Hungarian Shot-Putter

I called my mom this morning as Henry and I were leaving to run some errands. 

I got her voicemail...what!?

I thought she just sat around, cell phone clutched in her hand, waiting for me to call.  Waiting to talk to me...her reason for being.

Nope, guess she's got a life. 

Who woulda thunk?

Piggy and I had to run to the mall, where I was hoping to find some black boots to wear with a dress for Henry's baptism.  Turns out my calfs are too girthy for any boot sold in the United States.  Maybe I'd have more luck in Europe.  As Karen, from Will & Grace would say, "I have the calves of a Hungarian shot-putter."

I also needed to look for some new bras.  I won't go into the horrific details of how my old bras no longer fit because my once decent looking human breasts have morphed into tiny, mole-hill like pancakes that I could probably tuck into my belt if need be. 

Well, I guess that pretty much sums it up.

So, my huge calfs and tiny boobs and I are going to go ring in the new year.  Maybe we'll stay up 'till 10.

Woot.

Laughs Worth a Million Bucks

So, I know there are about 10,684 of my friends that are pregnant right now, many with their first little knuckle head.

And, I know at times I can paint a pretty bleak picture of what they have in store. With pushing what feels like it must be a Volkswagon out your business end, all the poop, post-baby boobs and sleepless nights...

But, it is ALL worth it.

Hearing those squeals of delight are just one-zillionth of a fraction of the things you have to look forward to.

Enjoy.

Poppin' TP

As soon as Mike hit the door last night, I peaced out and...

Mama got her hairs did!!!

Just your basic graduated bob...like every 3rd woman on the street has. 

But I like it, and it doesn't take long to blow dry.  So now I will at least be able to look like I have my shit together when Henry and I leave the house.  HA.  If you only knew!

I felt kind of bad clocking out as soon as Michael got home from work.  Kind of.

Sort of.

But it didn't stop me!  I sat and read a magazine, drank a glass of water with an orange slice in it, talked about grown-up things with my hair stylist.  It was awwwwwesome.

Okay, I'm kind of lying. We didn't talk about posh, cool things, we talked about pregnancy, childbirth and babies.  If you get two moms together that's what is going to happen.  I have come to terms with this. 

Then she washed my hair and gave me a hand massage.  If I weren't already married...and same-sex marriage was legal in North Carolina....I think I would have proposed.  I don't even care that I'm not a lesbian, I'm sure I could get used to it.  If only I could get someone to wash my hair everyday.  Besides myself.  It's not the same.

Piglet was asleep when I got home and Michael was watching television.  Score. 

It may have been the best night of my life.  Or a strong contender.

Now I have to face the reality that we are getting on an airplane next week, Henry in tow, and going to the Great White North.  Also known as Minnesota.  I am completely unprepared and my blood pressure rises just thinking of this journey.

And being 1500 miles away from the swing.

I know the only thing that is going to get me through is eating copious amounts of food.  Most or all of which needs to contain massive amounts of sugar and or fat. 

I feel marginally better about my tendency to binge on junk food after watching TLC's My Strange Addiction last night.

I could be poppin' squares of toilet paper, so I guess I'm okay.

I Apologize.

I feel like a real shit-heel for complaining about how tired I am all the time.

Pretty much everyone I know has more than one child.  Or they are currently pregnant with another child, while simultaneously wrangling the first child (effectively rendering naps more extinct then the Velociraptor).  Or they gave birth to multiple babies at one time (I would just buy stock in Grey Goose if that were the case).

I have one measly baby.  A forthemostpart well-behaved baby at that.  He doesn't really cry that much.  Only to alert me of his insatiable appetite.  He naps well...the majority of the time.  The other part of the time he just looks at me and smiles, like I am the coolest person on the planet.

I have nothing to complain about.  So please ignore me and try not to throw your shoes at the computer when I start to complain about how tired I am.

Like I'm about to do right now...

In an effort to prove to myself that I am only 27 and not 72, I stayed up until 10:30 last night.  Reading a book.  I wasn't pounding shots of Jager or dancing on a bar somewhere; I was reading Nora Robert's latest romance series on my Kindle (my new love). 

So when the intelligent 0.1% of my brain started screaming at me to go to bed because I was going to be a raving bitch when Henry woke up to eat.  I listened.  I tried.

Michael has a cold.  And a nasty cough, that lucky for me (and him, I suppose) flairs up at night.  So in between his hacking fits I decided to sleep in the spare bedroom (after I offered to get him some cough syrup...a cough drop...a nine-millimeter.  You know like a good wife).

The spare bedroom does not have my beloved fan for white noise.  It does however have the capability to turn our chorus of neighborhood dog barking into a real concert-like experience.  I didn't want a ticket to that show.  But I got one anyway.

As I was turning into a human popsicle the cats decided to start dueling each other on top of my body.  Lucky for me the winning prize was a prime spot sleeping on my neck.  Fatty won, so my windpipe almost collapsed and I nearly died.  Twice.

Then Henry started fussing...in his sleep.  Completely asleep.  I don't know what he could be dreaming about...an empty bottle?  Any who, it's absolutely pitiful and impossible to ignore.

That brings us to about 2:00 am.  I decided it was safe to move back into our bedroom.  My husband (the one with the black lung), was faaaast asleep.  Henry was sound asleep.  I thought to myself, maybe I can salvage this night.

Wrong.

Henry started fussing at 2:30, but he was still asleep for the most part.  So, again like a good mother, I tried to pop the paci back in...and ignore it.

By 2:58 there was no doubt, he was fully awake and ready to eat.  Lucky me!

Once we finished with that chore he fell right back asleep, as per his usual.  I thought, okay now we're cookin' with gas.  That should get me off the hook until at least 7:30.

Wrong.

I had to get up...let us just say multiple times, and leave it at that.  The paci would fall out and wake him up, so then I had to get up and walk into his room.  Make it all better.  Walk back to our room, get in bed, get comfortable.  And then hear him start up again. 

Shitity, shit, shit, shit. (I'm sorry, I don't swear like this around Henry.  That is what the blog is for).

So finally he fell asleep, as I think he was sensing I was nearing complete insanity. 

Then Skinny decided to lay on my chest and chew his toes, whilst Fatty got on top of my dresser and one by one knocked my glasses, lotion, pill bottle and two chap sticks to the floor.  So I had to get up and go downstairs to feed him.  That was the root of the issue.  Even though the two bowls were full of food.  He enjoys a few fresh kernels straight from the bag as a midnight snack.   

