So, did everyone else's Halloween end in a sugar- and exhaustion-fueled meltdown too?
So yes, I went to see the Hotty Pediatrician with peanut butter on my pants just so we could talk about poop, and yes, additionally it turned out that I had syrup on my sweater, right on the boob which I think is totally suggestive and hott in a "mother of toddler who must lean over to see her own feet" sort of way, but at least I'm not the one who dropped "anal fissures" into the conversation. Rawr.
Also, every time I see the Hotty Pediatrician about something that requires instructions, he gives me the exact same set of instructions three or four times. I used to think that either 1) he's one of those socially-awkward people who can't quite tell when to stop talking so he just keeps repeating himself until some little internal timer buzzes and alerts him that our time is up, or 2) he thought I was so stupid I needed to hear it all three or four times to get it. But today, I figured out that the real reason is that when you are trying to listen to directions while holding a squirming toddler on your lap and trying to stop her from poking your eye out with the shot from her play doctor kit, three or four repetitions is barely enough for whatever it is to sink into your brain and you will still find yourself at home trying desperately to remember whether it was twice a day for three days or three times a day for two days. So see, hot and clever too.
Although really, anal fissures? I just don't think we have that sort of relationship.
You know what I'm doing this morning? Visiting the Hotty Pediatrician solely to have an in-depth discussion about poop.
I'm thinking of leading with "hey, have I ever told you that you are really hot?" I figure that way, he'll be so embarrassed he won't even notice I'm talking to him about poop and it will be like it never happened and I can maintain my air of mystery and glamor. Although, I already have peanut butter on my pants and no time to change, so it is always possible I am not quite as mysterious and glamorous as I lead myself to believe.
Wow, you people really like to vote. At last count, either 553 of you had done so, or a few of you just have way too much time on your hands and need to get a new hobby. Unfortunately, the vast majority of you sided with Aimee. Which, whatever. Suit yourselves. Although, have you had your eyes checked lately? You might want to look into that. Also, the 45 of you who opted for the "do 'em both" option made a couple of very-married men very happy. I mean officially, of course, they are offended by the mere suggestion as they are already married to the hottest, sexiest, most brilliant and amazing two women the world has to offer and the very suggestion of such a thing is horrible to even contemplate, but unofficially I think they both found 45 to be a not-too-shabby number of total strangers with whom they purely hypothetically had a shot. So yeah, you can consider that your good deed of the day.
And now, I have two goals for things I must complete before this baby is born and I am off to work on one or the other of them. Goal #1 is to finish unpacking. Goal #2 is to make Mia a baby book. It's been over two months and over two years, respectively. I'm the sort who always feels I can do my procrastinating later. Oh wait, Goal #3 is to come up with some sort of acceptable name for this unborn child. I think I'll work on that one since I can sit on the couch watching bad daytime tv and call it "research."
As an aside, I though "anathema" meant something totally other than what it really means, which is something about a curse. I thought it was something more like french kissing a horse would be anathema to my very being. Anybody know what the hell word I might be thinking of?
ETA: Looks like anathema means what I thought it meant and I just had a faulty source. Teach me to rely on the internet for anything. Also, turns out I totally rock the vocab after all, I want a bonus point.
Don't forget to vote, the fate of the free world may well hang in the balance! Ok, so probably not, but voting is fun and there are cute guys.
Mia felt the pumpkins were "too messy" and that Mommy was very selfish to hog the knife all to herself.
Dude, this is so boring. Let's just have some snacks.
I am involved in a raging dispute with the lovely and entertaining Aimee. One of us feels that our respective husbands resemble each other, and the other one of us does not. And I figured hey, you guys obviously aren't doing anything too critical right now if you have time to be wandering around my blog, so I will let you do your bit to foster world peace and solve this disagreement once and for all.
Here they are, you be the judge. (Click for bigger versions to allow full scientific inspection.)
Over the past few years, I've come to know a little bit about a really amazing kid named Jake through the stories told by his equally amazing mom.
