got broken, but I can't for the life of me remember what.

It was raining and freezing and icy all day.

I wound up with the same crud that W was fortunate to acquire. I'm afraid I'm going to cough myself into an early labor.

The baby decided to spike his first real fever, instilling in his parents a sense of panic since neither of us knew what the "take-him-to-the-ER" cutoff was for a fever. I was floored when I learned it was 105. I once had a fever of 104 and was pretty sure I was dead, but no, I had just passed out in the doctor's office.

So the 3 of us are currently sick. I'm convinced that mine is the flu, and if it is, then this will be 2 for 2 that I've had the flu shot and wound up with the flu anyway.

I'm still getting used to the creepy new-house noises. I can't quite seem to figure out where the thing that sounds like monster teeth gnashing and serial killer lip smacking is coming from, but I do know that I won't be making any solo trips to the basement any time soon. I'm pretty sure the guy from The Blair Witch is down there.

Woe is me

Thanks to a minor heart anamoly, I have the extreme pleasure of having nasty caridac symptoms while pregnant. For example, my resting heart rate last evening (in the supine position, if you will), was 104. That's small potatoes, really, (my heart rate during my last pregnancy liked to hover in the 120-130 bpm range), but it makes me feel like impending doom is near - I can't breathe, I feel like I need to claw out of my own skin. It's pretty much akin to the symptoms someone feels while having a major anxiety attack, but for me there's a physical cause for it. Not to say I'm without anxiety - please.

Are you jealous of me?

I'm thrilled to be going in for an echocardiogram on Monday, "just in case." I love those words when spoken by a doctor - JUST IN CASE. "I'm sure it's nothing, but let's make sure....just in case." Ugh. Well, doc, should I start planning my funeral? Making arrangements to screen potential new wife candidates for my husband so that I know who will replace me as Nat's mama? Because when you say "just in case" to me, those are the thoughts that pop into my head. Then he felt the need to follow up with "Because, you know, the one time we don't run the test is the time that we miss something seriously wrong." Good Lord, sir, how many times has that happened in your practice? Put me on the list for a transplant now, then, would you? I'll even take a baboon heart like Christian Slater in that movie that started with the song "Tom's Diner" by the same woman who sang "My Name Is Luca," the names of both movie and artist escaping me at the moment.

On a happier note, I've been amused lately by the random thoughts that pop into my head in the middle of the night when the fetus sees fit to try to rearrange my insides with its feet. Last night's thought?

I wonder what Regis Philbin wears when he sits in his apartment watching television.

15 months

I call this picture "No I'm NOT getting into something I shouldn't be getting into!"

Baby boy is 15 months old today, and I am elated to finally - FINALLY - report that he is walking. Not 100% full time, but at least half of his on-the-go movement is walking. It's adorable, really - I liken him to Frankenstein, complete with the waving hands in the air. It happened suddenly, almost overnight, and tonight he was looking as though he's been doing it for months, even almost running a few times. Yep - he's growing up way too fast.

He can tell you what sounds a cat, snake, giraffe (don't ask), cow, and sheep make. He still tells the downstairs dog (and oftentimes the downstairs child) to be quiet when he can hear them. He'll say "beep beep" when he hears a car horn or the microwave beep. He says "beekaball" for basketball, and "beeball" for baseball. He loves to "bow," or bounce - on the bed, on the couch...on the floor. He loves going to the local children's museum (for ages 1-4) and "touring" the countries, playing the music, playing in the pretend kitchen, garden, and farm stand...he loves to explore, loves to learn, and loves to show off any new acquired skill.

He will announce when he has to go/has gone pee pee and caca, and if he's oh-so-lucky to be in the bathroom with Mama when she has to go, loves to wave and say "bye bye, pee pee" as the toilet swishes.

He can pick out the letters O, Q, B, and the number 8 out of his bath time letter/number bath toys. He still loves to read/being read to. He loves to climb on anything - he has even tried climbing the cats on a few occasions - and I'm sure he'll love that our new home has an actual staircase that he can climb up and down.

He loves to give kisses and to snuggle and hug - melts my heart every time he makes his kissy noises. He gets more and more loving with my pregnant belly every time (please, God, let this be a sign that they'll have a good relationship).

He has begun those awful boy noises. Grunting, car noises, Cookie Monster noises...oy. All day. ALL DAY. He is definitely all boy.

After being a bit concerned after his last doctor's appointment, I type this entry with a great sense of pride for all that he has accomplished, and with a bit of a heavy heart at just how quickly time is passing. Slow dow, time...just a little.

Uh oh

Is it normal for the first thing you feel when you find out the sex of your child to be unmistakable fear? Because that's what I felt today. A distinct feeling of, "I'm sorry, what?" In the short drive home from the doctor I was somehow able to play out the next 30 years in my mind...and it left me terrified. If ever there was a time I doubted my ability to mother, this is it.

In other news, XL maternity underwear. Have you seen 'em? I'm sure they'd be adequate to sail a boat around the world. Once upon a time I could comfortably wear a size medium. Then I got pregnant the first time, and the size went to a large. Today I put on my very first pair of granny panties XL maternity underwear and was mortified. About as unsexy as you can get. My secret? I love them. Super comfy. Everyone should wear them.

Yes'm

When did I become a ma'am? At what point do you cross over from being called miss in the grocery stores and Panera by the nice young men to the dreaded ma'am? Is it because I have a kid on my hip? Because I'm hugely pregnant? Because I seem, virtually overnight, to have aged about 15 years when I wasn't looking? Really, I appreciate the attempt at being polite, especially when so many people who work those types of jobs are bitter about the state of their lives (or they're nice looking young college men) but if you really want to stoke my ego, get a tip, prevent me from asking you to bag my groceries in paper bags...just call me miss. Please. Forget the bun in my hair that's hanging halfway down my head, forget the fact that I have no makeup on and my glasses are crooked, and forget that I probably haven't showered in 2 or 3 days - I'm a mom. I've earned the right to go out in public like that. You will, somday, too. Unless you're one of those college men. Then be damn sure to be nice to your wife when it, inevitably, happens to her.

What am I, bottled water?

The hubs was very recently told that I need to be filtered. This from someone who fits the old adage "those who live in glass houses ought not to throw stones." I never saw such a glass house!

