1) I enjoyed the last numbered list so much I'm going to do it again. Deal with it.

2) The orzo, for those who are interested, goes like this. Cook some orzo (that's the stuff that looks like rice but is pasta). While the orzo is cooking, chop some vegetables. Whatever you have in the fridge should be fine, just cut off the rotten bits. (That last part just gave my husband a stroke. He firmly believes I am trying to kill him by serving him rotten food.) Cook the veggies a bit, and then open a jar of marinara and dump it in there. (You could make your own, but why?) Add herbs or something, if you want. Cook the sauce and veggies together for a few minutes. Drain the orzo, dump about half into a greased casserole dish, dump in some of the sauce and mix it up. Put in the rest of the orzo and sauce and stir it again. Sprinkle parmesan cheese on top. (I'm sure you all have a block of parmesan and one of those windy cheese graters for just this sort of thing. I have a big green can.) Bake the whole thing for a while until it is hot, or throw it in the fridge and then bake it later, but for longer since it is cold, duh. Ta-da! Dinner. If you wanna get fancy open a bag of salad too, and I guess you could put in some cooked chicken if you had to. Or grouse, or gopher, or whatever it is you carnivores eat.

3) Speaking of, where were you guys last night? I'm not going to invite you over anymore if you just don't show up like that. You really should have come because then you could see the new art-type thing we just got for over the couch. It looks awesome, but now you will just have to take my word for it.

4) Thanks for the input on my shower quandry, but really you were no help at all. Nothing personal. Yes, I have an exersaucer, but it is in the kitchen and needs to stay there or else I will never again unload the dishwasher and the prospect of hauling it up my winding staircase every morning and then back down again is enough to make me decide I would rather smell. We also have a pack and play, but the only place I have room to put it in my bedroom would totally block access to the bathroom, thereby rather defeating the purpose, don't you think? (I really like my house, but it has small bedrooms and mine is already crowded.) I could take a shower before Chris leaves for work, but he leaves at 6 AM so hell to the no. I can't take a shower before Mia wakes up, because a) she wakes up early and b) she is always in bed with me by morning and I can't just leave her sleeping in my bed alone because she's a wiggly little thing. The shower in my bathroom is a very small shower stall (as in, I could barely turn around in there while pregnant) so I can't take Mia in there with me, the other upstairs shower leaks, and the downstairs shower has a litter box in it (don't ask) so that's out. Mia is a sporadic and unreliable napper so I am not really comforable taking a shower while she is sleeping. I guess this leaves me with showering at night when Chris is home, but I am not really an entirely happy person if I don't take a shower in the morning and I have precious little time alone with Chris these days and would prefer to spend it actually with him. I suppose we could shower together, but see above re: the logistical issues with that. What a quandry, which rhymes with laundry, not that it matters.

5) I just checked the weather and it is 77 degrees and Chris is home and the baby just woke up, so why am I sitting here talking to you? Oh right, because you are all fabulous, I love that shirt on you. No more though, we are going outside. If you see us out walking, wave. We'll be the couple with the pasty white legs and freaking adorable child.

1) Who wants to talk about my boobs some more? Thanks for all your comments and advice on that. I have decided to try actually putting some hydrocortisone or something on it and if it doesn't go away in a couple of days I'll go to the doctor. Yes, I am stalling. I hate doctors.

2) Oh, except I like Mia's hotty pediatrician. We saw him again today. I did my hair.

3) Oh, and I also like the friend I've had since we were four or something who happens to be a doctor these days. You know what you should all do? You should all get one of your childhood friends to become a doctor and then get them to read your blog because then when you post diagrams of your boobs on the internet you will get an email that says "you do not have cancer" and that is very reassuring. Hey, do you think I could name my friend as my primary care physician? I mean, I could email her my temperature and a picture of whatever it was and she could email me back and say "you do not have cancer" and that would be that. Good plan, yes?

4) So anyway, a couple of you brought up the cancer thing on the last post and said there is some "new" breast cancer that starts as a rash and while I appreciate your concern and advice, THAT WAS MEAN! Anyway, I consulted Dr. Google and I think what you are talking about is called Paget's Disease of the Nipple (which I do not have) and you can read about it here. It is uncommon, especially in younger women, but go ahead and read about it because it will only take you a minute and knowledge is power and also half the battle and we have to stay informed about things like this to protect ourselves and our health. Go, I'll wait.

5) I'm waiting.

6) Who wants to move on? Me too.

7) I love making numbered lists, I find it very satisfying. It also makes it easier to go back and fix typos. You know what I do a lot? I have typos that are homonyms. For example, I just had to go back and change have to half (which are homonyms when I say them, welcome to the South). What is that about? Is that weird?

8) Several of you asked what comes in a Tiffany's bag this big. The answer, obviously, is armloads of jewels. Also my tiara. Or dishes. Baby dishes. With bunnies. They were a gift from Mia's great-great-uncle. I am sure she will appreciate them as soon as she finishes chewing on the bag.

9) Also, people ask me all the time when I am going to wean Mia. And wait, are we talking about boobs again? Dammit. Anyway, I am definitely going to wean Mia before she goes to college and that is my final word on the subject.

10) Or else maybe I will wean her next week because she has six teeth coming in and frankly there is no way that bodes well for my nipples. (Six teeth. At once. No wonder she screams all night long. Did I mention that her pediatrician is a hotty?)