I believe this probably brings us to about 4:00 am.  Michael wakes up and tells me he had a dream that Henry was a girl and he wanted his new name to be Nickalodeon.  But I wanted it to be Henrietta, however, in the dream I pronounced it Henri-atta.

Okaaaay. 

So an indeterminable amount of time later I fell asleep. 

15 minutes later brings us to 6:40 am.  When Henry woke up, fresh as a daisy.  Ready to greet the day.  And eat, of course. 

Awesome.

Lost Secrets

Now I remember why I tried so desperately to expel Henry from my uterus.

I wanted to see his face.

100% adorable even covered in his own drool.  I try and wipe it up, but he's a faucet.  I waved the white flag and just learned to love it.  Plus, he's less likely to meet other cute girl babies covered in drool.  I don't plan on telling him guys that drool generally don't get a second date.  Maybe when he's 35 and I think about letting him move out ;)

I wanted to see him grow.  On that note, I think we finally turned the corner on this tummy time biz!!

Hooray! My son will be able to support his own head when I finally let him go on a date, (when he's 35).

I almost saw the light bulb go off in his head.  So this is what these meat sleeves hanging at my sides are for!

I wanted to see him turn into a big boy...kind of.

Lock up your small house pets...Henry is about to try cereal soon.  Knowing him, he'll call bullshit, and just skip straight to the steak and potatoes.

So I suppose never getting to sleep as long as I want is worth it.  Most of the time.

Like today.  Henry must have sensed I was dangerously close to the line of crazy-eyed, nervous breakdown, stay-at-home mom mode.  So he napped. 

I napped as well.  Was there really ever a doubt?

I am rather concerned with the frequency with which I have dreams that involve my teeth falling out.  According to google this could indicate that I am:

A.  Fearing death.  (Naturally. Work my job a few days and you'll fear it too!)

B.  Feeling powerless.  (Umm. Maybe?)

C.  Fearing change.  (Generally, I think change is a good thing.  But who am I to argue with google?)

D.  Fear of failure or embarrassment.  (Double check that box.)

Here's the kicker...it can also be a subconscious warning that I am revealing too much information;  the lost teeth symbolizing the secrets that come spewing out of my head and into this blog.

So apparently, sharing my deep (ha ha ha) inner thoughts on parenting and other general nonsense is giving me a complex. 

Oh well, just one more thing to add to the list.

Need Sleep NOW

This is it...

The last remnant from the 3 whole months I spent masquerading as a pair of giant nipples with legs.  Now the good old folks at Enfamil will receive Michael's entire paycheck...instead of just half of it.

Thanks Enfamil people.  You suck for making your product so expensive.  And apparently so delicious that Henry can never be satisfied.

I got to thinking this morning...how did we get from this...


(That's me, 9 months pregnant.  Lassoing a rhino.)

To this...

I wish rhino-lassoing Emily would have had the foresight to know that exhausted, mouth-breathing Emily would crave the days of pregnancy and uninterrupted rest.  I now know that I was freaking crazy to walk around the zoo in the crippling summer heat in an effort to expel our 8 and 1/2 pound parasite.  Looking back now I would have installed central air and wedged a flat screen in there to make him more comfortable.

Joke's on me.

Rockin Horsey

 Surprise...Henry's first Christmas is a white one...!

I didn't know this was coming, but it sure was a lovely surprise this morning.  A white Christmas in North Carolina is a little harder to come by than it was in Iowa. 

Seeing as how I have to get to work by about 6:15 AM tomorrow morning (no exceptions), I was a little dismayed as the snow continued to fall.  That old A-hole, weather.com didn't help either, delivering the news that I can expect another 3-5 inches overnight.

What!

In Iowa, 3-5 inches is child's play. Nothing.  Less than nothing. 

In Iowa they have road plows.

In the South, not so much, no.

My little Sentra has a helluva time getting up the hill we happen to live at the bottom of.  At the top we may or may not be greeted by a plowed main road.  It's always a surprise.

My brain is hard-wired to go straight to panic/pissed off/dramatic frustration mode:

"I can't believe this snow...why is it doing this to me."

"The snow is ruining my life."

"I'm going to have to get up even earlier tomorrow.  I hate you snow."

Michael's mind goes straight into problem-solving mode.  He suggested we park my car on the street at the top of the hill tonight, thus allowing me to easily make it to the main road and get to work on time.  Great idea!

Except then my car needed to be scraped off and driven up the hill. 

He volunteered to do this, "This is why you have a husband," was his comment.

....Well, yes.  I suppose it is.

Shoveling, car scraping, raking, lawn mowing.  I basically have a husband to ensure I never have to leave the house to do any sort of physical labor in any kind of weather extreme.  Or when there is the chance of being descended upon by mosquitoes.  I hate mosquitoes.  Mosquitoes ruin my life....sorry, there I go again.

Forget about the life partner; someone to love me when I'm old and smell like poop and butterscotch candies.  I guess that's just an added bonus.

Grandma Bean and Grampy Jim brought Henry a rocking horse for Christmas...

Obviously it will be some time before Henry will actually be able to saddle up and play with his pony.  Squeezing the ears and setting off a recorded "clippity, cloppity, clippity, cloppity, naaaayyyy". 

When he is able to play with it...and squeeze the ears over, and over, and over...and over again.  Just look for me curled up in the fetal position in the corner, developing a twitch.

While this is a completely adorable rocking horse; I feel as though there is an element of revenge from my parents in there somewhere.



Before I get off to bed I wanted to share this little peach with all my nursing friends...

I know you'll appreciate it...  Merry Christmas :)

Disclaimer: I love my job.  This is meant to be a light-hearted spoof.  Sometimes if you can't laugh, you'll cry.  Am I right?

http://www.xtranormal.com/watch/8190291



I hope everyone's holiday was great and filled with love.

XOXO



Head Fire

So, I've got the mom jeans...

Now I'm considering getting a mom-'do.

I mean it would be a cute mom-'do, but a mom-'do none-the-less.

Every time someone has a baby the first thing to go is the hair.  They may as well set up a salon in the hospital so you can just get it over with before they wheel you out to the car.

I guess there are some brave souls that have managed to maintain long and lux locks post baby, but I am not one of those women.

I think my hair has been in a wet pony tail since August 26th at 12:23 pm.

I even invested in two different dry shampoos, hoping that they would change my life and let me go two days without washing my hair...

TRESemme Fresh Start

(Please try and overlook the horrendous tile job in our bathroom.  Once again, thanks a heap former home-owners!)

This crappola was no match for my mane.  Plus my head was shrouded in a very strong hair-spray like odor all day long.  I was half-way frightened to leave the house and possibly cross the path of a person with a lit cig...I think my head would have burst into flame.