I prefer filtered water, myself. SmartWater, Poland Spring...those will suffice. Filtered coffee, obviously, is much easier on the palate than unfiltered. But a filtered me? Nah. Now where's the fun in that?

Boredom ensues

It's amazing how little there is to do on a cold, wintry day in NYS on the first weekend since you've ditched your cable. I could read, but I don't have anything lying around that I haven't already read at least twice. I could clean, but since we're leaving this hole in 3 weeks I don't really see a point. I could pack, but we have no boxes yet.

My mom came to visit for the day yesterday. It's fun to watch the baby interact with her - it took him a bit to warm up to her since he's so used to seeing her on "her turf" and not his, but once he did he was cute, almost as if he were flirting. I love to sit back and watch him interact with other people. He's only really ever around us (me, mostly), so I'm glad to see that he's able to warm up fairly quickly to others. He knows and loves his Gran, obviously, but it still makes me happy to see him interacting positively with someone other than us.

Even this blog is boring today.

It's officially 4 months until Gumdrop is due. Four months yesterday, actually. Time is certainly flying. Once we've moved we'll slowly work on getting his/her bedroom ready. I've already started picking up some neutral clothing but nothing for the nursery yet. I'm still in a bit of denial that I'll have two in cribs. Cribs and diapers. Diapers and cribs and bibs, oh my.

What else? My latest obsession is with trying to live a quasi-green life. Not green as in we're-rolling-in-dough, although that would be nice. But green as in using vinegar to clean instead of Windex and trying to eliminate some unnecessary things from our lives...like cable. Oh God, how I mourn the loss of my digital cable and DVR. But it's saving us a disgusting amount of money, saving electricity, and forcing me to do something else in the afternoons while the baby sleeps.

I omitted the original final paragraph at the request of my husband who asked me to play nice about our move. So all I will say is that we're moving to a fabulous home in the 'burbs and I couldn't be happier. :)

15 months

The entire time I was pregnant with my son, I questioned whether or not I was really cut out to be someone's mother. I didn't think I had the heart, the ability, or the personality to raise a child who would grow up feeling loved, nurtured, and protected. I had myself convinced of this, up until the very moment he was placed in my arms for the first time. After that, I knew. I knew that all of my worrying had been for naught. In fact, I was convinced that I was put on this earth to be a mother - to be THIS baby boy's mother. For so long I had struggled with wanting to know what my role in this lifetime was supposed to be, and on that day in that recovery room my wondering stopped. I made a silent vow to that baby in those first few precious moments to love him more than anyone else in the world, to protect him, to teach him, to give him the best life possible.

So today, at his 15-month checkup, imagine my surprise when the doctor told us that he's currently maturing a bit slowly. He has gone from the 65th and 70th percentiles for weight and growth to the 25th percentile for both. His soft spot is still open. His speech apparently isn't what it should be (?), and he's still not walking independently. He communicates with us - he does talk, but apparently the lack of phonetecism is something that the doctor wants us to keep an eye on. Walking is officially a 15-month milestone, and when the doctor asked if the baby was running all over, I imagine I had a bit of the deer-in-the-headlights look on my face, and I told him that, while the baby does take 6 or 7 or 8 steps on his own, he's still primarily crawling and not walking independently. So we're keeping an eye on things.

Mother guilt being what it is, in all its infinite, never-ending, round-the-clock glory, set in and immediately made me place the blame on myself. What in the world have I done wrong? I've always considered myself a fairly intelligent woman - am I not smart enough to teach my son correctly? From day one I've interacted with him as though he were my peer - always carrying on conversations - NEVER doing the baby-talk thing (drives me nuts when people try to baby talk to him even now - he looks at them like they're stupid)...we've read to him since he was 2 months old. I don't know a mom who gets down on the floor and plays with her child more than I have and still do. We read almost constantly during the day. Plunk my kid down in front of the television at 15 months old? Never. Not in this house. We value human interaction in this family, and he has never shown any kind of interest in the television, anyway. Is it because I didn't breastfeed beyond 3 months? My body physically stopped producing milk due to a thyroid disorder - that one wasn't my call, and to this day it kills me to think about the physical and emotional benefits that were lost.

I'm at a loss. If, at his 18-month checkup, things haven't progressed much, then, I imagine, the real concern will set in. I don't know what else I can possibly do. Is it because he doesn't have a great deal of interaction with other kids? Well, isn't it that way for most only children who aren't daycare babies? We don't have friends or acquaintances here with children anywhere near the same age group as my son, and playgroups seem to be nonexistent in our area.

Please don't excuse my worries for anything other than concern over his well-being. I'm not the kind of mother who will be devastated if her son winds up having some kind of delay because it's a burden, or it's embarassing, or it's extra work or money for her - and I have met people like that and frankly, they make me ill. I don't want him having struggles and a hard time growing up because he might wind up being a little behind his friends. I don't want kids making fun of him. Kids are awfully cruel, and I'd hate for my baby to be the punchline of someone's joke, the object of someone else's pointed finger.

If they day hadn't started off swimmingly enough, we find out that he has a symptom or two of certain metabolic disorders and diabetes. So now I'm trying to collect a urine sample from a child still in diapers. Imagine a codpiece - this is what the specimen collector looks like. It's very sticky and adheres to his boy parts - ouch - and is too small to collect anything. So that's been fun. The doctor assures us there's nothing to worry about, but wants to run the tests just to be cautious. So waiting for that news will be joyous.

I'm sure that I'm just being a typical worried mom. I'm sure he'll catch up to where he's supposed to be. He's beautiful, he's healthy, he's so much fun to be around, and most importantly, he's loved and he knows he's loved.

I wonder when Motherhood: The Manual will be published?

The darndest things

As the annoying little yapper downstairs began yet another one of its non-stop bark-fests (this is the same dog, we were assured prior to signing the lease, that NEVER barked), my sweet, genius 14-month old looked at the front door, threw up his hands, and said, "Be quiet!" That's my boy!

Address change

To my regulars -

I'm trying to figure out if I can change the web address for this blog without having to lose my previous posts. If, one day, you try to get here and my blog seems to have disappeared, fear not - just use Google and search for "antifungal cream for worrywarts," and you'll hopefully be lead to the new address. Hopefully.