11) Are you just dying to know for real when I am going to wean her? It is keeping you up nights? Do you secretly suspect that I am some sort of boob fanatic and will breastfeed her until she is five? Then you need to get out more.

12) Does anybody want to come to dinner? I'm making baked orzo with marinara and veggies. Oh, could somebody pick up a loaf of french bread on the way? I got one yesterday but then we got take out and now I think it is stale.

Internet, we're pretty close, right? I mean, we've been friends for a while now and we can tell each other things. Like, you can tell me that you secretly find Carrot Top really sexy (and you know, in that picture, not so bad) and I can tell you that when Corinne told me that my Pretend Celebrity Boyfriend, Clive Owen, is in a new movie with Denzel Washington I took a moment to contemplate the possibilities in a way that I am reluctant to describe on the internet for fear of what my search strings would bring. And, say, you could confess to me that no matter what you do or how hard you try your feet just won't stop stinking and ask if I have any ideas what to do about that and I would give you the sagest advice I could muster without judging you in any way because we are tight like that. Or, for example, I could tell you about my bumpy, splotchy, itchy boob and you would love me just the same, although possibly from a bit more of a distance than before. (Wow, yesterday it was my flabby belly and today it is my splotchy boob. I am so hot.)

So yes, I have this boob problem. Possibly it is a rash? Can you have a rash that never spreads and never goes away? See, it's like. well, it's a little hard to describe. So I drew a picture. Here it is:

This is my boob. Ok, obviously it is not actually my boob, it is a representation of my boob. The drawing is somewhat larger than actual size. The first boob problem I noticed (quite a number of weeks ago) was this single brown bump, like this:

It's smallish, and brownish, and bumpish and sometimes but not all the time it itches. I didn't know what it was, so I sought out a second opinion, my husband. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Can I show you my boob for a second?
Chris: Hell yes.
Me: I mean, can I show you this weird thing on my boob?
Chris: Is it gross?
Me: No, just weird.
Chris: Ok, you'd better not be lying because if it's gross I don't want to see it.
Me: Thanks for your concern and support. (Whips out the boob.) What do you think?
Chris: I dunno, what do you think?
Me: I dunno, maybe an ingrown hair?
Chris: Sure, that's probably it.
Me: Is that what ingrown hairs look like?
Chris: I have no idea.
Me: Thanks, you've been very helpful.

So, I decided to call Mr. Bump an ingrown hair and move on with my life. But then I noticed a whole new set of bumps, a veritable Bump Posse. These are more along the lines of your standard rash and are entirely separate from Mr. Bump thusly:

I initially thought the Bump Posse was just some sort of rash that would go away, but it has not. The Bump Posse, like good old Mr. Bump, is sometimes but not always itchy. The problem is that if I ever decide to give Mr. Bump and the Bump Posse a little scratch, my boob starts itching so much that I have to quite literally sit on my hands to prevent myself from doing myself bodily harm trying to scratch. It itches like you would not believe, and I am a very itchy girl so I can tell you that this is no ordinary run of the mill itch.

Finally, Mr. Bump and the Bump Posse have been joined by the Angry Red Marks of Doom. Check it out:

I am unsure whether the Angry Red Marks of Doom arrived of their own volition or are the result of an especially violent scratching session I had the other night in the shower when I just couldn't stand it any longer.

And that, as far as I can tell and only for the moment I am sure, is the complete list of everything that is currently wrong with my boob. I almost hate to do this, but since we are such close friends who can tell each other anything, I'm gonna ask you some questions.

1) Boob bumps are entirely separate and different from boob lumps, correct? I mean, right? This is obviously a skin condition that just happens to be on my boob because that is the cool place to be. Yes? Tell me yes, do it quickly.

2) Could this be related to breastfeeding? Like a thrush-type thing? I haven't had any pain, but I am strange about pain and sometimes think something that everybody else says is nothing hurts like hell and other times have absolutely no reaction to something that is supposed to be very painful.

3) Do you think Mr. Bump is an ingrown hair? What does an ingrown hair look like?

4) Should I go to the doctor, or just follow my usual holistic approach of ignoring it and hoping that it goes away? If I should go to the doctor, should I go to my regular doctor (who is closer to my house but may not actually exist as I have never managed to earn an appointment with the actual doctor) or should I go to my OB/GYN (who is much farther from my house but has seen me deliver a child and therefore popping my boob out in front of her is nothing - if I ran into her on the street I would probably pop a boob out as a form of casual greeting)?

5) I have mad boob-drawing skills, no?

Every morning, I strap Mia into her bouncy seat, plop her on the floor in the bathroom, and take a shower. Now, I know she is too old for the bouncy seat, but she is always happy to play with whatever I have strapped to the toy bar for the few minutes it takes me to shower. Until this morning, that is. This morning I got out of the shower to find Mia bent at the waist playing with something she had dropped onto the floor in front of her and one good wiggle away from going ass over teakettle and landing face first on the bathroom floor under the bouncy chair.

The bouncy chair is hereby retired.