My quest for beautiful day-old hair was not to be abandoned.  I journeyed to Sephora and picked up this little number...

Oscar Blandi Volumizing Dry Shampoo Spray

This did little more than the last, but at least I wasn't as concerned about a possible head fire.  I did smell like fruit loops though.  Good thing or bad thing...I'm not sure?

The disappointment in the air is palpable.  Back to the wet pony.

I was on Facebook the other day and saw a few pics of a friend at a holiday party.  I was immediately drawn to one of the girls in the picture (not like that, creep-a-saurus).

I fell in LOVE with her hair cut.  Instantaneous, lust-filled and deep.  I was crushing hard on that 'do.

I still am.  I tend to be kind of impulsive when it comes to making hair decisions, so I decided to give it a few days.  Well, I still want it.

Mama, wants it bad.

We'll see, dare I say it. Motherhood has made me a bit more cautionary. 

Stay tuned to see if I take the leap...

I gotta fly...Piggy Wiggy is starting to howl for second breakfast.

Merry Christmas Eve y'all

Bink Thief

Lock up your binkies, nooks and pacies.

There is a thief on the loose.

Binkies are disappearing around this house faster than the bag of Doritos.

Like lightning. 

Oh. Wait.

What is this here in the hood of my sweatshirt?

Three pacies!?

I guess this is where they go when I am carrying Henry and the paci is suddenly, very mysteriously gone.

...but I never heard it drop.

Then I spend 5 minutes crawling on the floor, searching under furniture.

Where did that f^&%ing thing go?

We won't get into the sketchy details of how three binks managed to make it into the hood of this one sweatshirt.

How many days in a row did I put that on....?

I'm not that good at mental math.

Lesson learned.

I'm just going to slip into my pajama jeans and call it a night.

Maybe I'll dream of the days when I used to put on clean clothes every day :|

Locked Up

I cooked dinner to drop off for some friends tonight. 

If you don't hear from me for a few days, it's probably safe to assume I got thrown in the clink for inadvertently poisoning an innocent family with chicken and noodles. 

Obviously it involved multiple trips to the grocery store, Henry in tow.  Several phone calls to my mother, hoping that it would actually taste like something...other than shit.

I'm not holding my breath.

Saw something pretty awesome today.  Hideously awesome.

https://www.pajamajeans.com/flare/next?tag=he|af

I am forever thinking of ways that I can just skip getting dressed all together. Thanks pajama jeans.

Now if only they can come up with a way to make my greasy hair look fresh and beautiful I can skip showering and getting dressed.

Two things I try desperately not to make a habit of.

Michael only has a half day tomorrow, and then he is off on Saturday!

You know what that means...

More quality time together....NO (well yes, but that's not what I'm getting at).

A day I get to sleep in...YES.

A day I get to take a nap...YES.

Am I selfish?  YES.

Do I care?  NO.

Ft. Henry

As you are all luxuriating in the comfort of your warm living rooms with your comfy couches and big screen TVs...you can think of me.

Camped out in our guest bedroom upstairs because our basement is a frozen tundra.

I don't know why the ass-bite former owners of our home did such a poor job insulating the basement when they decided to redo it, but I'd like to kick them in the nuts. Hard. 

Thanks former home-owners.  Each winter you drive my little family upstairs...away from all of our comforts...and the DVR. 

You bastards.  DVR is my reason for living.  Now, there is no recording 'my stories' and watching them at my leisure.  Well I guess I could...but I have to sit on the cold leather couch inside Michael's cold weather sleeping bag with the space heater practically up my butt.

You ruined everything former home-owners!

Our second bedroom, now dubbed Fort Henry, is the new Budahn Family Base of Operations.

So if you're looking for us we're up here...

Come on in...it's warm under the covers.

Tummy Time Fail

Looking at my post from yesterday, I realized I gave my poor sweet baby boy my hair line.

We have a ginger Eddie Munster.





Poor baby Henry.

Speaking of Henry...

This whole tummy time business is really cramping our style around here.  It is not the fun, exploratory event that they make it look like on Babycenter.com...

Heck no!

Our tummy time usually goes something like this:

Place Henry on tummy (in the 20 minute window when he hasn't just eaten and won't spew an entire bottle of milk on the mat and before he is too tired and begins to melt down).  Lay down on the floor in front of him.  Watch in vain as he flails around, gives up and commences licking the mat.  Try and help him by propping his arms underneath him.  Watch as he flails them out and goes back to licking the mat.  Cheer him on as he lays and continues to lick the mat.  He starts to cry.  Give up and flip him back over. 



He just hasn't gotten that he can use his hands to push himself up.  The baby book says most babies are able to support themselves and look around with head at 45 to 90  degree angle by 4 months.  He isn't most babies...he's Henry.

  A for effort Henny!!

Seriously, advice/tips welcome.

(By the way, many of these pics were taken on the same day...we actually do change our clothes around here.  Well, Henry does...)



Breakfast Sausage

I really could've gone for this on this dark, cold morning...



Instead, I got this...

Diaper Sausage.

Which was the result of this face...

("Quit taking pictures mom...I'm dropping off some lumber.")

Uggh.  The last dirty diaper that I could cram into the Genie.  Usually I strategically stuff it until Michael is around to empty it.  Not this AM.  This time it had to be done and I was the only one around to do it. 

Now, I can change a stranger's colostomy bag until the cows come home...but something about the diaper sausage totally grosses me out.  Specifically the weird condensation that forms on the inside of the blue baggie. It always gets on my hand when I am tying it up and I just can't handle it.  The actual poop doesn't gross me out as much as the moisture formed by the warm poop in the baggie.  Call me crazy.

Now that I have posted a picture of my son pooping, I will even it out with a picture of him giggling.  That's the thing about motherhood.  You are completely grossed out one minute and completely blissed out the next.  Who knew?

P.S. Why has no one ever told me I have such a big beak!?



On a completely unrelated note:

I know it is normal to lose a bunch of hair after you give birth, but really? 

Whenever I get out of the shower I am caught off guard when I look down, and for a moment think there is a gerbil crawling out of the drain.  Then I realize it's just all the hair that fell out of my head.  I mean it is A LOT.  It didn't fall out right after I had Henry; naturally because then I would have been prepared.  It started coming out this past week.  I'm not so sure this is normal.  Could it be some kind of postpartum alopecia!?

I hope not...I don't think I could pull off a wig very well.

Hmm...Scratch that.  I think I could rock the heck out of this one...

Or this one...