Why the hell won't my kid sleep? We've tried everything. Now he's not sleeping during the day, either. There is nothing wrong with him (unless I look at this as a red flag for autism, which I'm really trying hard not to do).

He. Just. Won't. Sleep.

Happy New Year; 14 months

The first day of the new year. 2008. I wish I had something prophetic to write about, something filled with wit and wisdom...but alas, I'm sick and it's early, and my brain isn't willing to cooperate.

I'm trying to decide if I should have a resolution or two. I can't make the overused, underdone resolution of losing weight - I have a fetus to grow. I could do the whole "I'm going to stop swearing" thing - but whenever I've done that I've let the f-bomb slip several times before lunch, and really, what's the fun in having a completely clean mouth? If I feel the need to clean it up I'll brush my teeth and chew some Orbit. I could say that I'm going to try to become a better Christian, leading me to become a better wife and mother, but even after 12 years of being brainwashed attending a private Catholic school, I'm not sure I really know how to go about that.

I could resolve to be the hell out of this apartment and into a nice neighborhood by the time the baby comes. I could resolve not to keep my mouth shut, just as a way of "keeping the peace," when people are phony and rude to my family.

I could do the dishes more often.

I've never really understood why people make resolutions. I get the whole "new year, new you" and starting fresh thing, but what is it about a date on a calendar that suddenly propels people into wanting to better themselves? Shouldn't we want to one-up ourselves each and every day?

14 months
How did my baby come to be 14 months old? How has he gone, seemingly overnight, from an infant who fit snuggly in the crook of my arm to this big pile of kid...who still likes to snuggle, but who doesn't fit quite as well? Surely I must be experiencing some kind of back-to-the-future phenomenon, and I'm only here in this moment for a short period of time. No? Well, it was worth a shot.

Progress is being made with walking. I thought for sure he'd do it for real at my parents' home during Christmas, but nothing more than 5 or 6 steps at a time. What have I been saying? Any day now!

Somehow, without our telling him, he has learned that there is a baby in my stomach. For the past few days he has become obsessed with lifting my shirt enough to see my stomach, pat my belly, blow it a kiss, and say "baby." I was floored the first time he did this. Neither my husband nor I ever explained to him or directly told him that there's a baby in there; it's a concept we figured he'd not quite be able to grasp yet. But in some odd, sibling/baby-intellect sort of way, he just knows. I find solace in that - I hope it's a sign of what will be a close relationship bewteen the two of them. Not incest-close, but friendship/protection/love-close. Just thought I'd clarify.

The word list is slowly growing. Mama, daddy, kitty, big, ball, banana, caca, car, Elmo (God help me), big caca (for the really gross diapers), uh-oh, book, meow, oh boy, oh man, good boy, bocky - his version of "broccoli," and I'm sure there one or two more that I've forgotten. Most days, he really does seem quite intelligent. I've witnessed or heard kids twice his age who can barely mumble something that slightly resembles a groan. Then there are his weird days - he'll crawl along and suddenly stop to strike a downward dog position, hold it for 30 seconds, and then sit up and shake his head and wobble around because, I'm assuming, he has made himself dizzy. He makes us laugh, that's for sure.

He loves to splash in the tub like a big boy. He has already become a picky eater - no leftovers, please. He growls every time he sees Cookie Monster in the store. He shows no interest in watching television, thank goodness. He'd rather be active. He has quite the personality, and I can definitely see both the Irish and Italian tempers already. I love him to pieces - I *still* don't know how it's going to be possible to love another one this much!

Inconclusive

That was the ruling on the gender ultrasound yesterday. This child is already deciding not to cooperate with me. The tech *did* say that she thought she may have spotted 3 dots bewteen the legs - which apparently signals a girl - but they weren't spread far enough for her to make an official ruling. Three dots.

What if it's a boy and he has 3 balls?

Oh, there's no place like home for the holidays

Five more days 'til Christmas! Honestly, I feel like such a kid again during the holiday season. Now that I have my own child who can semi-understand what's going on at this time of year, it's all the more special to me. Our first Christmas with the baby last year was, obviously, special and a memory I'll keep forever, but he was too new last year. This year, my heart melts every time I see his eyes light up when he looks at Christmas lights, decorated trees (pretty-pretties, as he calls them), and when he turns the radio on to play Christmas music or when he says "ho ho ho" whenever he sees Santa.

Our goal as parents is to, of course, spoil our child(ren) at Christmas, but also to instill a sense of what the season truly is about. I look forward to teaching the Jesus-is-the-reason-for-the-season stuff, to carrying on traditions and creating our own that will, hopefully, be carried on some day, and to performing some kind of holiday good deed every year. Of course, I am beside myself with excitement at the thought of playing Santa this year. Nat doesn't quite fully get Santa yet, but he's learning. I don't see the point in spending hundreds and hundreds of dollars on Christmas gifts - the true meaning tends to get lost - but each Christmas will be special. I look forward to finding new ways to make memories...for just Nat this year, and for Gumdrop as well.

Speaking of Gumdrop - we (hope to) find out the sex tomorrow at the gender ultraound. The plan, however, is to have the tech write the sex on a piece of paper and stash it in an envelope to be opened on Christmas day. A bit of a Christmas surprise.

We'll be spending Christmas Eve and day with my family. Memories of Christmases past have flooded me the last few days. Early years with the entire Italian side of my family crammed into my grandmother's small, small home on Christmas Eve...followed by the Irish side gathering at a great aunt's house later that evening. Home to bed, and up early to see if Santa had, indeed, stopped by.

So much has changed in the years separating then and now. Family dynamics and relationships, traditions - I suppose such is true for many, if not most, families out there. Still, though, it makes me sad that things have changed so much - my children won't grow up surrounded by and knowing their extended family the way my sisters and I did - but it also makes me extra thankful for memories that I have and what still remains.

Merry Christmas to all of you - may your holidays be merry and bright, and filled with much laughter and love.

Motherhood

My child will do anything to keep from having to take a nap. This includes falling and hitting his head hard enough to make him loopy and sleepy, warranting a trip to the ER and a CT scan to rule out a head injury. Once that was cleared he decided to get an ear infection which magically turned into a full-blown nasty cold approximately 2 hours after leaving the ER.