I cannot for the life of me figure out how I am ever going to take another shower. I can't leave her on the bathroom floor, because ew. I can't leave her on the floor outside the bathroom because she is going to be crawling any minute (she keeps telling me she has it penciled in on her calendar, but won't tell me for when) and would likely be halfway to Canada by the time I got out of the shower. I am not comfortable leaving her in her crib because it is down the hall from my shower and would likely cause me to spend too much time running naked past open windows to check on her and subjecting my neighbors to a view of my jiggly belly, which I can assure you nobody wants to see.

So, here's what I'm thinking. Can I put her in the bathtub? Without water of course, and it's separate from the shower. It is cleaner than the floor in that my husband (at least as far as I know) never pees on it, she can crawl around but can't get out, and banging her head on the hard sides would teach her valuable lessons about the hardships she will face later in life.

It's either that or getting her a snorkel, strapping her into the Baby Bjorn, and taking her in with me.

Earlier today, Mia sat herself up for the first time. Of course, I didn't get any pictures of that because I am a bad mother. Instead, I offer you a selection of baby giggles. Warning: has been known to turn otherwise healthy adults into big piles of goo.

The other night during dinner, Chris and I were discussing the possibility of my acquiring a couple of, ahem, working girls and then, let's see, project managing their efforts and turning a tidy profit. Prior to this mommy gig I was a project manager, so it seemed right up my alley. As this was Chris's recommendation, I pondered the possibilities and then gave him a totally straight look and said, "Well, I don't know. It's hard out here for a pimp."

He didn't get it. He started talking about how we could overcome the challenges to prostitution posed by our largely rural county. I was furious. I mean, how often is "it's hard out here for a pimp" the completely appropriate next line in any conversation? There we were, at the perfect intersection of pop culture zeitgeist and our veggie burger lives and we blew it. I had to explain the reference, which as we all know destroys any joke, but is especially deadly to pimp jokes. It was a sad moment.

While we are on the subject of pimping, have you gotten your daily Mia fix? Are you starting to get the shakes? Have no fear, I am here to hook you up. You can find Mia over at her place, or on flickr. No need to thank me, that look of pure bliss on your face at the sight of my beautiful child is all the thanks I need.

Word to your mother, bitches. I am so street.

You really ought to turn up the sound for this one.

Hey, should I took it personally that I went to a "New Moms Support Group" this morning and nobody else showed up?

Mia Bean,

You are eight months old today and as I am writing this you are finally napping in your crib six hours after your morning nap ended and three hours after your usual afternoon nap. You just don't see the point in napping when there are books to pull off of shelves and blocks to bang against the walls and songs to sing and games to play. This month you have gotten so independent that I can leave you on the floor with your toys and you will sometimes play happily for half an hour. Of course, there are also the days when you will not let me out of your sight for more than three seconds.

You spend a lot of your time now starting to crawl and you are so very close that it is painful to watch and sometimes we try to help you along but that usually results in a face plant into the floor. You have figured out that once you master this crawling thing you will be able to chase after Pixel and pull his tail whenever you want, rather than relying on his whims and patience. You are trying to get onto your hands and knees from sitting up and can't quite get over that front leg. When we put you on your hands and knees you are learning how to pick up your hands and either scootch backwards or collapse onto the floor, but progress is progress. You are also starting to pull yourself up - just a few inches, but you are getting the idea. Earlier today you discovered that if you stand up and hold onto the couch you can reach the remotes that are invariably lying on it, so I expect a lot more standing from you in the future.

We aren't going to talk about your sleeping at night this month. Let's just say that sometimes it is very good and sometimes it is very bad. You do go to bed very easily almost every night, and as I said above progress is progress.

You still aren't into solid foods, although you are considering the possibility of not hating pears. You are on a steady diet of breastmilk and avocado, supplemented occasionally by a couple of cheerios or fruit flavored puff things. You like to pick up the cheerios and love to put them into your mouth (which you got very good at very quickly) but once they are there you lose interest and frequently scream and cough until I reach in and take the cheerio out for you. Then, you start looking for another one.

Above all this month, you have become so much fun. You are really starting to understand words and if I ask you to find the kitty or Daddy you will look straight at them. You can play games like peek-a-boo and you enjoy smacking your hand onto a table or the floor to get me to do the same thing. You have learned how to remove your hats, and we started playing a game where I would put a hat on your head and you would take it off over and over again. I am regretting starting this game now that we are having another cold snap and I can't get you to keep a hat on. You have also learned how to take your socks off and do so on a regular basis. When I go in to get you from your naps you are almost always barefoot, and last week you pulled the sock off another little boy you were playing with. You like to pull my socks off too, but get upset when I won't let you chew on them.

Earlier today you figured out how to clap your hands and you haven't stopped since. I'm constantly amazed by how alert you are and how focused. Your attention span is longer than mine most of the time.

My favorite new thing is your kisses, which are open-mouthed and sloppy and usually planted on someone's nose or chin, but are the best kisses I have ever gotten and you love to give them.

We added a new step to our bedtime routine this month. What we have been doing is taking your clothes off (which you adore) and playing for a few minutes, then greasing you up with lotion for your eczema, getting into pjs and your blanket then reading Goodnight Moon. Lately we have started doing the Hokey Pokey when we get you into your blanket, and you love it, especially the part where you stick your butt in. It is just about the first time I have ever heard your father sing, but he sings it with me every night.