Jake was born fighting an uphill battle, and he fought like hell. Jake died on Monday, he was 2.
Would you all please take a few minutes today to go read a bit about Jake, and offer his mom what comfort you can?
I've finally reached the point where I look so definitely pregnant that people who don't know me are comfortable mentioning it, rather than worrying I've just chunked up a bit and they are about to commit the social faux pas of the year. Since Tuesday, five people who I don't really know but do see regularly to semi-regularly in various classes or groups have asked when I'm due. They've all seemed a bit surprised when I said "February," but I refuse to speculate as to whether they were expecting me to say "April" or "next week" based upon my perceived girth.
The truth is that if I suck it in really hard I can still look less pregnant and more just a bit bloated around the middle. I'm not sure if that's really a better effect and it's also sort of a pain in the ass so I figure I'll save it for when I accidentally run into Clive Owen at the dry cleaners and he falls instantly in love with me and asks me to run away with him to Paris.
I find myself less annoyed by people this time. Even the belly-patting from my mother-in-law doesn't get to me as much as I supposed I've learned to ignore it. It may help that she has yet to tell me pointedly that she only gained eight pounds when she was pregnant with Chris, which she told me repeatedly last time, generally right after making a joke about how fat I was. Don't get me wrong, she's a lovely woman, but it got so bad last time I had to have Chris smack her around a little bit until she promised to stop.
Although, I do have the ultimate cure for belly patting. When I was about 6 months pregnant with Mia I had to attend this work event that was supposed to be about dinner and a concert but turned out to be about everyone except me and the other pregnant girl getting shit-faced drunk. About halfway through the evening, which was near the end for me but before the next four bars the rest of the shit-faced crew hit, a manager who was visiting from another office and who I had met for the first time mere hours earlier decided to rub my belly. So I grabbed his ass. Probably not the best plan if a) he had been remotely sober or b) I had any intention of keeping that job or gave a hot damn whether I was fired on the spot, but it did get my point across and got his grubby little hands off of me. I highly recommend you give it a shot, although obviously only when you have nothing to lose.
(Notice how I didn't even mention my boobs there? Which is too bad, really, because this may be the only time in my whole life that my boobs have been or ever will be mentionable, but I'm refraining because y'all tease me so much. Yeah, I'm emotionally damaged now and I blame it all on you.)
Kid - we have another 16 weeks or so of cohabitation left, now is not the time to start getting all up in my ribs.
First a quick update on the horse thing I mentioned yesterday. I assure you that the original plan was for Chris to handle all the horse-related activities while I hid behind the goat barn and cried at the very thought of my poor, innocent child being exposed to such a horrible experience. But once we got there, Mia was not so sure about the whole horse thing after all and decided she had never really wanted to do it anyway and just to prove her point there was no way in hell we were removing her arms from their death grip around my neck. And I would have been totally happy for her to skip the whole thing, except that a) I thought that once she actually got on the horse and saw it wasn't painful that it would be the sort of thrilling, week-making, toddler-mind-blowing experience that she would talk about blissfully for weeks to come, b) when she is afraid of something it is my policy to respect that fear and comfort her all I can while trying to gently show her how to overcome it, and c) I had already paid my four bucks for the damned pony ride. Also, my irrational fear shouldn't become her irrational fear, so I decided I could suck it up for the five minutes I would have to be near the horse and then could slip away somewhere and have a quiet little meltdown while Chris took Mia to admire the pigs or something. And that's exactly how it worked out. And she loved it, so the emotional scars I will suffer for the rest of my life are worth it.
Second, you know what I did yesterday? I took Mia to my in-laws and went shopping. For me. For some decent-looking maternity clothes because even though I hate spending money on that sort of thing all my clothes from last time were borrowed and the ones I did buy were summer clothes and I can't just go naked until February so clothes must be had. And I didn't buy a single thing for either child, I and bought whatever I wanted for myself without succumbing to my usual guilt about how I make barely more than zero dollars a month so shouldn't be spending money on myself. (Which I recognize is stupid, I work damned hard for my $0 salary, but there it is.) Do you know when the last time I actually had two hours to myself was? Two hours that I didn't spend cleaning something or paying bills or grocery shopping? Seriously, I'm asking, I can't remember. It's been a long, long time.