I guess he won. No one slept last night. It was like one big party.

Motherhood.

Ho ho ho

My child wasn't thrilled about seeing Santa. I think Santa was equally un-thrilled about seeing my child. Even *before* the baby started creeping out about being on a strange old man's lap, Santa made a comment about how he'd probably cry and then rolled his eyes. He didn't even "ho ho ho" for the baby. Lame. We were, as you can see, suckers enough to buy the photo commemorating the event. He was too new last year to be taken to a busy mall, so this is our first picture with the baby sitting on a pedophile's Santa's lap.

Baby #2 checkup yesterday. I love waiting 45 minutes to an hour in a waiting room, only to pee in a cup, listen for a heartbeat that I couldn't even hear, asked if I have any questions, then sent on my merry way. I will, however, have an ultrasound next week to hopefully find out the sex of this child. Then I can stop calling it "it" and "the fetus" and by his or her chosen name. I do know, however, that this child is already huge, and that it has an attitude problem, as it kept kicking or punching or head-butting the doppler as if to say, "Get that damn thing off the roof of my house!"

I realized that I never posted a 13-month update on the baby. Still no walking - seriously, any day now. How long have I been saying that? He "talks" more and more every day - he can say mama, daddy, book, kitty, pretty pretty, tree, oh man, cheese (as in for the camera, or when he wants you to smile at him), ball, hi, bye bye, zoom (for the vacuum), Jesus(for Baby Jesus in our nativity set...not as an expletive. I think.) car, and caca (for a trash can, paper/dust/lint/hair/junk on the floor/couch/pant leg/rug, or for "Hey lady, I just went caca in my pants.") When he's not endlessly repeating "caca" he's speaking in tongues, and he constantly leaves me wondering what in God's name he's saying. He has finally started to clap his hands, something I thought he'd never do. Just started doing it one day, and in the right moment. Smarty pants. He loves to play with cars and makes a sort of "vroom vroom" noise when he moves them. He's obsessed with Winnie the Pooh. He enjoys washing his "parts" in the bath and dunking his head under the water. He loves to turn the radio on the listen to Christmas music. There are days when it must be on ALL DAY or he's not happy. By the time the hubs gets home on those days, I've had more than my fill of Bing and Dean and Eartha Kitt and the guy who sings the song about the little boy who doesn't have enough money to buy shoes for his dying mother on Christmas Eve so that she can look nice when she meets Jesus later that night. Seriously, dude - was that song really necessary?

They say that I won't last too long on Broadway....

For Elisabeth and Heather

The story of how and why I chose to pursue singing is so incredibly long. I'm not sure if you want the entire back story - if you do, let me know and I'll be happy to write it. It'll just take forever. For now, I'll just give you some cut and dry answers.

My singing ambitions didn't come about until just a few years ago, the result of a medical incident, a book, a Broadway recording, and a Broadway actress. I had always had secret ambitions of acting...or something in the entertainment field. I had a lot of people tell me that I was funny, that I had incredible timing, and that I could be a true comedienne. But singing? Nah. Never really entered my mind.

Once I had ambitions, I immediately decided that I wanted to be the best. I tracked down a well-known voice teacher in NYC and arranged to meet her. I lived in Albany at the time. Fast forward a few weeks - she decided that she wanted to work with me, and we set a day and time that I would go into the city to meet her, show her my raw talent and we'd figure out where to go from there. After meeting for her and singing for her, she told me that she loved my voice and that I had potential to make something big out of it. But what direction did I want to go? In the beginning I decided that I wanted to work to pursue musical theater...or, more specific, I wanted to be on Broadway, damn it. I asked her to be honest - did I have it in me? It would take some work, she said, but I had a unique sound that would be perfect for the stage...but she did encourage me not to close my mind to other genres. It would be later that I learned I had a voice for jazz - a bit raspy, sultry...once I found it I loved it. This woman has worked with countless Broadway actors/actresses, Celine Dion, Christina Aguilera...and now me! Wow! Could I really make something of myself? I felt that she believed in me, I knew that Will believed in me, and for a small time, I believed in myself. After a while, though, I began to doubt what I could do. I held back. I talked myself down a lot. And then I got pregnant. I "pursued" this dream - a dream that was once so fierce and seemed so possible - for close to 2 years.

What was I in? Nothing. :) And I don't regret a single thing. I took a chance on something that, at one time, was so big to me, and, in retrospect, was probably near impossible. I wrote a letter to my voice teacher shortly after I had my first baby. I wanted her to see the amazing thing I accomplished. She called me after a few weeks and we chatted. She let me know that, had I stuck with what I was doing, she believed with all her heart that I would've been able to accomplish other amazing things. And she urged me not to give up.

My favorite musical? I have a special place in my heart for Wicked. Wicked when it first opened on Broadway, not the traveling show, not the crazy-fan-girl show that it has become. I read the book long before seeing the musical, and it touched me in a way that a book never has. Sounds crazy, huh? Especially since it's a book about the Wicked Witch of the West. Ha - I can name one person who would surely not be surprised - he/she doesn't know that *I* know he/she reads my blog. Boo! I also love Rent, although I never saw it with the original cast...and I'm pretty sure I would have loved it even more if I had been lucky enough to see it early on. Amazing story, amazing music.

Favorite musical actress? Idina Menzel...kind of goes along with how the whole story started. I find her voice amazing. It was *her* voice teacher I found, her voice teacher who actually felt me worthy enough to work with. I had the wonderful experience of meeting her one night after a show. Not just a quick pass-by on the street. I was able to spend a bit of time with her at the Gershwin, talking like normal people...she's simply amazing to me.

I could honestly go on and on in this post. All of that was another lifetime ago, though. I'm a mom now. Gone is the skinny(ish) girl with sexy hair extensions who walked around the streets of NYC, going to auditions, forever carrying around a bag filled with sheet music and a demo cd, just in case. No regrets. I miss that life sometimes, even though we were flat broke living in NYC...but had I pursued it further, I wouldn't have the amazing little baby toddler asleep in the next room.