Yesterday was a sad day for us, we had to put Callie to sleep. I am very glad that you got to meet her, but in a way I am also glad that it happened now before you were old enough to understand what was happening. Someday I will show you the pictures of her with you and tell you about her and maybe even tell you that we took you with us to put her to sleep because I just couldn't stand to go alone. And maybe I will also tell you how much it helped to soften the blow of coming home without my cat that I got to sit and nurse you while you fell asleep in my arms. Having you makes everything in my life, even the bad things, better. Being with you makes even the saddest day a joy.

Every day you become more and more yourself, and I can't wait to see what tomorrow holds.

Love,
Mom

Dear Internet,

Thank you for your kind words about our Callie. As many of you pointed out, there is really nothing to say, but thank you for saying it anyway. We're heartbroken, even Pixel who has been lying despondent on the rug since yesterday morning, but hearing from all of you has helped.

Callie purred anytime you touched her or said her name or just looked at her, really, and I suppose that none of us can ask for more than a long, happy life and a very fast, peaceful death.

Big smooches and stuff,
Beth

Mia hates her stroller and is getting far too heavy for the Bjorn and the sling, so I've been looking for other options. May as well travel in style, right?

People! Donna is pregnant! Go give her some love, would ya'?

Y'all, I'm... um... what's the word I'm looking for? Oh yes, tired. (By the way, the word I was looking for yesterday and could not think of was moue. Now you know.) Very tired. I was trying last night to remember when I last got a decent night's sleep, and as near as I can figure it was sometime in my second trimester. Mia's latest thing is to scream her head off when I get her within three feet of her crib and then to wake up just as I am falling asleep and refuse to go back to sleep for at least three hours. Then she starts screaming in her sleep sometime around 5 AM. (Yes, I know you have the solution but no, I don't want to hear it. Because I'm stupid and you are a better mother than I am.) (Sorry, I'm a little touchy lately.) Chris and I have the following conversation almost every night:

Thing One: What do you think it is?
Thing Two: I dunno, what do you think it is?
Thing One: I dunno, maybe teeth?
Thing Two: Maybe, but I looked this morning and didn't see anything and she hasn't been drooling a lot.
Thing One: Oh. What do you think it is?
Thing Two: I dunno, maybe gas?
Thing One: Maybe. Or reflux?
Thing Two: Maybe. Or separation anxiety?
Thing One: Maybe. So, what do you think it is?
Thing Two: I dunno, maybe teeth?

Fascinating stuff, isn't it? Of course, this usually comes after our daily discussion of baby poop.

Anyway, it has been suggested that yesterday's post about being a loser wasn't loser-ish enough (or possibly that I have already proven myself to be a much bigger loser than that and it did not live up) and also, let's see... boring? Yes, I think boring was definitely intimated. So, for those of you who were similarly disappointed, I give you I'm A Loser Round Two: Public Humiliation Through Nudity Edition.

Mia and I went to a La Leche League meeting today (hey, it gets us out and Mia loves the babies and she stole some poor kid's sock) and towards the end of the meeting I was nursing Mia. Now, even though this was a La Leche League meeting, I'm not entirely comfortable just whipping the boob out in public, so I was being rather discreet thanks to a button down shirt and one of those nursing tank top things. Anyway, the meeting ended and I got Mia bundled up and gathered all her toys and returned the sock she had stolen and took her out to the car, wondering all along why it was so much colder than it had been when we had gone into the meeting. Although, not colder overall, really just colder in a travelling area around my left boob.

You guessed it folks. I left the meeting, walked through the building and across the parking lot to my car with my shirt and nursing tank top thing undone and my boob pretty much hanging out (well, as much as boobs as small as mine can be said to hang). I was so proud. Did I mention that I passed several people on my way out? Additionally, did I mention that the meeting was held in a church?

I so rock.

Check out my flickr for the pictures! (No, not really. Sheesh.)

You know what I hate about blogging? Before I had a blog I was able to just be my usual dorky self in relative obscurity. Now, whenever I make a complete ass of myself I feel compelled to tell the internet about it. I also hate that today I am apparently the Feed of the Day for something called Feedster, which I hope has only 14 subscribers but with my luck is the hot new craze sweeping the nation and I will be beaming this story directly to all my ex-boyfriends and also that girl from elementary school who (falsely) accused me of killing the second grade hamster. (Well, I was the feed of the day, until I complained about it. Take that, ex-boyfriends! No loser stories for you!)

Anyway, here's the latest thing I have done to earn my Loser Badge. (You know, if there had been a Loser Badge, I would have rocked that Girl Scout thing. Instead of, you know, just eating the cookies.) You guys remember this, right? And how I decided not to do anything about it because that would make me cool? Well, that's exactly what I did. Nothing. I didn't even think about it (much) for the last five months. Until the other day, when I was lying next to a sleeping Mia and unable to fall asleep myself despite having gotten about two hours of sleep the previous night, and then I thought about it and decided it would be a fabulous idea to send an email after all. Because, you know, doing it after six months is a little loser-ish, but waiting the full year really ups the loser quotient. Anyway, before I could stop myself, I did it. I sent an email.

(I am somewhat concerned that you already know about the email because it was sent around in some sort of Loser of the Day email digest, which would be the modern equivalent of someone finding a note you wrote and passing it around to all their friends so they could laugh at you. Hey, was everybody emotionally damaged by junior high, or was that just me?)