And then I had eggplant parmesan for lunch, which I like but never have because Chris doesn't like it. And then I put Mia down for her nap and didn't clean anything or do any work on either of the jobs that earn me that slightly more than zero dollars a month. When Mia woke up, we played for a while and then had leftovers and peanut butter sandwiches for dinner because Chris wasn't home so I didn't have to even pretend to cook.
If I didn't know any better, I would say that I very nearly relaxed a little bit. I highly recommend it.
You are two and a quarter today, and as I sit down to write this I am listening to you sing a lullaby to your Little People, 15 or so of whom are tucked into bed with you for "Quiet Time." We had to start calling it Quiet Time instead of Nap Time, because the mere mention of a nap causes you to flip out, bounce off the ceiling, and insist that you have never been tired once in your entire life. If I tell you be quiet and rest, however, most of the time you manage to drop off for two hours or more. We'll see how it goes with the Little People - if they fall asleep first, you may follow suit.
So much has happened since I last wrote to you that I am going to try to cover the big events in order. First, we moved into our new house. You handled the whole thing brilliantly, delighted in packing and unpacking, fell in love with your new big room and new big yard and possibly even more in love with your dedicated playroom where Mama sometimes lets you go days at a time without picking up a single carefully-strewn toy. For a long time, you called this house "Mia's New House" and we talked a lot about "Mia's Old House." We've been to visit the old house several times, at your request, but you haven't asked to go in weeks, even when I know you know we are driving right past it. Perhaps most telling, you now call the new house simply "Mia's House" or "home." I think we can call that a successful transition, and one you handled with your usual good nature.
You also found out that you are going to be a big sister, that hiding somewhere in Mama's tummy is a baby brother whom we are not going to name Rocket no matter how much you beg. You are owning the big sister thing. You tell everyone you meet that you are a big sister, you talk to the baby and give him hugs and kisses and milk and granola and peanuts and strawberries. (We're going to have to talk about some of that once the kid actually arrives.) You give him band-aids to make him feel better and check with me to make sure he isn't hungry or crying. I love how sweet and generous and caring you prove yourself to be every day, and I just hope that you will be as happy with the new baby once he is born as you are now.
On the toddler milestone front, you moved into a big girl bed a couple of weeks ago without a peep or protest. More accurately, you adore it. You are incredibly proud of your new bed, love the power of being able to climb in and out on your own and to get to any toys that are left there in the morning without getting Mama to help. You are sleeping very well in your new bed and have yet to get out on your own because you know that Mama and Dada told you not to. You also peed in the potty for the first time a week and a half ago. We haven't had a repeat performance, but it was proof that the day is coming and is probably closer than we think.
On the person milestone front, you talk a blue streak - entire conversations that I frequently can't believe I'm having with a two year old. You go on kicks, one day is an anatomy kick and we spend the day naming all the parts of our bodies (and those of cats and dogs and fish and frogs) and the next day is a person kick where we talk about everyone you know and love and where they live and what they might be doing right at that very moment. You talk well enough that you no longer have to cry to express yourself. You just come out and tell me if you are scared or hungry or angry or happy. Not tired though, never tired.
You love the moon, funny clowns, all animals, babies, peanut butter, chocolate milk, and the idea of ice cream, candy and cookies, but when given the opportunity never want to actually eat them. You dress yourself, brush your own teeth and hair, take on and off your own shoes, climb into and out of the car on your own, close your own straps in your car seat, and insist on getting the newspaper every morning and opening and closing the garage door each and every time it needs to be done. You have a huge and active imagination and like to tell elaborate stories and make up intricate games. You love music, whether at our weekly music class or playing your "trumpet" (really a yellow recorder) or harmonica or jamming with Dada in the basement.