I always wondered what it would be like to have the hair of a TV news anchor.  Never moving.

I didn't realize both of my selections were blond...maybe my inner self is a blondie; just waiting to make her grand debut.  Watch out!

Not only is the hair loss bad for me, but Michael has to suffer through it too.

When I am in the shower and realize the water is puddling around my feet because of the drain gerbil I fish it out and smack it on the shower wall...doesn't everyone? 

With the FULL intention of getting it with a Kleenex and throwing it in the trash when I hop out...

Well I always sort of forget that last step.

So then Michael gets in and comes face to face with the dried up hair gerbil.  Poised in mid-scurry half way up the shower wall.

Eeeeek.  Mom fail.

I guess this is pay back for the trash can hair-rat Michael always leaves me when he shaves his head, and throws the big clump away.  Scares me every time.

I bet you don't want to come live with us do you?  Hair balls everywhere.

Ohh I hear Fatty horking something up as I type this...he must have one too. 





I'm NOT Going!

I am not leaving the house for 3 weeks.

I absolutely refuse.  There is nothing that you can say.

All I wanted to do was run to Babies R Us to get my man-baby a new winter-weight sleep sack in a larger size.  Using the term 'running' somewhere would lend one to believe that it was to be a quick, painless errand.  There was no 'running' to be had today.  The streets were full.  Bumper-to-bumper.  With idiots. 

Absolute flipping moronic numb-nuts.

I am not a patient person.  I inherited this lovely trait...or lack there of, from my father.

So inching along at a snail's pace for 2 miles would be awful in any situation.  But with both my father and I in said inching vehicle the situation goes from bad to....catastrophic.  There is no other word for it.

To be honest, that is not fair to him...he actually kept his head. 

I on the other hand...did not. I lost it. 

I can only liken it to man's transformation into a sweaty, wolf-like beast upon the rise of the full moon.

My eyes glaze over and become wild with rage.  My normally mild-mannered personality gone faster than a teenager stealing condoms from Walmart.

I become mean, like really mean.  I yell and I honk.

By the way, if horns were not to be used they would not be installed in vehicles.  So I use mine...often.

And not just a polite little 'lookyoudidn'tnoticethegreenlighttoottoot'

I lean on that bitch.  HOOOOOOOOOOOOnk.  Move your ass idiot.

So I apologize in advance if you get honked at this holiday season and you look over and see me behind the wheel of my little Sentra....my sharpened fangs dripping with the blood of fellow motorists.

It's not you, it's me.

A Mom's Song



The 12 Days of a Mom's Christmas

On the first day of Christmas,
my baby Henry gave to me
The Eclipse D-V-D.

On the second day of Christmas,
my baby Henry gave to me
Two saggy boobs,
And the Eclipse D-V-D.

On the third day of Christmas,
my baby Henry gave to me
A three hour nap, which was heaven-ly,
Two saggy boobs,
And the Eclipse D-V-D.

On the fourth day of Christmas,
my baby Henry gave to me.
Four required outfit changes…each,
A three hour nap,
Two saggy boobs,
And the Eclipse D-V-D.

On the fifth day of Christmas,
my baby Henry gave to me
Five wet burps,
Four outfit changes,
A three hour nap,
Two saggy boobs,
And the Eclipse D-V-D.

On the sixth day of Christmas,
my baby Henry gave to me
Six extra pounds,
Five wet burps,
Four outfit changes,
A three hour nap,
Two saggy boobs,
And the Eclipse D-V-D.

On the seventh day of Christmas,
my baby Henry gave to me
Seven machine-gun toots on my knee,
Six extra pounds,
Five wet burps,
Four outfit changes,
A three hour nap,
Two saggy boobs,
And the Eclipse D-V-D.

On the eighth day of Christmas,
my baby Henry gave to me
Eight bath tub pees,
Seven machine-gun toots,
Six extra pounds,
Five wet burps,
Four outfit changes,
A three hour nap,
Two saggy boobs,
And the Eclipse D-V-D.

On the ninth day of Christmas,
my baby Henry gave to me
Nine hungry melt-downs,
Eight bath tub pees,
Seven machine gun toots,
Six extra pounds,
Five wet burps,
Four outfit changes,
A three hour nap,
Two saggy boobs,
And the Eclipse D-V-D.

On the tenth day of Christmas,
my baby Henry gave to me
Ten gummy grins,
Nine hungry melt-downs,
Eight bath tub pees,
Seven machine gun toots,
Six extra pounds,
Five wet burps,
Four outfit changes,
A three hour nap,
Two saggy boobs,
And the Eclipse D-V-D.

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
my baby Henry gave to me
Eleven loads of laundry,
Ten gummy grins,
Nine hungry melt-downs,
Eight bath tub pees,
Seven machine gun toots,
Six extra pounds,
Five wet burps,
Four outfit changes,
A three hour nap,
Two saggy boobs,
And the Eclipse D-V-D.

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my baby Henry gave to me
Twelve months period-free,
Eleven loads of laundry,
Ten gummy grins,
Nine hungry melt-downs,
Eight bath tub pees,
Seven machine gun toots,
Six extra pounds,
Five wet burps,
Four outfit changes,
A three hour nap,
Two saggy boobs,
And the Eclipse D-V-D!

 

Family Christmas

Sorry for the extended absence loves...the folks rolled into town on Tuesday.

We have been camped out, staring at Henry.  Making noises and waving our arms like fools.  But then he smiles and it is all worth it. 

Every time my mom comes to our house I can just see her itching to reorganize our kitchen cabinets.  I know the present organizational scheme is not conducive to producing an edible product, or getting anything done in a timely fashion. 

So I will continue to let her operate under the assumption that our lack of good kitchen flow/organization is the reason that I do not cook.  This afternoon I will let her loose and watch her heart soar as she swirls around and reorganizes to her heart's content.

While she does that my dad will watch Wheel of Fortune and yell at the 'moronic simpletons' and tell them how fudging stupid they are not for not guessing an 'R'. 

Ahhh.  Family Christmas.  I loooove it.

I'm going to go and make sure Henry is still sleeping...and catch up on the latest issue of  Family Circle.

The newest magazine subscription that just appeared from my grandmother.  Bless her heart...the cover has some good looking slow cooker recipe...

Maybe Michael will make it tonight.  Ha

Dad just came in from 'getting some fresh air'.  Everything is a sheet of ice and Mom told him if he broke his arm she was leaving him here.

:-/

A sister

Have you ever seen the show How I Met Your Mother?

I have to admit that I never used to watch this show because it just seemed stupid, and I hated the name...BUT now I do. 