I tried to make the email as un-loseriffic as I could. No "hey, let's be friends" or "let's let bygones be bygones" or "please like me again, please, please" but rather just a request to know what the heck had happened, couched in the assumption that I had said or done something stupid. No drama, no accusations, no hurt feelings, so maybe what? A six on the Loser Scale? Keep in mind this is someone who stopped speaking to me with no explanation a year ago. Ok, maybe a seven.

So, you are all dying to know about the response, right? You all want to hear what I did? Hang on; let me get the email so I can quote directly.

Let's see...

Where is it...

Oh, that's right. Now I remember. I never got a response. Nope. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. Just the quiet echoes of laughter coming to me across the internet as my email is forwarded from person to person with the subject line changed to "FW: What a dork!" Ok, I'm only guessing on that last bit, but if you knew me you would know that given my history it is highly likely.

As I see it, there are two possibilities. One: whatever I did was so terrible that it cannot even be mentioned and the mere suggestion of discussing my unconscionable behavior causes one to press one's lips tightly together while looking off to the side in a manner of great woe. Which somehow, I think not. Or Two: I didn't do anything. I'll never get an explanation because there is no explanation to give, other than, obviously, my being a LOSER with a capital LOSER.

(Are you all enjoying how I compensate for my feelings on inadequacy? You can't bother me by calling me a loser because I have beaten you to the punch. I thought you would like it, I did it just for you.)

Anyway, at first I was upset at not getting a response, but I have decided it is really better this way. You see, if I had gotten an answer, the chances are good I would have had to feel bad about something I had done and possibly undertake some introspection (gag) and possibly even (gasp!) apologize (the horror!). This way, I can just go on my merry way secure in the knowledge that I have never done anything wrong in my whole life and also that being dumped doesn't matter as it was obviously important only to me, so ta-da! It is no longer important to me. Isn't it cool how I can just decide that? I'm good that way. And no need to tell me about the Nile, which I know is in Egypt. I mean duh, doesn't everybody learn that in, like, third grade?

So that's it. End of (long, boring, my god could you possibly drag this out any longer?) story. I've embraced my Inner Loser and anybody who doesn't want to be friends with my losey-lose-loser self can, well, apparently make me obsess and stew in my hurt feelings for a year, but then? Then! I will absolutely get over it. Soonish.

And now you may all begin to tell me I am fabulous and entertaining and that you don't care a bit about all the typos in this post caused by my typing the whole thing one-handed while using the other hand to make the Loser Salute on my forehead (so that, you know, if another Loser happens by while I am typing we will be able to identify each other). Or you can skip that part, I don't really care, really, I'll hardly cry at all. Instead you could give me recommendations for a Loser Theme Song. I've always wanted a theme song.

You are all jealous of me because today I had lunch with Corinne and three week old Shepherd (who I accidentally ate, but it is not my fault that he was perfectly bite-sized and so delicious looking). We spent the whole time making fun of other bloggers. Except, no, we didn't. We didn't make fun of any other bloggers. Well, other than my husband. Whoops, still lying. Ok fine, we mostly talked about babies, but it was NOT a playdate. Just because we both happen to have children doesn't mean that every time we want to go to lunch or something it turns into some stupid playdate. Anyway, Corinne is lovely and you should all have lunch with her too. Not all at once though, make a schedule or something.

Mia was lovely all through lunch, which was surprising as she has been a whiny little pill all the rest of the day, so I am cutting this short. However, stay tuned for my next entry which will detail for your amusement exactly how I am a huge loser. You will laugh. At me, which is not as good as with me, but at least you will be laughing. Unless of course I suddenly develop either pride or shame and decide not to tell you about it, but we all know that is highly unlikely.

Me: Is it bad that there's condescension dripping from the pipes downstairs?
Him: No. It would be bad it there were condensation dripping from the pipes downstairs.
Me: What can I say? The pipes are feeling very superior today.

We have a new catchphrase around here, "that's new." It is getting a lot of play lately as Mia discovers a new way to suck on her bottom lip or blow a raspberry or decides to take her blocks out of their bucket one at a time rather than dumping them straight onto the floor. Every day now there is something that makes one of us point it out to the other and say "that's new." Last night, Mia pushed herself up onto her hands and knees for the first time and then made some (very slight) forward progress from that position and then slept in her crib from 9:00 to 6:30. Straight. That's new, that's new, and oh my sweet Jeebus thank you that's new.

I am thrilled by and for her, but sometimes it all seems a little too much, a little too fast, and three milestones in one day has me desperate to pause her for a little while, to cling to her babyness, to hold her on my lap just a little while longer when what she wants is to roll or crawl or run off my lap and out into the world. I still rock her to sleep every night (suck it, Ferber) and instead of trying to drop her into her crib the minute she falls asleep, I find myself holding her longer and longer just to smell her head and watch her fingers cling to my shirt or her blankie, because I know that soon she won't have time for it anymore and I want to burn it into my brain and onto my heart so that I will never, ever forget.

