tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38291088464687418282024-03-05T17:38:30.632-05:00RealNewMomMy days are filled with new experiences, at least for me. Sometimes it's funny, sometimes sad and sometimes simply ridiculous. I feel like sharing.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.comBlogger141125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-61211715059454823702015-03-25T18:09:00.001-04:002017-02-26T19:14:46.654-05:00Prison of Urine: A Potty Training GuideToday is an exciting day because I'm going to act like I am an authority on something. Which is ludicrous, but y'all know how I like to sound like I know things.<br />
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I have now officially helped <b>TWO</b>, count them: not ONE, but<i> TWO</i> people learn how to (<i>semi</i>) reliably go to the bathroom. I know this doesn't sound impressive, because well...it's not really. There are many other people in the world that have done this countless times, but when you're desperate and searching the Internet at two AM on toddler potty training methods even a hair-brained amateur like myself looks like they really have their wig on straight. This is basically the first lesson we should all be teaching our children, that is after: <b>Do not lick ranch off your toes at the dinner table.</b> (Sadly, that phrase has come out of my mouth more than once.) Do not believe everything you read on the Internet...except me, you can totally believe me.<br />
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I have a four and half year old son, and a daughter that will be three in June. I have never been an overachieving mom. I was sort of hoping that they would learn to just figure things out on their own. But alas, that's not really how it works. So you can imagine my dismay when I realized that I would be the one to have to teach them how to <b>not</b> shit their pants. <br />
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The mind boggles.<br />
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As you can imagine, I put it off as long as possible. To be quite honest I would have paid Target for those diapers until Henry went to college if it meant I didn't have to potty train him. I'm fairly certain he would have picked it up by himself at some point, he's a smart kid. But he was two months shy of three and he had been taking off his wet diapers and handing them to me for a month. At one point I think he even looked at me, pointed at the potty, and said, "I can pee in the potty?"<br />
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I think I said, "Shhhh. Sweetheart don't look at that. A snake lives in there. Don't you like peeing in your nice comfy diaper."<br />
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While I wait for my Mom of the Year award to get engraved, I'll have you know I bucked up and we <i>did the damn thing</i>.<br />
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And here's how:<br />
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Let me just say there are hundreds of different ways to potty train. Whoa, back up Emily, you're already lying. That's probably an exaggeration. Let's say there are ten different ways to potty train a child. This is merely one way of doing it, and let's face it, it may not be the best for you. But it worked for us. It was relatively quick in the scheme of things. By <i>things</i> I mean life. It was quick when you compare it to your whole life. If you compare it to say, a shorter time span, like a week, than by that standard it took for fucking ever. I mean <b>never ending</b>.<br />
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Now that I've got you super amped up, lets get down to bizznass.<br />
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1. Don't start until your little human is ready. I know you, you Kate Spade diaper bag toting, fresh as hell mama. You want to be the first one on the play ground to boldly announce that you have potty trained your kid. But if you attempt this before your child is ready you will be fighting the most drawn out, miserable, Suicide Prevention Hotline-calling battle ever conceived. Like ever.<br />
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Signs of readiness include:<br />
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*Child noticing when they are peeing and pooping. The simple act of being aware that you are taking a dump while you are taking a dump is actually a skill. I just need to go back to being a toddler then I can start acing tests again.<br />
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*Voicing dismay over dirty diapers. Not wanting to sit in pee and poop is also a step in the right direction. I feel like we're in AA here: you have to SEE a problem before you WANT to change! Amen.<br />
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*Staying dry for longer stretches of time. Waking up from naps and bedtime with dry diapers is also a good sign. That means that Bill is developing the control in his little pee holding muscles to not let it all run out willy-nilly.<br />
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*An interest in potty goings-on, and an ability to pull up and push down pants independently. My daughter was very interested in watching us all go to the bathroom. This is just one small indignity that comes with parenthood. None of us want it, it just comes with the territory, like stale fortune cookies. Sometimes if you are open to it, which not everyone is and I get that, it can be helpful for your child to see you go to the bathroom. The whole nine yards. Don't worry, hopefully at this point their verbal skills aren't on point enough that they could explain the whole sordid event in detail to a stranger... <br />
