So the Fish Said...

Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem, I whisper with my lips close to your ear.

- Walt Whitman

Meet the Fish

I want to get a pet duck and keep it in the bathtub.
I am addicted to chap stick and altoids.
I am freakishly flexible.

World's Most Beautiful Child


World's Most Handsome Child


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Clive Owen

Clive Owen
Pretend Celebrity Boyfriend

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Dress Beth!

So yesterday, Eric suggested some sort of Dress Beth contest. I think that's a little kinky. I mean honestly, you call a guy sexy one time and he thinks he owns you. Perv.*

However, I decided to do it. What the hell, right? I mean, it's obvious I can't dress myself, so maybe it is time I left it in more capable hands. On Saturday, I'm taking Chris to dinner and possibly a movie to celebrate his birthday (next Tuesday, if you haven't mailed your gifts yet you'd better use FedEx) and you guys get to decide what I wear. I've posted a lovely new photo set on flickr with some options for your perusal. Go there, check it out, and then come back here and vote, ideally, for some sort of top, some sort of bottom, and a shoe. Alternately, you can vote for, say, a top you like but tell me to go back to the drawing board on the bottoms and shoes because everything I've posted sucks. I'll take votes through tomorrow sometime and then put together the winningest outfits and come back for a lightning round.

All items have been carefully inspected to insure they are not torn, frayed, or (noticeably) stained. However, not everything has been checked for still fitting over my enormous pot belly, so there may be some last-minute substitutions in the outfit round tomorrow.

Um, that's it. Ready? Steady. GO!

* Eric actually seems like a pretty decent guy. Except for the perv thing.

By popular demand

Rick said that you all need "closure," and around here if you ask you usually get, so here we go. The full outfit (lower half anyway) from yesterday for your mocking pleasure and my continued mortification.

First, here's what it was supposed to look like:

Not stellar, but not awful. And actually, I don't quite feel like admitting what I wore out of the house yesterday, so we will do multiple choice. It was either these:

Or these:

Or these:

Click to make them bigger, if you must. Are you all happy now? Also, can you tell I'm trying to hide the fact that I'm knock-kneed? How'd I do?

New topic - I've decided it will be fun (in a crap, I'm such a suburban soccer mom now that it isn't even funny kind of way) to trade Christmas (or other appropriate holiday) cards with you guys. If you are interested, email me your address (beth at sothefishsaid dot com) and I will email you mine (P.O. Box, so no stalkers need apply) and then when the time is right we can send each other little bits of festive holiday cheer in the actual by god U.S. Mail and then we can all drink egg nog in front of the fire until we pass out and vomit in our mother-in-law's ficus. Oh, is that just me? Never mind that last bit.

Don't you wish your girlfriend was a MILF like me?

This is getting outrageous. I mean, first I do these horribly, mortifying things, and then I feel compelled to tell the entire world about them. Anyway, since it is supposed to be 66 degrees here today and since I only have two pairs of pants that fit me in an acceptable manner these days and one of them is covered in yogurt from Mia's dinner last night and the button popped off the other pair (shut up, I hate you) I am wearing a skirt. It's a cute skirt and it looks really cute with my tall black boots, which is what I planned to wear when I took Mia to get the second half of her flu shot this morning.

However, since this is me we are talking about and since Mia is teething again (which, the hell? She has plenty of teeth) and I am sleep deprived and since we were running a little late I just threw some shoes on over what I was wearing and ran out of the house without giving it much thought. I do that fairly often, but usually I am wearing pants and it isn't so obvious that what I happened to be wearing was these:

So 1) if he didn't before, the hotty pediatrician definitely wants me now, and 2) is there anyway to take a picture of your own legs without them looking so, you know, tubby?


On Sunday I braved the scale for the first time in a while and made a horrifying discovery. Remember when I was bitching about how fat and poochy and sort of doughy I am? And I said I thought I needed to lose five or eight or maybe even ten pounds? Well, I threw that ten pounds in there just to be outrageous, because come one, I may be slightly more rotund around the middle these days and may also be muffintopping it all over town because I refuse to buy fat pants, but surely, I thought, there was no way I needed to lose ten pounds. Maybe eight, sure, but not ten.