It was 78 and sunny here yesterday and is supposed to hit 70 again today. So far I have cleaned two bathrooms (and I mean really cleaned, not just wiped the counters with a baby wipe) dusted all the furniture and the freaking baseboards upstairs, cleaned the kitchen and done the floors with actual wood soap and water and a mop and after that experience I don't think it is a good idea for Mia to start crawling until I become a better housekeeper. On tap for the rest of today is cleaning at least one more bathroom, vacuuming and laundry. I really hope that tomorrow is cold and rainy or else I might be forced to wash the windows. What is it about the first really nice day of the year that compels me to spend it on my hands and knees scraping cat hair out from under the refrigerator rather than outside enjoying the weather?

In other news, Chris and I are going out tonight and leaving the baby with my parents. As my brother and I both managed to survive infancy I am assuming that they can handle 90 minutes of Mia, however my mother and I have had several conversations along these lines:

Me: No, they don't let babies play with matches anymore.
Mom: Really? But you always loved playing with matches!

You can see why I have some slight reservations. The most likely things to worry about is that we will return to find Mia blinded by the constant flashing of my father's camera and covered head to toe in my mother's lipstick from uncontrollable baby kissing.

Anyway, wish us luck. The first time we went out I cried and Mia didn't. The second time we went out Mia cried and I didn't. Maybe this time (and yes, this is only the third time we have left her since she was born) we can skip the crying altogether.

And finally, thank you all for your kind words about my other baby, Calypso, and thank you for sharing your stories and I am oh so sorry for all your furry babies too. I think that no matter how you try to prepare yourself it sucks big, hairy, unwashed yak balls, but I greatly prefer my pain to her pain, so there you have it.

I know nobody really wants to read about my cat, and I had something else to write about that was maybe even sort of funny, but then Callie has a tumor that we probably couldn't treat even if we wanted to and so here we are talking about my cat. She drives me insane. She howls at 5 am for food (and for most of the day for that matter), she will only drink out of a faucet so I have to turn the sink on for her 20 times a day, and beats up Pixel and she pees all over the place and I love her madly. She's almost 20, I've had her since I was 12. Twenty years. Through almost every important thing that has happened to me in my life, I've had this cat. Through every change, every new thing, college, marriage, motherhood, she's been there, the one thing in my life that never changes. And yes, we have known for years that her kidneys were shot and yes all she does lately is eat and sleep and pee on the carpet and I keep telling myself that I am ready for this, that I could and would put her to sleep tomorrow if she seems unhappy or in any pain. That is my responsibility, that is what I owe her for 20 years and it very well might be a good long while yet, impossible to say, but when it comes I can do it, I'm ready.

Except that no, I'm not. Really not. How do you get ready for this?

Mia ate half a cheerio! Only because she couldn't spit it out of her mouth fast enough and part of it dissolved, but I am still choosing to call it progress. She also ate part of the tag from her new pair of jeans. The tag made her a heck of a lot happier than the cheerio.

The cat is still pissing blood. I took her back to the vet today to hear it is maybe an infection and maybe stones and maybe cancer. Then it took four of them to draw blood because Callie fought them off and then peed on their table. That's my girl.

I signed up for another playgroup tomorrow. I know what I said, but it's at a woman's house that I have been to before and she was really nice and didn't even call me a loser when I rambled on about basements and whatever else so I'm going. (Why am I doing this to myself? I hate it. I have nightmares about going to playgroups.) Anyway, check back tomorrow for more tales of how I humiliated myself in front of strangers.

Wow, I'm boring today.

Mia and I had a playgroup this morning - one of those things where I joined a group online and don't know any of the people. Then Mia woke up at 5:30 and then took a very short morning nap, throwing our "schedule" out the window. Perfect excuse to skip playgroup. Instead, I decided to suck it up and be brave and go anyway. So, Mia had a bath and wore her pink high tops and I actually brushed my hair and wore a dry clean only sweater (which I am no longer wearing since Mia threw up on it) and we headed out to try not to be a total ass in front of strangers (me) and drool on a different carpet for once (Mia).

When we got to the house I rang the bell and heard the pitter patter of little feet running full-tilt towards the door. Then the doorknob turned and... nothing. The door didn't open. I heard the kid yelling to someone that yes someone was at the door, no, he didn't know who but she had a baby, and various other things. Still the door did not open. I figured something was going on inside, that the attendant adult had her hands full and couldn't make it to the door right away, so I waited. I understood really, it happens to me all the time, but I did think it was a little odd since she was expecting people. After waiting entirely too long (seriously, maybe 5 minutes?) I thought maybe we had been forgotten and rang again. More yelling, but no movement at the front door. We left, and as we walked away I heard a knocking and turned around to see two children waving to me from an upstairs window.

When I got home, I checked the message board and saw a post from 12:30 this morning that playgroup had been cancelled, the hostess wasn't feeling well. Ok, my fault for not checking. But here's what I'm thinking: if you are so sick that you cannot go to the door to tell me playgroup was cancelled, or yell through the door, or send one of your children to yell through the door then you should be in the hospital. Since I doubt she was so sick that she could not manage one of those things, she's just a bitch. I was not someone there to sell magazines or salvation, I was an invited guest. Granted, I had also been uninvited, but clearly I hadn't gotten the message.

Am I wrong? Am I being my usual unkind and unforgiving self? Should I be sending her get well cards, or hate mail? Either way, I'm never going to another playgroup. I don't need friends and Mia can make some in kindergarten.