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Unless you are my son, and then your sweet voice never rang clearer than when you were exposing my bathroom habits to the grocery store checker. Thank you son.<br />
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These are a few signs that your child may be ready, you can also google "Potty training readiness" and get a much more dependable and thorough list, as I'm sure you already did five minutes ago when you realized I'm a hack.<br />
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<i>I'll just continue.</i><br />
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2. Gather your supplies. Buy your oxen, load your wagons and let's get ready for this.<br />
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*A small toddler potty. You can let your child pick it out, that may help them get really excited about the whole process. I mean <i>really</i>, annoyingly excited.<br />
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*A separate potty seat that will fit on a standard toilet and a step stool. We have a love affair with anything princess related. And I always judge a toilet seat by its ability to inspire me.<br />
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*Your bribery of choice. This is a hotly debated topic. (I'm sure by mothers that hotly debate parenting topics, usually I just talk about Vanderpump Rules...). Some people go the non-treat route. My sister in law potty trained by giving her son a marble every time he used the potty and when he had ten marbles he could select a hot wheel from a basket. This is stellar parenting work; that's Dr. Sears shit. However my kids didn't buy it. Like their mother they enjoy immediate gratification. So we stuck with candy. I know, <i>the horror</i>.<br />
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If you are a first time parent I know the thought of handing your vegan, non-dairy, non-soy preciously untainted child a non-organic seed of death and high fructose corn syrup, aka an M&M, without even a tooth brush standing by makes you have a moment. <br />
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But let's just <i>chill the eff out.</i><br />
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The truth is the small treat, like picking out one fruit snack, or M&M, [insert weapon of choice] after a successful attempt (and some unsuccessful attempts) is FUN. They love it! It is great motivation to keep trying. I found that after they did successfully go on the potty and I made a big enough show of it (clapping, dancing, singing, high-fiving, generally acting like a fool) they were so excited that they would entirely forget about asking for the treat most of the time anyway.<br />
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In any case, if you do decide to offer treats, just know you are not a bad parent. And the simple fact that you are worried about it makes you a better parent than you realize. Cheers to that.<br />
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Back to the supply list:<br />
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*Your child's favorite drink. My kids drink very watered down apple juice, so I just made sure I had plenty of apple juice. If your child will drink plain water that is fine too. I must meet you and learn your witchcraft. At my house being told you have to drink plain water is tantamount to a death sentence.<br />
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*Carpet/upholstery cleaner and rags. I know, I know. I hate to break it to you, but even the best method of potty training will end up in a mess sometimes. And them's just the breaks.<br />
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*Notably ABSENT on my list of supplies are Pull Ups, or any manner of training pants. This is a bold move folks, and it takes time and a dedication to staying at home for about two days. But in this method we go straight into undies.<br />
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Straight. Into. Undies.<br />
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If you're anything like me that phrase just makes your butt hole shrivel up. It's terrifying, but I promise you, OH SO worth it in the end.<br />
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There is absolutely nothing wrong with Pull Ups. Except I am a cheap ass mo' and did not want to give Pampers any of my money. Plus, I pondered it and realized it must be rather confusing for a child to be told, "Here is a Pull Up: it is not a diaper, but it looks like a diaper and feels like a diaper. You are not supposed to pee or poop in it like you do in your diaper. However, if you do pee or poop in it it will feel just like a diaper... and nothing will happen. But I trust you'll make the right decision."<br />
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Let's sit in the safety circle, hold hands and repeat it once more, loud and proud: You have to SEE a problem before you WANT to change.<br />
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God, that makes me feel so <b><i>good</i></b> for some reason.<br />
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If there is no consequence, like pee dripping down their legs and getting them all wet then they really don't have much motivation to change the way they're operating. Catch my drift? It makes sense in a kind of, that doesn't make sense kind of way. Anyway...<br />
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Because we are really taking the bull by the horns in this scenario you also have to be prepared to camp out at home for a few days. <br />