I am eleven pounds over my pre-pregnancy weight. Eleven. E. Lev. En. Meaning I have also gained eleven pounds since January. Fuck me. I mean, not that you would want to since I am so lumpy these days. Well ok, maybe if you turned the lights off you wouldn't notice so much. Oh nevermind, that wasn't the point anyway. Not that I have a point, other than ELEVEN. I've basically been doing sit-ups non-stop since Sunday afternoon, frequently with the added benefit of Mia sitting on my stomach because she thinks this is a really fun game. Also because it is super comfortable being all soft and gooey, sort of like a nice, overstuffed recliner. Fuck me.

So ok, apparently my point is twofold. One, ELEVEN. Two, fuck me.

In unrelated news, this morning I decided that my precious, beautiful, perfect in all ways offspring could not possibly live another day in a house with dirty curtains, so I took them all down and washed them. This freaked the kid right the hell out. Turns out, toddlers are not so much for change. I then realized, far too late to save myself, that washing all the curtains meant ironing all the curtains, which I have not yet done, and which I must go do now instead of curling up in my nice soft bed with my book because without curtains there is nothing to shield my innocent and unsuspecting neighbors from the horrifying sight of my pot belly.

My point is now threefold. One, ELEVEN. Two, fuck me. Three, next time I decide to break out the domestic goddess act, somebody smack me. Just don't smack me on the belly because the jiggle will make me cry.

Mia Monday #46: The Spaghetti Incident

Month Sixteen

Mia Bean,

You were sixteen months old this week, and I wish I could take a single day with you right now, wrap it in plastic, hide it in the back of the freezer and save it forever.

It is hard to figure out what to say this month, because every time I turn around there is something new, you are somehow different. You absorb everything around you and incorporate it all into yourself and then spit it back out with your own special spin. You are so whip smart that is scares me. Maybe all toddlers are that way, I don't know, but you send me reeling with the things you know, both the things we taught you and the things we didn't.

After refusing to talk until you were good and ready, you have developed quite a vocabulary this month. You will mimic lots of words, but the ones you volunteer are mama, dada, bye-bye, bubble, back pack, ball, (fruit) bar, diaper, hat, book, umbrella, and Olivia. I admit, it takes a discerning ear to know what you are saying and to tell the difference between most of these words, but you know what you are saying and, more often than not these days, so do I.

When asked, you can identify Mommy, Daddy, and Mia, Grandma, Papa, Mimi, Grandpa and Baba. You can also point to you own or anyone else's nose, ears, hair, head, mouth, tummy, hands, knees, feet, toes, and bottoms. I taught you bottom just because I thought it would be funny, and it is.

It can be very frustrating to be sixteen months old. You know and understand so much these days but can still communicate so little that you are often reduced to tears and angry screaming when I don't understand what you want. You are also reduced to tears and angry screaming when I do understand what you want but refuse to comply. Sometimes I glimpse a preview of your toddler tantrums, and I admit I think you will mature into a formidable opponent. The rules are pretty cut and dry, though: no, I will not give you a knife to chew on to stop you from screaming, but yes, I will give you Daddy's toothbrush.

You are growing up so quickly now. More often than not you sleep through the night, and you have even started to eat something other than your four acceptable foods. In the past week you have tried, and seemingly liked, scrambled eggs, two kinds of pasta with tomato sauce, raisins and banana. You did not like the vegetables from my fajitas, but hey, they can't all be winners.

You are obsessed with socks, shoes, books, and the contents of your newly designated Mia Cupboard. One of your continuing favorite games is to come up behind someone sitting on the floor and push them until they fall over. Then you lean down and give hugs and kisses and pats on the back for a while, and then sit your chosen target back up and do it all again. I could happily play this game with you for hours because the hugs and kisses are so precious to me.

Mia Bean, you are not my little baby anymore. You are a little girl, a real person with real thoughts and ideas and desires. Getting to know you over the past sixteen months and again with every day is a great and awesome blessing on my life.


Big girl

Hey, guess who went to Thanksgiving dinner with a huge tear in her clothes? I'll give you a hint, it wasn't Mia. Fortunately, it was only my sleeve this time, but when it was pointed out to me I had a vague recollection of wearing that top a while ago, discovering it was torn (in a large and noticeable manner) and then just putting it back in my closet until I forgot about it and wore it again. I am so classy.