I just remembered that I have a contest going here. I should have announced the winner on Sunday and then I could have done a whole Oscars tie-in and said "the envelope please." Except that I can't stand the Oscars, or really any sort of mindless celebrity worship because really, what do these people do that is so admirable? Nothing. I feel about celebrity the same way I feel about fashion and football, which is that we really should all go read a book instead. (Except Clive of course, but that's different. We have a relationship.) Although I admit that when I am on the treadmill at the gym I watch E!. I am nothing if not a hypocrite.

Oops, sorry. That was not at all what I was talking about. So anyway, the winner if the First Annual "Why is Chris in the Doghouse?" Contest.

First, I was amused by the number of people who guessed something that involved me cooking Chris a big fancy dinner. Are you people on crack? He is lucky if I throw him a cold hot dog and a jar of Cheeze Whiz for dinner, and he knows that he had better like it or he won't even get that. (See, here's where that whole "lying" thing I told you about comes into play. The truth is that I cook healthy and nutritious meals largely from scratch more often that not. In fact, tonight's dinner required one pan, two strainers, three pots and hauling the big mixer out of the cupboard. But see, that just isn't funny. Cold hotdogs and Cheeze Whiz though? Comedy gold.)

Second, let's have some honorable mentions.

Kudos to Traci, Meghan (your link is dead?), Jon, and fauve for using as many of the possible outcomes as they could in their guesses.

Mad props to tiffaneyc for throwing in the Hammer pants.

And of course, the Opposite Ends of the Spectrum Award goes to Deepblue for making Chris into some sort of saint (ha!) and Sarcomical for a scenario in which he allowed the baby to get drunk on wine.

However, sometimes simple is best, and it is without hesitation that I award the grand prize of a mix cd which I will force Chris to make as part of his penance to the wonderful and always entertaining Jen for her fabulous entry: "Did he eat all your chapstick?" Clearly Jen has been paying attention and understands how touchy I am about my chapstick and that I get angry if he even uses it because he does not put it back in exactly the right location. Jen, let me know what sort of music you like and I will ask him to take it under advisement.

The rest of you are not going away empty handed, however. As a reward for playing (or just sitting there and letting someone else do all the hard work of trying to be funny, slacker) I present a picture of the tulips which I received to make up for the morning of terror and woe that Chris caused me. And by "received" I mean "bought for myself."

Thanks for playing. (And if you didn't click all the links, you really missed out.)

UPDATED: What? You want to know what it is he really did? Ok, picture this:

Mia and I are lying in bed. Mia has just finished nursing and because I must have done something very good in another life is drifting back to sleep and it is looking like I might get to stay in bed past 6 AM. And then, the burglar alarm goes off.

I panic. Clearly someone is breaking into my house to steal my baby and is brazen enough to do it in front of the line of 20 elementary school children waiting for the bus in front of my house. I do the only reasonable thing. I strap Mia into her bouncy seat and hide her in the bathtub, because who is going to look for a baby in a bathtub? (And, as Chris pointed out, babies never make any noise that might blow their cover.) I then run downstairs to do battle with the intruder and protect my child, armed only with a mother's fury and a bottle of saline nasal spray, which I intend to use like mace. I check all the doors. I check all the windows. I check all the heating vents. All clear.

Turns out, Chris hit the wrong button when he set the alarm, and one of the cats dared to stroll through the living room and set it off. They are just lucky I didn't mace them with my nasal spray, because, you know, cats hate to get wet.

Since Mia is about four minutes away from crawling, I figured I ought to document the rolling while I can.

Our conversation over dinner:

Chris: Oh, did you see what well-known artist who we have seen is doing a full Judy Garland concert?
Beth: Someone we've seen live?
Chris: Yup.
Beth: I dunno. Peter Gabriel.
Chris: No. As soon as you hear you are going to say "duh."
Beth: Oh, Rufus Wainwright. Duh.
Chris: That's it.
Beth: See, the thing about Rufus is that I know he's gay, but I would still do him. So would most people, I think.
Chris: You're right. Hell, I'd almost do him.
Beth: Dude, I am so telling the internet you said you would do Rufus Wainwright.
Chris: The hell you are. I said almost.

From this we learn that my husband is comfortable with his sexuality and I am uncomfortable with Rufus Wainwright's sexuality. Also, we saw him sing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" in concert, so I should have guessed much faster.

As I was writing this, I had a vague feeling that I had written about my little crush on Rufus before. I was right. Although in the previous entry I only wanted to lick him, so apparently I am escalating.

Oh! And I also remember that I had a troll on the earlier entry who told me that Rufus wouldn't want an ugly bitch like me even if he were straight, so don't trouble yourselves with that one - already been done.

Since my goal this week has apparently been to see how much internet abuse my husband will stand before he hauls off and slugs me, I decided to cap the week with another round teasing him. (I'm kidding, Chris would never raise a hand to me. Mostly because hs isn't that kind of guy, but also because I could probably take him.) (Also, any time I mention Chris I get twice as many comments as on any other post. This makes me happy, honestly, because I like comments and also I know he has always wanted groupies and I much prefer that he have internet "hey, want me to send you another email?" groupies instead of rock star "hey, want me to give you another blow job?" groupies.) (Y'all know I mean groupies in a nice way, right? You are all lovely people and very smart to like my husband.)