I'd give my left arm for some Motrin

I'm feeling terribly uninspired. I can't come up with anything witty or comical or remotely interesting to blog about. I've had a bitching migraine for the last 3 days and am convinced that my brain is slowly deteriorating as a result. I imagine it'll just be a matter of time before the remains start to seep out of my ears.

So to you, dear readers, I make this request. Whether I know you or not, give me something to write about. I don't imagine I'll receive a flood of comments, but if I do I'll address everything over a few posts. The topic request can be anything. A question. It can be serious or funny. It can challenge something I've written about before. If you don't want me to know who you are then just comment anonymously. As long as it's not incriminating, I'll write about it. Bring it! :)

Dr. Karen Giardino in Williamsville, NY

If you live in or around the Buffalo, NY area and are in search of an endocrinologist, please heed my warning - do NOT see Dr. Karen Giardino, member of Meadowlands Endocrinology. This practice is highly negligent, completely unprofessional, and doctors and staff do not follow NYS rules and regulations pertaining to medical practice and procedure or to the release of medical records. The staff are anything but knowledgeable and medical care received is well below what is expected from a board certified medical professional. Do not place something as valuable as your health into the hands of Dr. Karen Giardino and/or Meadowlands Endocrinology in Williamsville, NY.

End of my PSA for the day. Ugh. Off to find a new COMPETENT endo so that my thyroid levels can be accurately monitored, ensuring that I don't lose this baby. Good grief.

*disclaimer - all information in this post about dr. karen giardino is based strictly on my own experience with her and/or her practice. i have no facts that will prove this is an ongoing issue, so if you're looking to sue me, don't bother - i got nothin'.

Asking for good thoughts and prayers

There was a massive earthquake in the Eastern Caribbean yesterday, including the island of Martinique. My baby sister is currently there for a study abroad program through college. Thankfully she's okay, but I know she's worried. I'm asking for all of you out there in blog land who believe in some kind of higher power to please keep her and her fellow students (as well as all of those involved in the quake) in your prayers/thoughts...for a safe remainder of her stay and a safe trip home. Thanks.

Roses are red, violets are blue, I'm a schizophrenic, and so am I

Gotta love psychologist humor.

People amuse me. I suppose that it's partly due to my educational background (holla for a currently useless Master's in counseling psychology), but also partly because I consider myself incredibly socially awkward and introverted, and there's something cathartic about observing others' idiosyncrasies and neuroses.

There are two specific types of people who really tickle my funny bone. The first is people who are passive-aggressive. What's the point? We've all done it, but there are some people out there who turn such behavior into a real art form. It really is funny, though, to watch someone try to intentionally piss someone off, or hurt someone, or push someone's buttons, all because it makes them feel better about their pathetic state of being. Humorous. Why do you think Marie on Everybody Loves Raymond got some of the biggest laughs?

My favorite people are the habitually schizophrenic. I say habitually because they've paid their shrink to give them a less forbidding diagnosis it's my opinion that there's a little somethin' going on upstairs, but when it has been observed on a pretty consistent basis, it's hard not to have that professional personal opinion. I often notice that passive-aggressive behavior and habitual schizophrenia go hand in hand. Now, I don't know who reads this blog (unless you openly admit that you're my stalker, as one faithful reader recently has - hi stalker!), so if you take offense to my post...well, tough. It's my blog. Chances are I'm *probably* not talking about an observation I've made about you, since I've most likely never run into you in person. I can say, though, that I'm not referring to anyone in my family. Unless you're my husband, because I do find him to occasionally fall into this category, but this particular post isn't about him. Although it could be. In any case, when I encounter these types of people, I feel as though I've had a run in with Sybil (no, this isn't about me, either. Although it could be.), and it brings such excitement to my day, but I can't say anything because then people will know that I think they're nuts.

Side note - If you haven't had the experience of watching Sybil, I highly recommend it. You'll never look at your mother or enema bags the same again.

I also enjoy the people who are abusive to their children in public. Disclaimer - I don't enjoy seeing the children being treated the way they're being treated. "Enjoy" was completely facetious. End disclaimer. In any case, I can't narrow it down to a specific demographic, but there seems to be some kind of trend in the different types of people I see doing this. The best place to see these people? The malls or the grocery stores, but in other places, too. You'll know them. Usually moms, acting in ways that vary from the "benign" (smacking your child across the mouth or on the hand) to grabbing the child by the hair or around the arm in such a way that you just know will leave a red mark (if not a bruise), and usually saying something like "I'm going to punch your face in if you don't knock it off" or "Shut the &$*@ up - I'm on the phone." It all turns my stomach, really, and in my gut I know that these children will grow up only to perpetuate the cycle, have their own 6 or 7 children, and treat them the same way.

Four pieces of toast later, this post has gone in a direction completely different than I had intended. I guess we're all a little bit schizo sometimes.

I guess we're all a little bit schizo sometimes. Wait...didn't I just say that?

To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal

Pregnancy. Gotta love it. Why is it, though, that pregnancy is filled with extremes, from one end of the spectrum to the other, and, with each subsequent pregnancy, said extremes come earlier and are much more...well, extreme?

Take, for instance, morning sickness. For the majority of this pregnancy, I haven't been able to look at a crumb of dry toast without running to the toilet to throw up things my grandmother ate. However, there have been days, like today, where I can't seem to get enough to eat. There I was, sitting on the couch while the baby slept, innocently watching LMN, and before the movie was over, I had eaten an entire ball of port wine cheddar with almonds (God bless those holiday cheese balls) and a pomegranate. I feel like Grover running back and forth in an empty room saying "near.....far....," except for me it's "eat.....puke...." and I'm running from the fridge to the toilet.

Another blessing? You leak when you're pregnant. From every oriface imagineable. Except when you're not dripping/juicy/overly lubricated, you're dry. As a bone. In the desert those Kid Nation kids call home. Extremes. Diarrhea. Constipation. Runny nose. Dry nose. Leaking God knows what from God knows where, only to be faced with the oppostie dilemma the very next day.

Weepy. Homicidal. Insomnia. Exhaustion. Get me that Duggar woman on the phone. I need to know why she did this...what, 17 times? It's a wonder she's not holed up in the nut hatch somewhere.