And it is hi...wait for it...larious.

At the end there is always a little flash card thing that pops up and says something like,

"A bro always alerts another bro to a brewing girl fight."

Things that 'bros' do for each other.

This holiday season I find myself terribly missing my girlfriends from back home.  We have made so many wonderful friends here, and I love them all....don't misunderstand me.

There is just something about those girls you grew up with...they know your funny quirks, annoying traits and embarrassing moments.  They know your history.  You don't even have to explain some things...because they just know.   So this is for my sisters...

A sister will always...

-Alert you of shiny face (and have an oil-blotting sheet in her purse).

-Tell you when you need to pluck your eyebrows (and do it for you).

-Have a tampon for you.

-Tell you the truth when you ask, "Do I look fat in this?"

-Tell you the truth when you ask, "Do my cankles look horrible in this?"

-Tell you that you have cankles...and help you strategize the best way to deaccentuate them.

-Pick up the phone at 2 am...when they know this must be a drunk-dial (P.S. Moms don't drunk dial).

-Tell you the truth about the person you're dating (even if you don't want to hear it).

-Help you clean your place and/or organize your closet (a monumental task).

-Tell you when you're being a crotchety bitch.

-Tell you the truth when you ask, "Do I smell?" (And have a mini-deodorant in her purse).

-Help you make the best of a really painfully hideous haircut.

-Eat junk food with you when you really just need to pig-out.

-Not mention the aforementioned pig-out and just how much you were able to fit in your stomach.

-Be your wing-woman.

-Bedazzle and/or puffy paint any number of things with you.

-Watch your baby so you can get your hair cut.

-Always be there.

-Always love you.

Merry Christmas to all my sisters...

(In my head I am humming our Girl Scout's song..."Make new friends, but keep the old...one is silver and the other gold...")

I know you know what I'm talking about!

Ferocious Poops

As we were trying to start an IV on a lady that was a really hard stick last weekend, one of my co-workers said,

"Guuurl, you have got some ferocious veins!"

To which she replied,

"That's it! That is the title of my book!"

Turns out she wants to write a book, an autobiography, partly chronicling her struggles with cancer.

Ferocious Veins...coming soon to a book store near you. 

Got me thinking, if I were to write my own book I think I would call it, Ferocious Poops.

My son can poop in the morning, while chilling in his crib, and it is powerful enough to wake up Michael and I...all the way in our bedroom.  Keep in mind we don't have the baby monitor on...and we have a fan going.

Now that is a ferocious poop...and such a wonderful way to say "Good morning".

This whole getting up in the night again thing is absolutely sucking out my soul.  Having had days upon days of uninterrupted sleep spoiled me positively rotten.

Michael heard the words he dreads the most last night (probably even more than if I were to say, 'I think I may be pregnant'...yikes).

"Babe, can you get this one?"  In a drowsy, half-asleep, pleading whisper. 

I want to get up...I really do.  My brain registers that Henry is awake, squirreling around and hungry and I need to get up.

But like a quadriplegic, my body will not move.  It will not cooperate with the signals my brain is sending:

GET UP, GET YOUR LAZY ASS OUT OF BED AND FEED YOUR CHILD.

Nothing.  Not even a twitch from my big toe.

Cue, the pleading whispers.

I wish he would just say, "No, I have to work in the morning, GET UP."  But he never does. 

I feel like such a turd.  A lazy turd.

As we were playing this morning, after 1st breakfast, (And before Second Breakfast and Elevensies...my son eats like a hobbit), Henderson almost rolled completely over.  What a BIG boy!  I got a shot of it...okay so he really only got about half way, but that is a good start.



Color me proud.

(P.S.  If you just understood that Lord of the Rings reference we can officially be best friends.)

We have a Santa Party to attend tonight.  I hear Santa is actually going to make an appearance, so hopefully Henry will cooperate and we can get some pictures.  Fingers crossed.  We attended this party last year...sans baby, obviously.  I am guessing this year it will involve a lot less imbibing of the Holiday Cheer.

Damn.  Being a responsible parent blows sometimes.  Not the parent part- just the responsible part.

This is completely unrelated, but this commercial has been TOTALLY freaking me out lately.

http://www.tryeasyfeet.com/

EWWW.  Just the close-ups of the feet sliding in and out of that contraption gives me the willies. 

I have a weird thing about feet.

Milkaholic

Dear Henry's Growth Spurt,

While I appreciate the fact that you are trying to make my little peanut big and strong; you are turning him into a man-child.  Soon we will have to buy new pajamas because the 6 month ones will be too short and his little legs will be all bent up and constricted.  I know you are just trying to honor our wishes of helping him become a professional athlete so he can support his dear, dear parents when we are old and feeble, but you are turning my sweet faced baby boy into a milk-craving beast-face.  You are slowly sucking away my will to live as you make him wake up in the night to eat.  I thought we were done with that evil.  Soon you will make us refinance our home to afford all the formula that you are making Henry require.  I just wish you could do your dirty work between the hours of 9 pm and 7 am.  Is that too much to ask growth spurt?  Please work with me here, not against me.

Love,

Emily (exhausted mother of the milk-craving beast-face)

As the mother of a 3 and half month milkaholic I am tired.  I am so, so, so tired.

The size 2 nipple we have upgraded to is not the life-changer I hoped it would be.  Mealtimes are still a frantic, arm-windmilling struggle. 

I suppose they did turn what was a 20 minute circus into more of 15 minute fiasco.

I guess I'll take it.

Heartbreak

My mother-in-law told me once that after she brought Michael home from the hospital she would just sit in the rocking chair with him and cry.

Then Steve (my father-in-law) would come home and be like,

"Why are you crying!?"

"Because someday some other girl is going to kiss Michael."

Awww. I know.

She told me she was glad that it ended up being me :)

I think of that story sometimes when I'm cuddling Henry and kissin' all over his face.  But then I think, wait, she is right.  Someday someone is going to fall in love with Henry.   Someone else will kiss him and love him (I hope).

Someday, Henry is going to go on dates.  Before we know it he will be off to college and on his own.

Free to make his own decisions and decide the kind of person he wants to be.  How he is going to treat people. 

It seems like I have known Michael forever.  Like there was never a time when he wasn't in my life.  But obviously, we've only been married for a year.

 My dating days are not that far behind me.

I feel extremely fulfilled in my life right now, so I can't regret the path that got me here, but I definitely feel less than proud of some of my decisions.  I hope I am not the only one that feels this way...