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Oh HELL NAW.<br />
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Was that your response? Because that is my response. Every. Time.<br />
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Getting out of the house is the only thing that keeps us all sane and alive. I understand. Totally. But this self imposed prison of urine will be short lived. And then you can put it behind you. And by behind you I just mean that you can get out of the house, but make sure you bring some extra undies...and pants...and socks....and the potty seat. And a lot of patience.<br />
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SO get yourself together and choose a stretch of days that you know you can stay home, preferably this is a stretch of days that someone else will be home as well. Potty training does not take two people. But it is convenient to double team the situation. I found it extremely helpful that my husband could take charge while I went up into my closet and practiced my noose making; it's a meditative exercise. The knots are a son of a gun.<br />
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3. The next step would be to get excited. GET EXCITED PEOPLE!<br />
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Get your child majorly excited about what is about to happen. With Addie I planned to start on a Friday morning. All week long we talked about it. On Friday we're going to wear big girl undies!! Tomorrow we are going to say bye bye to diapers and be a big girl!! On Friday we get to put our pee in the potty, YAY!! <i>You get the drift</i>. In the days before you can also take them to Target and let them pick out underwear. This is a highly exciting activity that actually resulted in wearing the pre-selected underwear on top of our pants for the two days prior to the actual event. I consider that one of those battles that just wasn't worth fighting.<br />
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4. The night before potty training is to begin set up your base camp. I would recommend this be somewhere where messes are easily cleaned up. Wood floor? Tile? A television handy, toys, books. The ideal situation is that your play room is not carpeted. We were not so lucky, but I just set the little potty in the play room on a big rug with a water proof pad underneath in case of dripage. Have a roll of toilet paper and a package of wipes handy there as well. Some people like to potty train outside during the summer where messes are no big deal. I could see this working well if you have a fenced back yard, and no creepy neighbors. Just bring the potty out so it is very near where your child is playing. Have your cleaning supplies out and handy. Sad face. Also make sure you have some kind of a timer. We used the oven timer.<br />
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5. Have a large cocktail. Read the bible. Watch anything on Bravo. Do whatever you have to do to get in a good head space. Remind yourself this is worth it and the first day will be the hardest day. And the beginning of the second day when it feels like you're starting all over again. But don't worry, you're not.<br />
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6. When your child wakes up, sit on the potty and go straight into underwear. Addie sat on the potty <i>maybe</i> three times total before we started potty training, so I don't think that is a prerequisite. But I would make sure that your child is not scared of sitting on the potty before you begin this whole endeavor. I imagine that could be quite traumatizing.<br />
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7. I read this tip on Pinterest about how to begin potty training and I did it with both kids, I think it sets the perfect tune for potty training. And that tune is progress, not perfection! (This was so long ago I don't have the original source of this tip). Get out your acting caps folks, <i>'cause we're gonna get theatrical up in here.</i><br />
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I found their favorite stuffed animal and held it up and pretended it was playing, and then I held up a little cup of water behind the stuffed animal and poured it on the floor, as if the animal had just had a little accident. And then I make a big production of saying,<br />
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"OH NO! Blueberry just had a little accident, but that's no big deal and we run over and set Blueberry on the potty. It's not a big deal if we have an accident, if we have to go potty we just try and get to the toilet! It's okay Blueberry! We'll keep working on it, good work Blueberry!" <br />
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We emphasized, that when Blueberry noticed he had started peeing he ran over to sit on the potty. I really think this was a key step before we began because the kids got to see A. What it looks like when the floor gets wet, and what your reaction to that is. B. That it is okay if they have an accident. C. That this whole experience is positive.<br />
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Even when you feel like you are clinging to your last shred of sanity there is no shaming in this game. There is no, Why did that happen? Why didn't you make it to the potty? The whole experience is supportive. So keep that in mind, and take some deep breathes.<br />
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<i>Whooooo. Saaaawwww.</i></div>
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(If you have children, or know children, or have seen children on the street than you will never be this relaxed. But we can try.)</div>