Gift giving

Instead of buying mass-produced, possibly lead-tainted items this holiday season, take a different route - check out this website:

http://www.etsy.com

I'm not selling anything (Are you kidding? My idea of being crafty is making coffee filter "stained glass" things with vinegar and food coloring. Thank you, Mr. Wizard.), but I see a few things I'll likely purchase. If you stress out over buying gifts like I do, this site might be a godsend. Unique gifts, free of lead and other toxins...unless you find that one seller who thought it would be funny to put arsenic inside their sock monkey.

21 + 10

So yesterday was my birthday. Another year older and another year wiser, right? On some things, at least. Being a mom has definitely made me wiser in areas I never imagined. Of course, there's that mommy-brain thing - you know, the thing that makes you unable to recall your own name at times, makes you call your child by the cat's name at times. Mommy-brain. Makes even the most intelligent person feel (and sound) rather dumb sometimes. I've become a bit wiser when it comes to finances. I've become quite economical (read: cheap) in the last year. I've come to appreciate things that are truly important and have begun to place less importance on the cosmetic, the trivial, and the things that do nothing for me or my family.

But surely I can't be 31. Impossible. Didn't I just get married? Didn't I just graduate from grad school? Or better yet, college? 31 is 9 years away from 40. 31 implies grown-up. While I've definitely grown up (and out, ugh) in the last year, I certainly don't feel like a grown-up. Like an adult. I still laugh at inappropriate times, I still find those Helen Keller jokes impossibly funny, I still burp like that guy on The Simpsons, I'm still messy, I still like to be loud and make noise...those aren't the characteristics of someone who is grown up. A kid at heart, I guess, is what I'll always be. Not so bad, is it?

Happy Thanksgiving! May you all count your blessings and have much to be thankful for on this day. I know I do!

Thanks and giving

It's that time of year!

Thanks, whomever, for making us move to Buffalo. I appreciate the promotion you gave my husband, but why couldn't you have offices in a better city? One of the nurses at the OB's office saw that I moved here from NYC. "What brought you to Buffalo?!" she asked. My reply? "Satan." She nodded in empathic agreement.

Thanks, China, for trying to kill my kid.

Thank you, housing market, for going to pot when we really need our own house. Shape up after the first of the year, would you? There's a house in Amherst that has my name on it. I'm over apartment living, and I refuse to bring a newborn home to this place. Annoying dogs and gangster music do not a happy baby make.

Thank you, maternity clothes designers of the world, for making this winter's clothing line the most hideous I've ever seen.

Thank you, Writer's Guild, for screwing up my evenings. My favorite shows are all into reruns. Now what am I supposed to do? Greedy bastards.

Thank you, BBQ pork roast that I made last night, for smelling like an autopsy. Add that to the list of foods I'll never eat again.

Oh - this was supposed to be about giving, too.
Thank you, whomever, for giving me morning sickness again. Vomiting at least once a day for the last 13 or 14 weeks has been a real treat, let me tell you. Oh, and the crippling nausea that goes along with it? Score one for you. Really. You haven't lived until you've thrown up rice.

I jest. I kid. Mostly. Sure, these are all things that I'm bitter about but I like to look at the humorous side of them. In reality, I have so much to be thankful for this year. First and foremost, the sweet baby boy sleeping in the next room is the biggest blessing I've ever received. I think I was too tired from newborn Nat last Thanksgiving to really take the chance to reflect on what I was thankful for, and so I'll make up for it this year. I'm sure this time next year I'll also be giving thanks for Gumdrop (who has a name, I just need to find out the sex before I can start calling him/her by its chosen name).

We're spending the holiday with my parents and younger sister. This will be the first time in a few years that we'll be there for Thanksgiving and I'm excited. Thanksgiving was always big in our house. We weren't able to go last year because I was still on "travel restriction" from my c-section, and Nat was only 3 weeks old, so we stayed put in Brooklyn. My father will inevitably have come Christmas tunes blaring when we get there. Hopefully we'll get there in time for Nat to see some of the parade. We'll definitely look for Santa at the end. There'll be good food and the feeling of being home again. Since the birth of Nat, I've definitely gained a new appreciation for family...things seem to mean more to me, certain things are more important now than they used to be. The notion of carrying on/starting new holiday traditions with my own family excites me.

Rent the movie Home for the Holidays. If yours is one of those families who puts the fun in dysfunctional (and let's face it, everyone's family is like that to some extent...and if yours isn't, well, then, that's your dysfunction, weirdo), then you'll appreciate this movie.

Happy Thanksgiving, blog world. Travel safely, enjoy your friends or families, and may you have plenty to be thankful for. :)

Medical un-professionals

It took 2 idiots nurses to obtain a blood sample from the baby today. From a finger poke. These women were idiots. One looked like a tranny and barely spoke comprehensible English - I'm convinced she must've gone no further than the 8th grade and obtained her "degree" from Jim-Bob's Skewl of Nersing. She actually had the nerve to YELL at my son when he started crying and wiggling because what she was doing was hurting him. Because she was incompetent (she poked the finger in the wrong place), nurse #2 (not a tranny, but she was more interested in my Uggs than anything else she did) had to step in and give it the ol' college try. My baby's blood was going everything BUT the little vial...nurse couldn't manage to hold it still enough (the baby's hand wasn't moving) to collect what she needed so she told me they'd have to poke again. Yeah - um, no. Two fudge-ups are quite enough, ladies. You've got enough, you're not poking my kid again. Nurse #2 then switched her focus from my shoes to everything her 1 year old does that my baby doesn't do. Maybe if she put as much attention and interest into taking care of what she needed to do, the little situation wouldn't have happened. I don't care about your daughter. Do your job, nursey, and get the hell out of my face.

Vocabulary

Nathanael has spoken his first real word other than dada, mama, caca, and baba.

The word is "kitty."

Except it comes out "titty." I love it.

Seasons of love

525,600 minutes
525,000 moments so dear
525,600 minutes - how do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee.
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.
In 525,600 minutes - how do you measure a year in the life?
How about love?

One year ago. One year ago today my life changed, changed in a way I'd never expected. Oy. Here come the tears already.