You have discovered your independence, and with it your defiance and a bit of a naughty side. You have realized that rules can be challenged, and so can Mama. It doesn't happen often, but when the situation warrants you can throw a tantrum that seems likely to tear a hole in the very fabric of the universe. You are learning to argue, to bargain, to compromise, and to contradict me. In short, you are doing everything exactly as you should and even when I really want you to just put your shoes on already so we can go, I am happy and proud to see you developing your own opinions and personality. You come from a long line of strong-minded women, and I expect nothing less of you.
My love, I admit there are some days when I don't know whether to scream or cry and those days are hard on both of us, but I spend most days laughing with you and at you and enjoying all the little bits of you. I am so fortunate to be your mother and I am grateful for it with every breath and every heartbeat, and even in those times when I'm wishing it were legal to lock you in the garage for a couple of hours.
Many of you already know that I hate horses. And by "hate" I mean "curl up in a ball and sob like a little girl in terror." And please for the love of chocolate do not give me a lecture about how horses are magnificent creatures and you looooove them and I should too because it will just piss me off and I will delete it and hate you just a little bit forevermore. Horses are not my thing. I don't like to be around them. I don't like to see them in movies. I don't like to see pictures. A couple of days ago, Chris drew a picture of a horse at Mia's request and it was a horrible picture, looked nothing at all like a horse, and I still had to go lie down and breathe deeply for a few minutes to recover. Horses = evil, end of discussion.
On Thursday, Mia was playing with her little stuffed horse (gasp, shudder, given to her by my own traitorous mother) and told me, apropos of nothing, that she wanted to ride a big horse. And I? Died. And then, because I am goddamned mother of the goddamned year, I took her to ride a horse. I'll be waiting over here for my trophy. Keening softly and eating my own hair in great, heaping handfuls.
Chris likes to sit around and take deep, meaningful, artistic pictures of his own noggin. Hey, someone has to marry the narcissists, right? I was sitting down to pull together some pictures of Mia for tomorrow and found a string of such pictures amidst the other shots of our weekend, and it cracked me right the hell up that this shot:
Was immediately followed by this one:
Make your own jokes, I'm going to be in enough trouble as it is.
Yeah, it's totally going to pop this time.
I can't wear light-colored shirts anymore, because the glimpse of my cavernous navel visible through the fabric is entirely too disconcerting to inflict upon the general public. Luckily, Mia is into band-aids, so once this sucker pops I figure I'll just have her hook me up every morning.
23 weeks, for those playing along at home, and this belly is starting to get in the way.
Yesterday was fascinating. I'm inexplicably enthralled by the random and meaningless bits of who you all were in high school. If you didn't read the comments on yesterday's post, I highly recommend that you do it because it's wonderful and painful and voyeuristic and just so very interesting. At least it is to me, so I assume you will all feel the same way.
I think we should continue this, and this is actually what I was going to do before I decided the other thing was going to be more interesting, but I'm having such fun that I hate to stop. So, today's question is: who did you date in high school? Same rules, meaningless, surface-level stuff only, you must define these people only in terms of those high school classes and clubs and activities that so define those years of your life and are so meaningless so shortly thereafter. If you have a huge list of date-ees, you may select a representative sample.
(This game was originally going to be "who did you sleep with in high school?" but a) I decided we all need to maintain just a bit more mystery in our relationship, b) those kids at the football game on Saturday were so young that I shudder to think that such things go on, and c) when it came down to it I didn't want to answer that question myself. So, dating it is. However, remind me sometime to tell you the story about how I came to not sleep with one of these guys because it's very funny. And by "funny," I mean the kind of story where each of you, my kind and faithful internet friends, will fall to your knees and thank the universe that it happened to poor little sweet and innocent high school aged Beth Fish and not to you. That kind of funny.)
I'll go first.