Anyway, today we will play a game! Welcome to the inaugural round of "Why is Chris in the Doghouse?" You get to guess what he has done to piss me off, and the winner will win a mix cd that I will force Chris to make for you as part of his punishment. Winning entry will be whatever makes me laugh the most. To make it easier, I will give hints!

Hint 1: I am not actually pissed at my husband. If I were, I would not tell the internet about it.

Hint 2: I have "suggested" that Chris come home with tulips for me and a very noisy toy for Mia as a way to apologize.

Hint 3: What he did caused me to either a) run from the house in pajamas and barefoot clutching the baby, b) hide the baby in the bathtub, c) need an immediate appointment with my hairstylist to return my hair to a haircolor that exists in nature, d) require crutches, e) call 911 for no apparent reason, or f) anything else that you may find amusing and want to include in your guess.

Hint 4: Sorry, I don't have time to think of a hint 4 because Mia is slowly but surely scooting herself across the floor and I need to grab her before she makes it to the stairs.

So, there you go. Get to guessing! Also, if you are so inclined, check out the daily Mia pic over at Cactusfish.

Happy Weekend! Not that it matters to me anymore, but if it matters to you.

It seems that I have posted pictures of Mia five times in a row. In fact, three of my last five posts have been nothing but pictures of my (stunningly beautiful) child. Really, you all should be grateful because at least I am not talking about poop. However, I have decided to take some feedback I have gotten and combine it with something I have been wanting to do anyway and use it as an excuse to post even more pictures of my (amazingly gorgeous) baby.

See, when I posted pictures earlier today, Lisa commented that "I think it should be a written law on your blog that you have to post pics of Mia with every entry. I think they make it alot more interesting." Which um, you know, burn. (I'm pretty sure she didn't mean it that way. Probably. Am I that dull? I mean, I know I talk about poop and dead crickets and the poop again, but.... ok, I am that dull. Moving on.) So that reminded me of a very nice email I got from Cassandra (who should get a site) suggesting that I could post more pictures of Mia over at the old Cactusfish site that we have been neglecting for months. And so, starting about 10 minutes ago I am going to take and post a picture of Mia over there every day(ish).

You should check it out, if you want to and if you, like me, cannot get enough of looking at (perfectly lovely) Mia. Well, except don't bother going now since I posted one of the pictures I already posted here today since she is in bed (knock wood) and I didn't want to start off with cheating by posting a picture from a different day. But tomorrow, probably, you could check it out, and maybe it will be this really amazing archive of how she grows and changes in these tiny little steps so that from one day to the next you don't even notice but if you go back a month or six months it is just like, wow, such a change and then you realize that yes, you can see it happening in small ways in all the daily shots. Or else it will be a huge narcissistic ego-centric mommy party, but isn't that really what the internet is for?

People! I can't stop!

I mean, she's just so freaking cute!

Notice how you can't see her right hand? That's because she is shaking her shoe to see if it makes noise. Cute!

And also, musical!

Ok, I feel better now.

First things first. Since you all cleverly sided with me over the music room filth issue, here, as promised, are more pictures of Mia. Mia and poor, poor Pixel, who had such a nice life before the baby.

Moving on, did you know that the internet is awesome? It has so much power. Yesterday I posted about how filthy Chris's music room was, and then he came home from work and cleaned it. So, tomorrow I am going to post a picture of our closet and on Friday I will post the litter boxes and the downstairs bathroom. (People, why in the hell did you allow me to buy a house with four bathrooms? Why? You must have known I was never going to clean them.) Using my new-found power of internet husband shaming, I predict that my house will be spotless by the end of next week.

And finally, why I suck. You know what drives me absolutely batshit insane about my husband? He never takes the low blow. Never. I always take the low blow, twice if I can manage. And then I wait a month and do it again, just to let you know I haven't forgotten. Chris? Never. He just keeps his skinny white ass smack dab in the middle of the moral fucking highroad. How can you fight with someone like that? How? Batshit insane, I'm telling you. Anyway, I thought that after I posted about his filthy room, Chris would counter with some of the plentiful ammunition at his disposal. Apparently I had forgotten who I am married to. The problem with fighting dirty with someone who doesn't fight dirty back is that then you have The Guilt. The Guilt leads you to do things like this:

It is entirely possible that before posting about the filthy music room I first had to clean up, well, several areas of cat puke that were nowhere near the confines of said music room. It is also possible that some of those areas of cat vomit had been in residence on my carpet for (and this is why I hate telling the truth and avoid it whenever possible) upwards of a week. My cats are old! They vomit with distressing regularity, and some days the cat vomit, which is always in the basement and therefore I only have to see it on my way to and from the laundry room, just does not seem more important than getting sloppy wet Mia kisses.

It is additionally possible that after I posted about the filthy music room I vaccuumed up what appeared to be somewhere between four and seven cricket carcasses that had amassed in front of the fireplace. But I can explain this one! I steam cleaned the carpets in the basement a couple of weeks ago and to do so moved a basket of piano music onto the hearth and apparently the area behind the basket was where crickets went to die and their little corpses were then transferred en masse to the hearth. And then I just left them there for two weeks. Or maybe three.

So there, now you know.