There, you see it? Left sleeve? Hott.

Thanksgiving was lovely, I'm sad it's over because my goal for today is to rake the leaves. I have to wait for Mia to take her nap though, so maybe I will just encourage her to stay awake all day.

Oh, I've added a passphase verification to my comments because the spambots are introducing entirely too much stress into my life. Don't worry, it's just an extra word to type in, not one of those annoying, hard to read strings of gibberish. If you hate it, let me know, but if it works I'll probably keep it anyway.

Observation upon hugging my husband

"You know, I'm pretty sure our stomachs didn't used to be the first thing to touch."

On becoming mama

I am great in a crisis. Fabulous. Seriously, if the world is falling down around you, I am the person you want to have with you because I will figure out something, at least, that can be done and then I will do it. I will not freak, panic, cry, anything, I just deal. Same thing when I have problems of my own. I might shatter into a million pieces once the problem is dealt with, but in the moment I just take care of things.

Except when it comes to Mia.

Mia got hurt yesterday and she just wouldn't stop screaming. It was not emergency, she was not bleeding, her life and well-being were not in danger, the worst case scenario was a couple of broken bones. That's a pretty bad scenario, granted, but is the thing you need to take care of within a few hours, not a few minutes. I called Mia's pediatrician and they told me the first appointment was in 50 minutes. That was entirely reasonable, except that Mia wouldn't stop screaming and I was panicked. I said I would take her to the hospital and hung up.

Then I couldn't figure out what to do. I called our insurance company to find out where to go and they hung up on me (don't even get me started on that) and Mia still wouldn't stop screaming. I ended up grabbing my purse (but not my insurance card) and running out of the house, throwing Mia in the car and driving to where I thought there was an urgent care place. And there was, years ago, but now it is a bank. I tried again, struck out again, and found myself near the pediatrician so finally decided to stop being stupid and went in there.

They saw Mia, sent us for x-rays, had us come back so the Hotty Pediatrician could apply Neosporin and a band-aid (whatever), and everything was fine.

I don't know where that panic comes from, though. It's unlike me. All I could think was that I had to get her to someone who could fix her RIGHT AWAY. Fifty minutes was too long, fifty seconds was too long. She was hurt, I had caused it, and I had to fix it immediately. I'm going to try hard next time (there will be a next time, as much as I hate to admit it I know there will) to be calm, to assess the situation, to act rationally. I'm not holding out a lot of hope for myself though. This is my baby we're talking about here.

My favorite (can you sense the sarcasm there?) part of the day was this conversation with the Hotty Pediatrician when we went back to see him after the x-rays:

Hotty Pediatrician: So, were you relieved?
Me: Relieved? That I hadn't actually broken any of my child's bones?
Hotty Pediatrician: Yes.
Me: Um, yeah.

Like, obviously, right? Seriously, either this guy hates me or he is so hot for my bod that he can't think straight, and at this point I honestly don't care which.

Also, after all that, Mia took a two and a half hour nap. Too bad I was too shell-shocked to do anything other than stare at the wall for most of it.

Enough about me

Babies! Babies for everybody!

Jenny, her hubby, and big bro and big sis welcomed Andrew Wyatt last Wednesday. And you should too, he's yummy.

And I am practically giggling with glee over the news of Donna and Jake's beautiful Bridget, born yesterday.

Go. Look at newborns. Try not to get squee on your keyboard.

Mia Monday #45: Come Back Next Week Edition

This morning, I was trying to figure out what I could do for Mia Monday to top Chris's post, and as it turned out I think I would have topped him except that they wouldn't let me keep the x-rays. She's fine, really fine, nothing broken other than my spirit, but I'm not ready to tell you about the stupid, horrible thing I did to my innocent, defenseless child because I think I need to cry about it for several more hours before I'm ready to talk about it. Or never. More likely never.

Anyway, go here for your dose of cuteness and maybe remind Chris that he promised he wouldn't go get Mia a new mommy even though I'm too dumb to do it.

Fucking hell people, there can't be much in life that's worse than hurting your kid.