Bachelor #1: This is hard because we didn't go to the same high school and I can't really remember what he did. I know he took Spanish and I think maybe he played some sort of brass instrument in the band and possibly did Drama? All I can really tell you is that he liked wrestling. Not high school wrestling, Hulk Hogan wrestling.
Bachelor #2: Editor of the school newspaper, president of the National Honor Society, Chorus, Drama. French, I think?
Bachelor #3: Band, marching band, saxophone. Getting baked behind the shop building during third period. Um, Spanish, maybe?
There weren't enough brownies in the world to make yesterday ok, and that includes the pan of brownies I had recently made and spent the afternoon eating just the edges of because that's the best part and I'm pregnant and can if I want to. Then, I was up for four hours last night, either because Mia hadn't quite finished torturing me yesterday or because she wanted to get a jump on the torture for today. I suppose time will tell.
Since I won't be fit company today short of securing and chugging a highly verboten bottle of wine, I thought we would play a little game instead. We went to a high school football game on Saturday, and I spent a lot of the time giggling at all those terribly young children who were taking themselves so seriously. They were babies, and yet I well remember being that age and believing I was so grown up and mature. I suppose it is one of the requirements of adolescence. I started wondering where each of them fit into the horrible little microcosm that is high school.
And then I started wondering where you all fit in. Did you take French and play third viola in the orchestra? Spanish and play wide receiver on the JV football team? German and skip third period every day to get baked behind the shop building? (Hey, what's the cool phrase for smoking pot these days? I feel like "get baked" must be so 15 years ago, which is coincidentally the last time I personally got baked. Hypothetically, of course.) The language you studied is very telling somehow, don't you think?
I'll go first. I took Spanish, did Drama all four years and was in almost all of the plays and musicals staged while I was there, and did two years of Chorus. I had rather unfortunate hair and a more unfortunate fashion sense, was a huge dork and endured a lot of teasing from the trashy girls in my gym class but never really cared because hello, have you seen how trashy they are?
And now you, define your 16 year old self in the most superficial terms possible. I bet it will tell us a lot.
Oh sweet jeebus,
Please save me from this child.
Mia woke up at 7:30 this morning, and when I went to get her she demanded her father. So we went to curl back up in bed for a while. Mia grabbed some books and got Dada to read while I got to lie in bed just a while longer before running out for donuts. Hey, we're still celebrating last night's Tinkle Triumph. After breakfast, we headed out to the pumpkin patch. Ok, it wasn't really a pumpkin patch, but Mia thought it was so it counts. We piled a wagon with pumpkins between trips into the moon bounce, down the slide and over to pet the goats. (One of which blissfully peed on his own nose, nasty.)
We ran home for a quick lunch, and then headed out to the high school that is behind our house to finally show Mia the marching band she's been hearing for weeks. We watched a bit of high school football, danced in the bleachers when the dance team took the field and stared wide-eyed at the marching band and "kites" (color guard). Mia's favorite part, by far, was the lollipop I bought her at the snack bar.
We left after half time to have a very short nap and then spent the rest of the afternoon playing with pumpkins. Mia enjoyed pushing them in her doll stroller and showing them to the fish. Dinner, a quick run around the neighborhood, and we were all ready to collapse into bed, but only the two year old actually did.
I have brownies in the oven, ice cream in the freezer, mindless house flipping shows on the tv, a zonked out toddler and a husband who thought to bring me that ice cream just in case the brownies weren't enough.
One perfect day.
I know that nobody really cares but us, but I care a whole lot that Mia just peed in the potty. Actually, she asked to sit on the potty, and then she peed. My kid is totally advanced.
I recently bought myself a treadmill, and I've been feeling pretty grumbly about it. Oh my, poor little me who has a big pile of money to spend on it and a brand new house big enough to hold it and hasn't had anything approaching a real job in over two years. I have a hard life. But I bought the treadmill so that I could stop trying to make it to the gym, and I love the gym. I mean sure, the gym sucks donkey balls, but going to the gym keeps my ass from expanding to the size of Cleveland and regular exercise is the difference between Angry, Bitchy, Mean Beth and Content, Sometimes Nice, Not Quite as Bitchy Beth. (Hey, can't fight nature.)