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(I am chuckling to myself because apart from all the swearing this is sounding like I really know how to parent, like really well; if you only knew how much I would love for that to be the case. Just like dieting, I know the basic principles, it's the implementation that gets me every time. I guess the moral is, try and be a super rad parent during this because it will be worth it and when it's over you can go back to being your regular grumpy, stabby self.)<br />
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So I hope you're still with me, because this is getting long. <i>And very boring.</i><br />
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8. Now set up shop at your base camp, watch cartoons, movies, read books, build legos, play with play dough. Just hang out. All the while you need to be offering your child drinks. Keep them drinking. More drinking=more peeing. When you start out I recommend setting the timer for every 10 minutes. This will be a long day. There is no sugar coating it. You are living in 10-15 minute increments. They will no sooner have gotten up from the potty and pulled up their underwear, then you will see a stream of pee running down their leg. Summon all your inner fortitude and don't freak out. It takes practice to make progress. That is the point of all the drinking. They are peeing frequently and getting used to what it feels like before they go and while they're going.<br />
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9. You will be cleaning up some messes, but stick with it and adjust your timer schedule accordingly. I found if Addie sucked down a cup of water, after about 10-15 minutes we would sit on the potty more frequently.<br />
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The urge to quit will be strong. Like last call to an alcoholic, you will be drawn to the beautiful nirvana of slipping on a diaper and saying, we'll try again next week. Don't do it!<br />
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10. Keep drinking. Keep setting the timer. Try not to kill yourself.<br />
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You will notice that children learn quickly. You will see progress the first day. By late morning of the first day Addie would suddenly jump up and say, "I have to go pee!" And we would run to the potty and see what we could do. The first day requires the most rigid timer schedule, but I would say that we continued to use the timer on the second and third day, we just tailored it more to her particular bathroom patterns. If she had not been drinking a lot, we would set it every 30 minutes. If she just finished a cup of water, we knew that we would set it every 10 minutes or so for a little while. By the third day we didn't use the timer that much, just reminded Addie to get on the potty.<br />
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11. Like the little brain training science project that this is, just remember to keep giving the mouse its cheese. Positive reinforcement works. I didn't drink my way through a B.S. in Psychology for nothing.<br />
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Just remember one step forward, two steps back. This will take a few days, and don't be disheartened. Your child will do great and go by themselves and then 15 minutes later they will have an accident. It is all progress towards the goal. I would say by the end of the weekend and definitely the fourth day, we had turned a solid corner. Did she have occasional accidents? Absolutely. Did she reliably sit on the potty and go by herself, yes.<br />
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Pull Ups are enticing because they lure you with the promise of potty training without the mess, which is unrealistic, in my untrained and uneducated opinion. Things that seem too good to be true generally are: Gwyneth Paltrow (who does that bitch think she is, BTW), low carb chocolate (otherwise known as, whoops I just sharted chocolate.)<br />
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At some point the underwear is going to have to go on and we're all going to have to just deal with it. (Man, I feel like potty training is like a metaphor for life or something. I am on my third cup of coffee so I probably just have K-Cup poisoning. Or possibly it's Addie's toilet seat making me have deep thoughts.)<br />
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When it's all said and done you won't remember exactly how you did it because you'll block it out. But you'll get through it, and just like every other person in the world will tell you, "You don't see any high schoolers in diapers!" (Ugh, if I hear that one more time, I swear.) So it will probably work itself out at some point.<br />
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Just remember when you hear someone talking about how they potty trained in one day and their child never has accidents, you can go ahead and say, "Congratulations!"<br />
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Two to one odds says their kid is the one shitting his pants in the ball pit.<br />
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Because shit happens to everyone.<br />
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{Poop pile emoticon. #toiletseatdeepthoughts}<br />
<br />Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-23623524003173494112013-10-17T15:29:00.001-04:002013-10-17T15:29:16.708-04:00Ten Minute TributeI've got 10 minutes before I need to leave for work, my hair is still wet and my dinner isn't packed, but I had to take a moment to thank God for Michael.<br />