At times I find myself wishing I could have done things differently; been a better person.  I have found that having a baby has made me more introspective.  Brought up old memories...not because I'm wishing there would have been a different outcome, but because if Henry found himself in the same situation I would want him to handle things differently than I did.  I want more for him, expect more from him.  Want him to be a better person than I have been. 

I am in love with the song, 'What do you Want?' by Jerrod Niemann.

I really love his voice, but the lyrics are really what get me.  I feel sure that if you listen to the song you could relate to it.  We all have moments in our past we aren't proud of; been hurt by someone and been the one that inflicted the hurt.  Selfish moments, foolish moments...moments of heartbreak and sorrow.

I don't know why, it ends up making me think about Henry and how I want him to be a good person.  How I want to raise him to be a decent person, a good man.  I want him to treat people well and with respect.   I don't want him to break someone's heart or have his heart broken. Unfortunately, I know both of these things will happen.

Will I know what to say? How to comfort him during those difficult times in his life?

It just makes the saying, "wanting more for your children" painfully clear.  I had a lot growing up, but I want even more for Henry.  Most of all I want him to be a better person than I am, than I ever was.  More selfless, more mature and at times more kind. 

Bear with me, I'm just having a mom-moment that I didn't see coming.

Merry Christmas

So, the Christmas season is upon us.

I don't know about you, but I just want to sit in my jammies, drink my cup of coffee and watch reruns of Say Yes to the Dress.

But there is SO much to be done!

I have a good solution.

Just make your baby do it all...

(They have to learn that just because they're babies, it doesn't mean they get a free ride.)

Sorry I didn't change out of my jammies...or shower for the video as previously promised.

I didn't see any point in trying to maintain the illusion that we actually do that sort of thing around here.

P.S. I don't know how many more of these I can do...trying to get them to upload makes me want to poke my own eyes out and throw them at the computer.

The Wretched Wench and Other Randomness

Well, 69 years ago yesterday the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.

And yesterday Aunt Flo attacked my uterus.  It has happened.  I was caught completely off guard.

The wretched wench is back...and she is angry. 

Where ever she went on vacation for 12 months, she didn't bring me back a gift...no t-shirt, no coffee mug, not even a measly souvenir shot glass.  Just a swift kick in the baby-maker.  I hate her.

So even though I feel like I'm being bludgeoned to death right now, I am going to try and have a fun day with Henderson. 

We need to go to Walmart...okay so that isn't fun.  It's horrible.  But it has to be done.

In other news, this RNM had a big time fail.

There will be no Christmas card with cute family pictures of us.

There will be no Christmas card with a cute picture of Henry dressed up as a snowman, reindeer, elf or little dradle (we're not Jewish, but that still would be cute, wouldn't it!)

Note to self...market a dradle costume. 

We didn't even do birth announcements.  I know!  Another mom-fail.

So I thought I would do a little Christmas video for y'alls in lue of the forgotten card.

I ran the idea past Michael, and he said that he would be uncomfortable in front of the camera (that is SO very Michael).  So it looks like you'll just get my ugly mug.  And of course Henry, which is what everyone wants anyway.  So look forward to that....coming soon to a computer near you.

Last night Michael lubed up his chords with a big glass of chocolate milk and then proceeded to serenade the babe and I with some Christmas tunes.

It was a B-Fam Christmas Sing Along.  I think I want to make it an annual tradition. SO fun.  So here's a little shot of Michael and H-Man googling 'Christmas song lyrics'. 

Who forgets the words to Frosty the Snowman?  Apparently we do.

(Look at how intently Henry is looking at the computer...I think we may have a techno-Nerd on our hands.  That's okay. I've said it before and I'll say it again. I love nerds...they make the best husbands!)



In the mean time I ran across 2 things that really made me laugh and I thought I would share them with you.(Well one made me laugh, and one just made me shake my head).

This blogger is absolutely hilarious! I stumbled across this post and thought my nursing posse would get a chuckle out of it.  Because haven't we all thought that the Faces Pain Scale is a little ridiculous at one point or another...

http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/02/boyfriend-doesnt-have-ebola-probably.html

And this website is at times funny, at times sad...but mostly just unbelievable (Ha, kind of like life, huh?)  It really makes you thankful if you had a great OB, or great OB nurses like I did.  And like I hope you do to :)

http://myobsaidwhat.com/

I think that is all I've got this AM...

Like they say in the South, "Have a blessed day."

Anti- D-bag

So I realized that in my last post I totally did not give Michael a fair shake, and made him sound like a real d-bag.

He is the anti- D-bag.

My Prince Charming.

When I came home from work on Sunday I had homemade chicken teriyaki and a hug waiting for me.  A clean, fed baby and picked-up house. 

He did warn me via text message on Monday afternoon that he was out of dinner ideas.  Poor guy...he just thought I would pick up the hint to get something. 

I'm not a big hint picker-upper.  Doy.  (Remember when we all used to say that in elementary school).

Every time he comes home from a long day at work to a messy house and dinner NOT simmering away happily on the stove, he doesn't even bat an eyelash. 

I'm a lucky girl.

P.S. He is not a big sharer, and did not make the choice to start a blog.  He is handling being written about very well.  I have to give him his due.

I love you honey.

Faith It

Mornin' all.

'Twas a great two days at the ole' Baptist (the hospital where I work). 

I am so thankful for my co-workers!! I think we have the best unit in the whole hospital...if I was sick or a family member was sick I would definitely want our nurses taking care of us.  I heart them ;)

I was voicing concern/frustration to a colleague about my nervousness at work.  I wake up every morning literally a little bit scared to go to work.  Our job doesn't really allow having an 'off day', a day where you just aren't feelin' it.  People's lives depend on you having a good day at work.  Being vigilant and watchful.  It is sca-ry, I tell ya! 

But what scared patient, wants to see a scared nurse at their bedside.  Umm...no one. 

So sometimes, you just have to fake it. 

One of my fellow nurses said to me, "Guuurl, you don't fake it...you faith it!"

Huh?

Yes, you trust that God lead you down the path that put you in that situation at that very instant because He knew you could handle it.  He trusts you.  He got you through long nights of studying and extremely frustrating days at school to prepare you for this.  So I just have to remember that, and have faith that if I do my part, show up and be the best nurse that I know how to be (which sometimes means being marriage counselor, motivator, personal assistant, friend...).  He will do his part and we will all get through it together. 

Doesn't that just make you feel good.

(I know I sound kind of like a Jesus freak right now...bear with me, and I trust you will see the relevance.)

So I'm just going to have throw it up to Him and have a little faith.