Going to the gym is the single time in my life when I'm not Mommy, when I'm not in someway responsible for my child. Sure, she sleeps and even sometimes plays on her own for minutes at a time, but even if I am not directly involved, if Mia and I are in the same place, I am responsible. I can tell from the noises coming from the playroom whether she is happily playing with her trains or getting ready to parachute from the top of the bookshelves. I can sleep straight through Chris's alarm clock, but a change in her breathing pattern wakes me from a dead sleep. I am always the Mommy, most weeks I go nowhere at all without her, and I was pretty bitter that I couldn't manage to leave the house on my own for three or four hours a week. But I couldn't do it. It just wasn't happening, and when we moved her bedtime from 7:00 to 8:00 I knew it would likely never happen again. So I bought the treadmill and pretended like I thought it was really cool but secretly, I was pretty much just bitter and angry about it.
But then, you know what I did at naptime yesterday? 45 minutes on the treadmill with the baby monitor in the cup holder. And no, it wasn't exactly what I wanted, it wasn't my first choice, but it also wasn't continuing to sacrifice myself for my Mommy-ness. I'm learning, very slowly, how to compromise. How to be the mommy I want to be and still be the person I want to be. And if that means spending every naptime on the treadmill, at least it beats cleaning the bathrooms.
Mia has a stuffed kangaroo. Actually, she has a stuffed Kanga and a stuffed Roo and she calls Kanga "Mommy Kangaroo" and calls Roo "Baby Kangaroo." Kanga has had a pink hair tie around one of her ears for weeks now. When I went in to get Mia up from her nap today, she announced that Mommy Kangaroo was all done with her hair tie and took it off. I said "Ok, honey. Let's put her hair tie in her pocket."
And then Mia looked at me very sternly and said "No pocket, Mommy. Pouch."
I stand corrected.
I took Mia to story time this week and there was a woman there with another two-year old. The toddler was of the rambunctious type and the woman was of the much older than me and rather chubby variety. And she was wearing a thong.
How do I know that, you are wondering? Because I saw the top poking out of her low-rise pants? Oh how I wish. I can sympathize with that as something that sooner or later happens to most of us. Sadly though, no. Said woman was wearing a very short skirt of the type I was beginning to feel was a bit too wee when I was 25 or so and we were all sitting on the floor, as one does at story time, and she kept running to the front of the room to bend down and retrieve her assigned toddler.
I'm still traumatized.
I called the Hotty Pediatrician yesterday to
casually mention that I was totally hot for his skinny, geeky bod discuss whether Mia should or should not get a flu shot considering that she is a) mildly allergic to eggs and b) likely to be licking an infant come February. When he didn't call back by 5:00 I figured, eh, whatever. It wasn't exactly an urgent issue, today would be fine. And then the phone rang at 7:30 last night, and it was the Hotty Pediatrician. Calling me back. From home. That's hott, right?
So we chatted for a while (about absolutely nothing other than that whole flu shot thing, but he was a heck of a lot more personable than he usually is on the phone, so it was very nearly like chatting) (and by "more personable" I mean "didn't sound like he would prefer to be performing an un-anesthetized appendectomy on himself with a rusty fondue fork" but hey, I'm not good on the phone either) and it came out that he had checked Mia's chart that afternoon to look up the exact level of her egg-allergic-ness. Now sure, you people probably just think that he didn't call in the afternoon after the chart-checking because he had a very busy day what with the appointments and the hottiness and the adjusting the Dora stickers on his stethoscope and all and was just being conscientious by calling me on his own time rather than making me wait until morning. But me? I totally think he saved it so he could call me from home and, like, savor the experience of discussing anaphylaxis with me.
Sadly, Chris came home basically right as the phone rang, so I had to be totally subtle with my flirting. I'll just have to hope he knew what I really meant by "EpiPen."