I've never been so tired, so frustrated, and felt so incapable as I have in these last 12 months.
And never - never in my life - did I imagine that I would love one creature - that my life would revolve around someone so tiny - as much as I do and as much as it does. Nathanael is my world, my every joy, and my heart swells with so much love for him that it's scary. The love a mother feels for her child, I have learned, is unlike any other. It's completely indestructable, completely unconditional, and it's something that I feel so blessed, so privileged, to be able to know.

So. One year old. I have to admit that we're not exactly where I thought we'd be at this point in time. Still not walking, and not talking beyond a few words - mama, dada, baba, go (I *think*), and caca. Caca. That's my boy.

Boy, he loves life, though. He finds good in everything. He's fascinated by the world and I stand in awe at his wonder over the slightest things that I've long felt were mundane. I vow to make sure that he retains this love and this fascination for as long as possible.

This very second? One year ago? I was making the "dead man walking" walk from my labor room to the operating room. I can remember it as if it were yesterday. I was terrified. I was excited. I was in disbelief that I was about to become a mother, become responsible for someone else's life other than my own. Nat's official birth time is 11:47 a.m. Oh sweet Jesus - someone get me some Kleenex brand facial tissues, would you?

I wish I could create a machine that would slow time down, just a little. I'm not sure that I'm ready for toddlerhood and the tantrums, the independence, and the inevitability that my baby boy is, indeed, growing up.

Happy, happy birthday to my baby boy. You have given me the most amazing 12 months of my life. I love you, I love you, I love you, and I am so happy to be your mama.

Finally!

My boy finally calls me by name. I was beginning to think I was invisible to him, or just so inconsequential that he felt as though he didn't need to bother with anything other than his "hey you" point. In any case, hearing his call of "mama mama mama" is music to my ears, and quite honestly I could listen to it all day.

Any time I've glanced at the clock today I've been thinking back to one year ago, wondering what I was doing. At this point, all I knew was that I was going in for a scheduled induction on the night of the 30th. It wouldn't be until later that evening that we all learned the little stinker had flipped around, prompting the docs to perform a c-section the following day.

I can't believe that it has been a year. I still remember what I wore...hell, even what I ate...on the day before he was born. I wonder if any of his first memories will be anything from his first year. I hope so...because if there's anything he should be able to know and remember from the last 12 months it should be how loved and adored he is.

Now - off to rescue him from whatever seems to be attempting to kill him in his crib.

Tone: nostalgic and happy :)

Survival

The party went off without a hitch. I consider it a major success. Good food, some good friends and family (and a bunch of peeps I didn't know), good presents, and a lot of fun. I, of course, got choked up singing Happy Birthday to Nat, but I imagine it was nothing close to the emotion I'll feel on Wednesday. He's still a baby in so many ways, but like a big boy in many others. It still makes me sad to think how quickly this year has passed, but I know every other mother on the planet feels the same way. But still - stay my baby boy a little longer, Nat, please?

As for Baby #2 - I'd like to clarify that never have I said/written that I regret getting pregnant. Do a word search on the blog - if you can find the word 'regret' then I'll happily give you $100. I wrote that I worry about having made a mistake for a few reasons....most of which have been voiced on this blog ....but never regret. Big difference. I know that this pregnancy is a blessing - I don't need to be reminded of that. But I also don't have to be happy with the way things have gone at this point. Would YOU be happy having to deal with profuse vomiting on a daily basis while also making sure your current baby's needs are being met? Doubtful. In any case, to all of you who have taken the time to send well wishes and good thoughts - thank you. You know you have special places in my heart and I appreciate your kind words and good intentions. :)

Now. Off to do some party damage control.

Party planning and c-sections

How in the world does your child's first birthday party turn into the event of the century? Nat's party is this weekend, and it won't be over fast enough. I have about 463 people attending, most of whom I don't know. I have to cook all of this food while battling a seriously queasy stomach, fighting the urge to dry heave and vomit all over what I've just prepared. We have friends coming in from out of town, arriving tomorrow, and of course we'll have to entertain them while they're here. How am I supposed to entertain when I'm usually dead asleep (thank you, Phenergan rectal suppositories that do nothing for nausea but make me delirious and sleepy) by 8:30? Stay tuned for updates. I'm sure there will be at least one disaster to report on.

Saw the OB on Tuesday for a checkup. Baby's still in there. It has verifiable legs and arms now. Looks like the arms are coming out of its mouth. Great. Bad news is that the pregnancy is in the left horn of my uterus. Back up for a minute. What, you say? You have a horn in your uterus? Yes, dear bloggers, I have a two-pronged uterus. A bicornuate uterus. It has two horns, kind of like the devil. Apropos, no? In any case, I'm pregnant on the left side, which is where the pregnancy was the last time around. At a prior visit the doctor had told me that if the pregnancy was in the right horn then we would attempt a vaginal birth rather than another c-section. So of course, because I'm convinced that God hates me, it's not in the right side. Which means an automatic c-section. Too much risk of uterine rupture. Fabulous thought, eh?

So. Last time I didn't know I was having a c-section until I got to the hospital. Now I have months and months to anticipate major surgery. So what's the big deal? Well, I'm uber-lucky enough to have a rare blood clotting disorder...so rare that I was graced with a pulmonary embolism in 2003...and, well, major surgery + clotting disorder = a bit of anticipatory anxiety. So while the average Jill runs the risk of dying during or after major surgery, my risk is just a little bit higher.

So excuse me if I can't rejoice over the little bundle soon to come. Excuse me if I'm less than thrilled about being pregnant at the moment. I'm being a little bit selfish right now in worrying that I'm going to kick the bucket, leaving my baby who is already here and already a huge part of my heart without a mother and without the memories of me, as he's really too young to remember me and all the love I've given him in this last year. Happy thoughts, aren't they?

I was tagged.

Someone tagged me in my comments. She wants me to list 8 things about myself. I'm in a foul mood today, so this should be interesting.

1. I hate Buffalo. I hate living here. I hate where we live. I hate only having one car. The city itself has a scent to it that I'd rather not know and that I'd rather not be associated with. I wish we were back in NYC. I'm not happy here. I don't know if I'll ever be happy here. Perhaps once we're in our own home in a better area things will perk up. Perhaps.