-I'm going to have faith that the resident that gave me sass every time I paged him to get his ass out of bed and come look at an incision that I knew was infected, will learn not to do that again.  Why? Because we are usually right...and about a gallon of puss came out when he opened up that wound.  I'm going to thank Him that I had the strength not to say, 'I told you so' and punch him in the neck. 

-I'm going to have faith that when a patient asks me if we have an in-house masseuse that could come rub his feet, I will have the strength not to laugh in his face...again. 

-I'm going to have faith that when the gas light is on in my car that I really do have 16 miles left like it tells me I do.  I'm not stopping at 5:50 am on my way to work...in the freezing cold, to fill up.  Nope.

-I'm going to have faith that when I don't feel like scooping the liter box after work even though it really needs to be done, the cats will still behave and not have an accident.

-I'm going to have faith that my husband's family still thinks I keep a nice home and am a good mother...even though our shower curtain has mold on it.  Oooops. 

-I'm going to have faith that when I come home from working a 12 hour shift and Michael tells me he wishes I would have taken the initiative to pick up something for dinner on the way home, I will not punch him in the neck.

-Basically I'm just going to have faith that God will keep me from punching people in the neck.

Today I'm going to have faith that we are making the right decisions where Henry is concerned and that he will grow up to be happy kid. 

That is all I want. 

And a walk-in closet.  I want that too.  I'm just going to have faith.

Baby Back-Fat

Momma has got some serious love handles.  They are not cute.

I'm going to talk about baby weight.  You think I won't go there.  Ohhh, my darlings, I'm going there. 

I gained 30 pounds with Henny Penny.  I am convinced it would have been about 50 had I not felt like an exhausted, flu-ridden, shadow of myself for 4 months.  Because when I started to eat...I ate.  And ate.

Once I was eating lunch in the break room at work and the 'maintanence specialist' on our unit asked me if I left anything in the salad bar?  Well...A-Hole.  I am eating a gigantic salad because I am starving and growing a human inside my body.  The look I gave him could have melted paint off the walls.  If you are a man and reading this...It is NOT okay to comment on the size of a woman's meal.  Especially if she is pregnant.  He's lucky I didn't have a pair of Hemostat clamps in my pocket.

He'd be less a pair of balls right about now. 

Trying to get rid of the last baby weight has been a bit of a struggle.  After Henry was born the number on the scale just kept dropping...it was great. Everyday was another pound gone.  Then...it stopped.

Dead in its tracks.

I think I was about 24 weeks pregnant when I got out of the shower one evening and really looked in the mirror.  I ran screaming down the stairs in my underwear. Michael was playing X-Box and he looked up, panicked.

"What's wrong!"  Thinking something was wrong with the baby.

"Look at my thighs....!!!"  It looked as if I was attempting to smuggle bean bags in my inner thighs. 

Well... the baby is gone, and the thighs are not.

At some point I will have to admit that the muffin-top and squishy thighs are not because I had a baby 3 months ago.  They are the result of zero self control and guacamole for dinner...

That is a tough pill to swallow. 

In happier news, Henry is napping.



Praise sweet Jesus.

Guac

I had tortilla chips and guacamole for dinner last night.

And then later grazed on veggies, turkey, cheese, and a scoop of peanut butter out of the jar. 

Lets just rip that page out of the diet journal.  Just one of those days.

Being the wonderful wife that I am (sense the sarcasm)...I didn't cook anything for dinner.  Poor Michael got home...the scent of the guacamole I had been plowing through in the air, and he knew he was on his own for dinner. 

The least I could do was run out and get the kid some chicken nuggets (his request..my husband eats like an 8 year old) from McD's.  Every night is not like this...I promise.  Well, I sort of promise.

As I was swinging through the drive through, an old Edwin McCain song came over the radio.

I was immediately taken back to high school.  My BF would swing by my house in the mornings and pick me up on her way to school.  We listened to this song so many times I can't even tell you.  It was always a choice when I got in the car.  Were we going to start the day with some country tunes, maybe a little Tim. Or some Faith?  A sappy love song.  Or a selection of songs that reminded us of the best Spring Break trip in the history of Spring Break trips.  Then we would stop and get our two other friends.  Most likely having to wait for one of them (She's reading this and she knows who she is :) ).

That was yesterday.  I mean if I didn't know any better I would literally think that all happened like two weeks ago. 

I just got an email about a 10 year high school class reunion.  What class?  That can't be my class...I haven't been out of high school for nearly 10 years.

Oh wait. Shoot. 

Seriously.  Not possible.

Washcloths

Well, Piggy-Wiggy is in his swing, with his eyes closed.  Hopefully it will last...

My fingers, toes, eyes, arms, legs...everything is crossed.

I had to run to the dry cleaners to drop off Michael's navy suit.  The office manager at the practice he works at passed away.  I feel so bad, it is very sad.  She got sick a couple of months ago very suddenly and then was doing better for awhile.  Now she's gone.  Most of the time I just can't wrap my head around death.  I can't fathom how someone can be here one moment and then be gone. Stolen away from you.

For most of my life that has been a HUGE source of anxiety for me (that and thinking I'm going to die in a fiery plane crash). Worrying about losing someone I love.  Like my parents or one of my friends.  Now I have Michael and Henry and I have to fight this all-consuming ball of anxiety that just settles in my chest.  I worry all the time that something will happen to Michael.  I can't live with out him.  And lets not even talk about Henry. 

I don't know how my parents let me drive, let me go on vacation with my friends, let me move away from home.  I don't know how they were able to function without worrying to death about me.  I guess that is all part of the dance.  Parenthood.  I know we will have to let him go and be independent...but I just don't want to.  I was a 'good kid' in high school and college and I still made some epically bad decisions.  Some real doozies. 

Lord, I'm going to have a panic attack just thinking about it.

On a different note...You guys seemed to like my little video.  Yay ;)  Henry and I will have to work on another one.  I promise I'll shower for the next one.

Although, Michael told me I didn't do the voices right, especially Tatiana.  His version sounds more like Julia Child.  Personally, I like my slinky lounge singer version better (Shhh...I think Henry does too). 

I need to clean up my house.  I think I could have been a house-cleaner in a different life.  I really like cleaning.  I appreciate the instant gratification of seeing something that was dirty, be clean after I'm through.  It gives me a warm, peaceful feeling (is that weird?).  I am very particular about cleaning though.  Especially in the kitchen. 