Just throwing it out there

Chris and I are going to dinner tomorrow for my (29th) birthday, which is lovely. Mia will be attended for the evening by all four grandparents, which is also lovely. What is not lovely is that knowing people will be hanging out here tomorrow means I am compelled to clean my entire house today. Obviously, I mean that I am compelled by my own formidable neurosis, not by some jack-booted thug standing over me with a crowbar telling me I had better sweep under the stove if I know what's good for me.

The truth is that, short of actual squalor, the grands don't give a damn what my house looks like, so long as I get out of the way and allow them full fawning access to their only grandchild. I had even decided that I wasn't going to do it. I was determined to spend Mia's single and fleeting daily nap sitting on my ever-expanding ass and reading a book or some blogs or picking my nose or anything other than cleaning. (As an aside, and I know I have asked this before, but I am going to continue to do so until I receive a satisfactory answer, why in the hell did you people allow me to buy a house with four bathrooms? Why? Do you hate me?)

Needless to say, that sit on my ass thing didn't work out. I did have to take a break from what can only be accurately described as a cleaning frenzy to find out (and asking you people is really the only way I find anything out these days) whether I am the only pitiful freakazoid who has to do every last bit of laundry before having people over. Am I? Yeah, I figured.

I'm not cleaning the fucking bathtubs. Anybody who takes a bath while babysitting gets what they deserve.

I think I'm going to swear a lot

Holy crapping fuck, people! Thanksgiving is one week from today. One week. I was so not prepared for that. Is it usually later? I feel like it is usually later. Mia needs a dress and tights and shoes and to stop with the goddamned biting already, and I need to scour my closet for elastic waistbands.

People, it's getting severe around here. Is the week between your birthday and Thanksgiving the worst possible time to decide you have to lose five pounds (or eight, or maybe ten) so you can possibly stand to look at yourself or what? And don't even give me crap because the only other time I have been this fat I had an entire (albeit miniature) person inside me. In fact, I think my stomach was smaller at the end of the first trimester than it is right now.

I think I'm going to have to go on a diet, which I have never done in my entire life. (Yeah, fuck you too, you probably have good hair or know how to dress yourself or don't end up looking like a raccoon every damned time you try to wear eye-makeup, so we've all got something, you know?) My usual approach to being too fat to wear pants was to just keep eating whatever I wanted and pound it a little harder on the treadmill for a while, but these days I am lucky to get it together enough to go to the gym once a month so that just isn't happening. Anyway, I'm thinking I need an actual diet to follow, because I am pretty good at following instructions but not so good at that, what's it called...., oh, willpower. Whatever. Anybody have a suggestion, keeping in mind that I'm a vegetarian so most things won't work for me?

(For those of you keeping score at home, you can now check "mommyblogger bitching about how fat she is and how she really needs to go on a diet but we all know as soon as she finishes this she's going downstairs for another piece of birthday cake" off the list, I've now done it. Fuck me.)

Wow, I had no idea I was in this bad of a mood. Why don't you cheer me up by telling me what you're doing for Thanksgiving (one week from today!)? Especially if you're spending it with your amusingly dysfunctional family, because everybody always loves to hear about that.

Twenty-nine. Yes, again.

I have a friend who always gets himself a present on his birthday. I mean a nice present. One year it was a flat-screen tv, the next year it was a new stereo with 142 speakers. (Or something like that, I generally stop listening whenever anyone combines the words "sound" and "system.") I decided to take up that tradition myself this year and got myself a little something. A cold. Although technically, Mia got it for me, so maybe I can still pick up a new pair of shoes.

So, what did you get me?

Mia Monday #44: Tea Party in the Park Edition

Of or pertaining to alms or charity

I've done been interviewed. Check it out, yo.

Next I'm going to teach her to flip the bird

Mia is obsessed with shoes and socks, so I taught her the signs for both so she would have an outlet for expressing her love for various forms of footwear. To make the sign for socks, you stick out just the index finger of each hand and then rub the sides of those fingers and the sides of your fists together. To make the sign for shoes, you make a tight fist with both hands and then knock the sides of your clenched fists together a few times.

Mia tends to take the signs we teach her and adapt them into her own, simpler or easier to perform versions. With shoes and socks, she seems to have decided that knowing two signs for these closely-related items is a waste of time, so she has combined the two signs into a single sign that she uses for both items.