2. I miss my family. I miss the way things used to be. I cry about it. A lot.

3. It drives me nuts when someone calls my son Nate. That's not his name. It's Nathanael. Or Nat. Rhymes with hat. The ONLY person who is allowed to get away with it is my mom, and that's only because she asked if she could call him Nate the Great. So if you read this and you've ever called/ever wanted to call my son Nate - don't. Unless you're my mom.

4. I swear way too much. I swear way too much in front of the baby. I won't be surprised if his first honest-to-goodness word is "shitbag."

5. Sometimes I pretend I don't hear Nathanael when he cries in the middle of the night, just so that I don't have to be the one to tend to him. Hey, I'm pregnant - I need my sleep! And I bet there's not a single mom out there who hasn't done the same thing!

6. Cleaning the toilet makes me dry heave.

7. I worry that getting pregnant again was a huge mistake, for so many reasons.

11 months old

A few days late in posting Nat's 11 month status update. Been too busy vomiting up everything but the kitchen sink...although I think I did see it at one point...and being rehydrated in the hospital. Fun times.

But I digress.

My baby is one month away from turning the big 1.0. I can't even begin to describe the emotions associated with such a big event. Nothing like I ever imagined. My baby isn't a baby anymore, he's asserting his independence more and more, and it's actually breaking my heart. Not big into cuddling so much - hopefully it's a stage - and he gives W and me these looks that would imply he thinks we're crazy.

No walking, no talking. Don't get me started.

The newest thing is pointing. He points at everything. The cute part is that he doesn't point straight, so we really have no idea what he's intending to point to, so we pick the closest object and we tell him what it is. He knows what so many things are yet he's too stubborn to say the words. He's fascinated by people of other races/ethnicities. Awkwardly fascinated. We'll be in a waiting room, for example, and there will be someone of a different race, and he'll immediately pick that person out, crawl over to them, and look up and stare. And stare. Aaaaand stare. It's funny in a non-PC sort of way. He also enjoys the tubing on oxygen tanks.

Not much new from last month. We have his one-year check in about a month. We've decided to withhold the dreaded MMR shot for a couple of years (comments are not necessary, thank you) and are anxious to see how he's grown in the last 3 months and how he's doing according to the doc.

Planning for his first birthday party is nothing short of obsessive and ridiculous. He's my first baby, though, so I find no harm in spoiling him. We won't be able to give him everything he ever wants, but birthdays are special days whether or not he'll remember in 5 or 50 years, so we plan to celebrate big.

Our first year together is drawing to a close. It's bittersweet, really. I'm sad that it has passed by so quickly, but look forward to many more years of being mama to the best baby boy out there. We have this book that I bought but have yet to read to him because it's actually a bit depressing, but the mother in the story sings this to her baby boy - "I'll love you forever. I'll like you for always. As long as I'm living, my baby you'll be." My sentiments exactly. :)

Big Brother

Nat's going to be a big brother. Doctor's appointment next week to confirm the due date, but it's either late April or late May. We've been trying for a few months now, so there's been lots o' sex, a good $50 worth of pregnancy tests, a late and unusual period in there somewhere, followed by this month - dry heaving while attempting to drink a Vitamin Water, a pregnancy test turning up positive, some shock and awe, a second positive test, and a few mornings where vomiting seemed imminent. We're happy, of course, since we were trying, but I can help but feel a twinge of sadness that my baby won't be my baby anymore. Part of the reason we wanted another baby so soon was to (hopefully) bypass any feelings of jealousy and/or being replaced, plus we wanted Nat to have someone close in age. I've heard nothing but good things, though, from parents of children so close in age - I'll have 2 under 2 - so I don't doubt that Nat and this baby - whom we currently refer to as Gumdrop - will be the best of friends. Mommy instinct tells me that this one's a girl.

This blog and my world will continue to revolve around my Nat. I'll throw in the occasional comment about cravings, hemmorhoids, stretch marks, and whatever else I feel so inclined to share with you, my wonderful readers. For now I must depart to rescue my son who is giving off the impression that dark and evil forces are trying to torture him in his crib.

Two under two. What the hell was I thinking? :)

10 months old

Where is the time going? Seriously. I can remember this time last year like it was yesterday. Puking, random trip to Coney Island for a hot dog and ice cream cone, coming home to puke again and then wanting some cheese fries...extra bacon, thank you. My little baby isn't a baby anymore!

No walking and talking yet, but we're pretty darn close. How long have I been saying that for? I don't know. We're cruising along the furniture and walls like a professional, and we're babbling and indicating wants/needs/dislikes...just not with words. Unless "wo wo" counts as a word. I can ask Nat where the following things are, and he looks and will occasionally bring them to me: kitty, dada, book, baby (in the magazines), baba, Bunzy (his beloved rabbit), and block. Now we just need to get him talkin'.

He waves. He has 6 teeth. He crawls faster than an ant on speed. He can stand independently for a few seconds, but lacks the confidence to take those first steps. He can drink out of a sippy cup on his own. He loves his soft monkey blanket. He gets a kick out of seeing his own reflection. He throws temper tantrums like you wouldn't believe in the following situations - diaper changing time, when I won't let him eat cat food, and when he gets a no-no taken away from him. He loves turkey, pancakes, chili, anything spicy, cheese, wheat bread, blueberry bagels, carrots, sweet potatoes, chicken, grilled cheese, veggie burgers, peas, spinach, Cheerios, Earth's Best vanilla cookies, spaghetti w/mama's homemade sauce, and graham cracker ice cream.

He is all boy. Likes to play rough. Also very clingy at times, though. Has a dear, dear heart. Loves to cuddle only with mama at bedtime. A definite daddy's boy at other times. Loves to play on the baby swings at the park. Loves birds and trees. Loves his Rolly Pollies class and the other babies there. Loves to listen to music. Loves to play peekaboo and when mama chases him through the apartment.

He continues to be a happy baby. He plays independently so well, but definitely demands undivided attention. I worry about how he'll react to a sibling.

These 10 months have gone by much too quickly. I look down at him while he's asleep in my arms when we "rock-a-rock" at bedtime, and it brings tears to my eyes to think that he won't want to do that for much longer. While I love to see him develop and accomplish new tasks, I'm also silently willing him to stay a baby for a little longer.