Dear random sales guy who came to my door yesterday,
Thank you for staring at my boobs the entire time you stood at my door. Ordinarily I would find that sort of thing annoying (ok, so theoretically ordinarily I would find that sort of thing annoying, but I have precious little experience with anyone ever actually ogling my boobs), but at 21 weeks pregnant, frankly I'll take what I can get.
And sure, it was almost 11:00 which certainly should have provided me ample opportunity to have both found and donned a bra at some point prior to you ringing my doorbell, but we didn't have anywhere we had to be so it was a pjs morning. Even given that, I find it surprising that it was such an enthralling sight that you couldn't tear your eyes away for a second. But as I said, pregnant, chubby, not too choosy right now, etc.
The place where Mia and I do our Mommy and Me class has entered into a
deal with the devil marketing scheme with Disney to promote an upcoming stupid-ass princess movie. (And yes, I am certain that if you wanted to you could get to googling and figure out what the movie is and what the company doing the promotion is and narrow down the location of our mommy and me class to one of the 20 or so in the area and further determine the ten classes each week in each location appropriate to Mia's age group, so if you are a lunatic stalker with lots of time on your hands, you get right on that.) The deal is that some member of the mommy and me classes will win a trip to the premiere in Orlando. Whatever, I don't want to go, but you might, so knock yourself out. For the last couple of weeks, they just mentioned it at the end of class. You know, what it is, how to enter, blah blah blah, ok fine.
Then, over the weekend, they redecorated the building with all this princess crap. And they told us to bring our little girls to class wearing princess costumes. And they played a literal advertisement for the movie as we were going into the building. And they changed all their regular music for new stuff based on the plot of the movie and other all-Disney, all-the-time crap.
The thing is, I get plenty of Disney advertising without paying several hundred dollars a session for the privilege. And I think princesses are damned poor role models for little girls (hike up your tits, wear a pretty dress, and wait for some man to rescue you? hell no) and greatly resent the fact that these people are now encouraging my daughter to be a princess.
And I would quit, in a heartbeat, because this sort of this drives me insane, this marketing to children that we cannot escape but that I ought to at least be able to avoid when I pay to join an unaffiliated organization, but Mia loves this class. She talks about it all week, I can't take her out. So what do I do? Chill? (Ha, let's remember who we are talking about here.) Complain? Try to get the like-minded mommies to stage a coup? Publish a shocking revelation that all the Disney princesses are ex-cons on the lam and hiding out in their castles because they'll be arrested the second they leave? Any ideas?
(ETA: Dudes, relax. When Mia wants to be a princess, I'll buy her the damned princess dress and play castle ball for hours. I just refuse to encourage it in any way, and she is still exploring the concept of pretending to be a kitty or a cheerio, so I see no reason to give her ideas. I'll probably give in when she wants a Barbie too, but she'll get Bratz over my cold, dead body.)
Just lost an entry because my fucking laptop's fucking battery lasts all of four fucking minutes and I stupidly plugged it into the outlet controlled by the wall switch and didn't flip the fucking switch. Dummy. It was whiny as all hell anyway, probably best that you missed it.
Hey, have you noticed the new ads I have over on the left? Yeah, I hate them too. God, they are so ugly. But you know what, I'm making money from them. Like, enough to pay for preschool money (not that Mia is starting preschool until next year, but still) so I'm afraid they are staying. Sorry about that, just ignore them as best you can.
I have a fabulous new design in the works that will distract you from my hideous ads anyway, so stay tuned for that. And I can assure you that it is truly fabulous because I am having nothing to do with it whatsoever. And oh my god, did you know that if you get an actual designer to design your website it can actually look good, instead of looking like the shit you threw up four years ago and then could never change because everything just made it look even worse? It's a total fucking revelation, let me tell you.
(And since someone will ask, I'm not paying for the new design. It's being done by a friend of mine who is doing the redesign for me in exchange for me installing MT for her, and I've already told her she got the raw end of that deal but she's doing it anyway.)