When Mia wants to refer to either shoes of socks, she sticks out the index finger on one hand, makes a fist with the other, and jabs the fist with her finger a few times, more often than not making a rather juvenile but still incredibly rude gesture. (Don't get it? Try it yourself... one finger, one fist, now poke a few times.... ah, there, now you see.)

I've been a bit worried that Mia was going to learn to say "fuck" and run around town offending little old ladies - turns out, she doesn't even need to learn to speak to do that.

I had this dumb little post written for today, but then I went to Maribeth's place to see her post about her Katie, who she lost, and now I'm just gutted and can't seem to do anything other than cry and hug my kid.

So do me a favor, ok? Instead of talking to me today, please go give Maribeth some love for Katie's birthday. Thanks.

If you don't remember, make something up

I got this suggestion a while ago from, um, V., who seems to be a lurker since I only have the one email. Anyway, V. was reading this post and was somehow inspired to email me and suggest I do a post asking all of you how you found me. I'm not sure I entirely understand the thought process there, but ours is not to reason why, etc.

V. claims to have found me by googling "twenty three or four or something weeks pregnant" which doesn't get you anywhere close to me, but whatever. I still like the idea, so let's do it.

If you can remember, tell me how you found your way here. Also, if you happened to work your way here from Playgroup Dropout, I am very curious to know how you did that since I have never linked. If you can't remember, make up something interesting.

Update mainly for me: It was Valerie! Mystery solved.

Mia Monday #43: Trick or Treat Edition

Fine. Pictures of the ass-exposing jeans. Are you happy now? Well are you?

Fine, fine, but I am only doing this to shut you people up. I mean honestly, I tell you this sad, sad tale about how I was repeatedly humiliated in public and your primary response is "yo, show us your ass!" It makes me sad, really it does. But fine, you ask, you get.

First of all, for everyone who wondered how I could put these jeans on without noticing the two large holes in the buttal region, here are the jeans.

They look fine, right? You would wear these jeans yourself. If, that is, you were still wearing your second trimester fat pants fifteen months after the birth of your child. Shut up. Yes, I know that beltloop is coming off, but with a belt you don't notice at all, so it doesn't even count as one of the holes.

The rest of the pictures are going below the fold, click at your own risk. I have to warn you that these are not safe for work.

Continue reading "Fine. Pictures of the ass-exposing jeans. Are you happy now? Well are you?" »

I am so hot

Mia and I went to the toddler play area at a local mall today, and this really old guy was totally hitting on me. He was at least 70, there with what I hope were his grandsons, and spent at least half an hour following me around talking to me, asking me questions, and telling me I was pretty. At first, I thought he was just being friendly, but then it became a little too friendly, and not in a good way. I finally just got Mia and left.

Later this afternoon as we were walking to the playground, a man from my neighborhood stopped to talk to me, and it was the same thing. Too nice, too friendly, too creepy for me and I got away as soon as I could. I started thinking I must be putting out some crazy pheromones today and made a mental note to make Chris sleep on the couch so I didn't end up pregnant or anything.

Then, as I was making dinner, Chris noticed something that explained a lot about my day. My jeans, my jeans that a wear a lot, my jeans that I had been wearing all day with a thong (which I mention only because it is important to the story, I assure you), my jeans have two large holes in the ass. I've been flashing the suburbs for who knows how long.

I told you I'm hot.

I swear this is not about my breasts

I've been giving Mia showers lately (started when she was sick to clear her nose a bit) and really the only way to do it is to climb in with her. For a while when I did that she would get very interested in my breasts, so I would tell her what they were and talk about how she used to drink milk from mommy and eventually she lost interest again. Until, that is, she discovered that Chris has nipples too. She was so fascinated by this realization that she woke up early a couple of days ago so she could crawl over me to him and examine them closely. Finally, I took her shirt off and stuck her in front of a mirror. As she realized that she too had a pair of the fascinating nipples, it was like a lightbulb went off in her sweet little head. She remains highly impressed.

This is really just a long way of explaining why we are singing a slightly different version of the beloved children's classic "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." It goes something like this:

Twinkle twinkle little star
How I wonder what you are
Up above the world so high
Like a nipple in the sky
Twinkle twinkle little star
How I wonder what you are

We've decided to go back to the traditional version though, for fear that she will break out our family version in public and then walk around the room lifting total strangers' shirts to get a look at their nipples.