I HATE washcloths...icky, cringe-worthy.  Call me crazy. I think washcloths in the kitchen sink are the most disgusting, nasty, gross, stinky, germ-laden invention in history.  Seeing Michael wipe the countertop with the wash cloth from the sink makes my toes curl, my gag reflex kicks in.  I know...it is extremely bizarre.  I could not live with out Lysol Wipes.  When he leaves the kitchen I go over everything he wiped with the washcloth with a Lysol Wipe.

I know.  Its just one of those things.

Momed Out

Yesterday was a little sketchy at the Bu household.

I think Henry slept for a total of 30 minutes...all day long. 

I sat and banged my head against a wall.  Make it stop. 

I NEED him to nap.  I know it is important for him and his brain development.  And his little spunky attitude.  All that said...I still need it more than he does. 

I need to see his little eyes get heavy and slowly close.  I need to know I have a little time to myself.  Time to pick-up...time to blog...time to sit and stare at the wall...in silence. 

It is hard being on-call 24 hours a day for someone else, no matter how much you love them. 

So, this is me...down on my knees.  Begging the merciful God of naps....please let Henry sleep today.  A good nap, like a 3 hour one.

Pretty please.

I'm momed out.

Playtime

So, playtime at our house can get a little boring...just doing the same old thing with Henry.  I just try to spice it up a bit.  Probably just for me, even more than for him. 

Please excuse the pony, no make up and glasses.  Just recovering from a cold and eye infection.  Sexy.

And seriously if anyone knows what he is doing there at the end...please tell me.  First we thought he was straining to poop...but he just keeps doing it.  Even he can't poop that much.  So then we just started to think he is trying to sit up.

???

Just one of the thousand questions I have in an average day.

P.S. I never knew I was such a hand-talker.  Sorry.

The Jig

I just got a text from on old friend..."I can't believe you write that stuff.  Your mother-in-law might read it!"

Yes...she might.

She is welcome to.  She knows I married her son, and we just had a baby.

I think the jig is up.

Lord knows, my mom knows me too well to be surprised by anything I could write here. 

So, I'll just stick to being honest.  Who wants to read about how many times a day Henry spits up or that I took out the trash this morning...no one wants to read that.  That's not why I started this blog.  I wanted to write about the funny/sad/surprising things we are experiencing having a new baby. 

Take it...or leave it.   I'll still be here.

The Green Light

Well, I got on CNN.com this morning, thank you very much.

What do I gravitate towards...the 'science and medicine' articles.  So I ended up reading a blurb about how scientists are getting close to being able to detect autism with brain scans.  That lead to me clicking on the link 'Signs and Symptoms of Autism' (all the while telling myself, "Don't look at this Emily, it is only going to make you freak out...nothing good can come from this." I'm a little dramatic if you haven't noticed).  So then I'm trying to force Henry to make eye contact with me and respond to his name.  Haha, he doesn't even know his name, if he does he thinks its Piglet or Little Man...not Henry.  Then I tried to lay him down for his little morning snooze and his arms were just flapping away.  By this time I am convinced that I need to call Dr. Anderson and get an autism consultation.

Oh my, I think I'll just stick with Perez.  Thanks.

My tiny, cute little prego friend came over yesterday afternoon and we got to just sit and chew the fat for awhile.  I LOVE her.  I can not wait to see her 9 months pregnant...she's just going to tip over she's so teensy. 

Of course we talked about baby stuff, pregnancy, dumb husband stories (we've all got those), unwanted pregnancy/baby advice.  Uggh.  Why can't some people just mind their own bees wax.  Thanks, but I don't need your disapproving glances as I drink my cup of coffee, lady behind the counter.  Before you judge me, do your research and you'll find that I'm allowed a certain amount of caffeine.  So there.

Don't give me an incredulous look when I tell you I don't have my whole nursery put together and decorated at 20 weeks along. 

This friend has actually seen our birth video....Yes, we video taped it. 

I know you're cringing.  Its not like we played it on the big screen during Thanksgiving dinner.  I don't show it around to everyone...just special people. 

I am so, so, so glad we recorded the day.  Michael edited the video and put music to it.  It makes me cry every time I watch it.  Michael's mom got the honor of recording the actual birth (its not like a gross close up or anything, by the way).  Watching the raw footage is hilarious because she is freaking out and you hear her asking if the red light means its recording.  And then after Henry comes she just drops the camera for awhile and there is like 5 minutes of just her feet.  Awesome.  She got all the good stuff though...I would highly recommend considering recording the day.  Best decision we made.

Of course my friend has heard horror stories of delivery and recovery...its a wonder women still keep getting pregnant with these stories floating around.  I was scared...I was prepared for a vaginal Jihad.  Thankfully it didn't play out like that for me, but healing was NO picnic.

Whoever came up with that whole 6 week back-to-normal mumbo-jumbo was sadly mistaken.  I went to my 6 week post-natal visit, flung my legs up into those stirrups, all excited that I was going to get the green light to "resume normal activity".  Get your freak on is what they mean. 

Well, I was green-lighted...in theory.

HA  HA   HA

6 weeks....try 3 months Dr. Masciello.  Thanks for your confidence in me though.

Just another sacrifice for Piglet.  I mean Henry.  I need to start using his name...

Oh no I think he just started flapping again.  Shoot.

Chilean Miners

Okay, so I'm actually very embarrassed about what I'm about to tell you.

I know you're thinking, more embarrassed than talking about vaginal tearing? Pumping milk out of your breasts? Gaining mom weight and outgrowing all your jeans?  That's right.  I have no problem talking about any of that.  Or post-baby boobs.  Ewww.  Small and saggy anyone?  Double whammy.

I don't watch the news.  I don't read newspapers.  I never go to CNN.com.  I don't know what's happening in the world.  If it's not on Perez Hilton...I don't know about it. 

My secret is out.  I'm mortified.  I am the ignorant stupid American that everyone despises.  When Michael mentioned something about the miners being rescued a few months back...my response was (get this...)

"What miners? What are you talking about!?"  YES, REALLY.

How long was that story in the news? Months upon months.  I had no idea...

I can't even believe I am sharing this, its so bad.  You are totally allowed to not be my friend anymore.

So, I've decided I want to be informed.  On the real issues I mean.  Not whether Mariah Carey is having twins, not whether Jessica Simpson got engaged just to keep up with Nick, not on all the Teen Mom domestic abuse drama or the latest boots Kim Kardashian is wearing.  This is going to be my ultimate challenge...my magnum opus (I had to ask Michael what that meant, while he was reading his biography on Hadrian...some Roman emperor or some such thing).  I know you're wondering how he ended up marrying me; I ask myself the same question on a daily basis. 

My New Year's Resolution is to not be a current events numb-skull any longer.

I also want to lose 10 pounds.