Also hey, these new ad things stick links at the bottom to other people running their ads, but they can't link to a post if it has bad words in the title, so I'm thinking I'll title all my posts with just a single nasty word from now on. Not that I object to the linkage, I just like to be a kink in the works.
Oh! Can anybody explain to me why, at my local grocery store yesterday, there was a large man sitting on this random metal frame thing that had no other discernible purpose talking to four cops? For half an hour? In handcuffs? (The large man was in handcuffs, not the four cops.) It was entirely odd - I mean, they were all out there just shooting the shit except that one of them appeared to have the right to remain silent. Is this, like, common suburban cop practice or something? Cuff the purp and then hang out in front of the Safeway talking about the local football team? Cause they never do that on Law and Order.
Ok, I feel much better now, thank you. Overuse of the f-bomb is far more therapeutic than being a whiny little baby on your website, just in case you were wondering. You should try it next time and let me know if it works as well for you.
(And, for those of you playing along at home, we've had three naps and two full nights in the big girl bed without a hitch. But hey, this kid didn't sleep through the night until 21 months, so I think I deserve this one.)
Yesterday, Mia and I met Jodi and Michael for lunch and running around in random circles screaming like lunatics. That second part was the kids. Mostly. I made the mistake of telling Mia when she woke up that we were meeting them and was then subjected to six hours of "Jodi and Michael now? Jodi and Michael now?" which was fun. Michael wasn't much in the mood for sitting around in some boring restaurant listening to his mom talk to some weird lady, although he may have just been upset that Mia kept eating his lunch. The running around screaming bit was to everyone's liking though.
Obviously, since Jodi is the kind of person I absolutely hate who could show up in a ratty old bathrobe and make it look cute, I got home to discover a large and prominent hole in my shirt. At least I was wearing a tank top under it, I hate when I accidentally spend two hours flashing my boobs at unsuspecting toddlers.
Mia fell asleep in the car on the way home, bless her, and was too zonked to object when I plopped her into her brand-new big girl bed, set up in her room that very morning, rather than her crib. She didn't make a peep for an hour and then almost gave me a heart attack when she wandered into my bedroom to say hello. Sure, it didn't count since I had basically tricked her into it, but I was thrilled to have the first sleep in the big girl bed out of the way. We put her back in it at a little past eight last night and braced for the worst... and didn't hear so much as a snore for almost 12 hours when I finally burst into her room to make sure she was still breathing and found her all tucked into bed grinning like she had just won the lottery.
She's napping there again right now, again without a fight, and while I keep telling myself it can't possibly be this easy I am also telling myself that my instinct that she was done with the crib may just have been right. Even if I'm not ready for this, it seems that she is. She's done being a great big baby in a tiny little crib and ready to be a very small little girl in a far too large bed. And while I am thrilled to watch her grow up and excited to see every small step she takes, and even with a new infant on the ever-closer horizon, I can't help but mourn, just a little, the loss of these last few pieces of her babyness.
Right now, this very minute, my baby is sound asleep in her big girl bed.
I think I'm going to cry. Don't mind me.
First, I know I look like re-heated hell in these pictures, there's no need to mention it. First person to make a crack about it gets banned for life, and don't even think I'm kidding and decide to tempt me because I am pregnant and irrational and overly sensitive about my girth crescendo (also oh sweet jesus but are we watching entirely too much Little Einsteins. I come up with crescendo as the only possible word and yesterday Mia told me to slow down because I was driving allegro).
Second, these are too adorable to pass up. Mia is playing a special symphony for her little brother, who is also wearing the bracelet she selected for him (that would be the red thing shielding my poor, stretched-out belly button from your prying eyes).
Third, put your head at that angle and let's see how many chins you have, shall we? Let she who is 17 and without the slightest bit of extraneous neck skin cast the first stone. (But first, see above re: banned for life, so not kidding about.)
And finally, how do you get a two year old to wear pants? We do ok in the morning, but by noon Mia is invariably modeling the latest in disposable diaper fashion for anyone who cares to see it.