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(Wait, I just remembered it's taco salad day at work...WOOT. Taco salad, <span style="font-size: large;">Taco salad</span>, <span style="font-size: x-large;">Taco Salad DAY.)</span><br />
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It's the little things, I'm telling you.<br />
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Four years ago I married the best person on the face of the planet. I know everyone thinks their spouse is the best person on the face of the planet, which is good. They <em>are</em> the best person on the planet to <em>YOU</em> and <em>YOU</em> alone. <br />
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They wouldn't be the best person on the face of the planet for someone else. But they are to <em>you</em>.<br />
<br />Everyone has a person. Michael is my person.<br />
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He is amazing and puts up with my shit, which is like crazy.<br />
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He knows when I'm starting to spin and he helps me find my way out.<br />
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He knows the words to every Raffi song ever recorded.<br />
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He loves me even though I have a super odd appreciation for Justin Timberlake (I'm sorry, but no one expected him to be anything. And he's only AMAZING and totally legit. Rant over.) and any power ballad on the radio.<br />
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Sometimes he helps me 'set fire to the rain' and it's freaking amazing.<br />
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He knows when I help him pick out clothes that I'm scheming to somehow make him look like Sherlock.<br />
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<strong>Michael:</strong> I don't wear scarves, why do you want me to get this scarf? You just want me to look like Benedict Cumberbatch?<br />
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<strong>Me:</strong> That is false. I want you to look like you. But dressed like Benedict Cumberbatch...as Sherlock Holmes. <em>There is a big difference.</em><br />
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I love that he doesn't mind.<br />
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The guy is pretty unflappable.<br />
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And he is graceful like a gazelle. And handsome. <br />
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I just love him. <br />
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And if you ever wanted to know what my blog posts would look like if I only spent 10 minutes on them. <br />
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This is it. <br />
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Happy Anniversary Michael.<br />
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Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-62247943074383777812013-06-25T15:04:00.003-04:002013-06-26T08:14:07.204-04:00Panic at the DiscoTwo days in a row!<br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Get a grip, Emily!</em><br />
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I don't even have anything good to say, but the kids are both sleeping at the same time. So I figured I better not shut my eyes or the world may end. <br />
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I thought I'd just write some nonsense on here instead of packing and having a panic attack. <br />
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And seriously, yesterday got super weepy. And we just can't have that.<br />
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1. We went to Target today. (What day don't we go to Target?) And I got a new planner!!!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlGBjMQV_kYEGPERR28nYznD6J5T4G8908kFA7XiK-vT9xnSF28cFJyIjXmfuW3DGMyZ7IcXQTDCJxakakEx4u6AFIlLfWHZ0PKuEbVOe7oIqA4O2SSyaK68XkEmPQ4TjglmS3akXG35PS/s1600/planner.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlGBjMQV_kYEGPERR28nYznD6J5T4G8908kFA7XiK-vT9xnSF28cFJyIjXmfuW3DGMyZ7IcXQTDCJxakakEx4u6AFIlLfWHZ0PKuEbVOe7oIqA4O2SSyaK68XkEmPQ4TjglmS3akXG35PS/s400/planner.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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(Yes, I am three exclamation points excited!!!)</div>
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It's the best day of the year!</div>
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Except I'll be really anal about writing in it at first, and I'll have to use white out if I mess up because I don't want to spoil my brand new pretty planner. </div>
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While pulling out of Target we have to pass by Michael's...</div>
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<em>Damn it all</em>. </div>
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And I saw these beauts on the sidewalk outside the store. (Does anyone else ever wonder how they make sure people don't steal that stuff?)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Mm_BkUnEXxkqFRYwtS7NJSNA8tpdQokH3nxiYWbcRzSqq-jTZJqyaYyCffjcI-RQ4byGSsLUh_Euno8EPxKGL1FfDK_UBaapk1ACsy-MNftxm08U2WkVO2xDlV61C3_ppbExwq8yXgDn/s1600/boxes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Mm_BkUnEXxkqFRYwtS7NJSNA8tpdQokH3nxiYWbcRzSqq-jTZJqyaYyCffjcI-RQ4byGSsLUh_Euno8EPxKGL1FfDK_UBaapk1ACsy-MNftxm08U2WkVO2xDlV61C3_ppbExwq8yXgDn/s400/boxes.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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These memory boxes were on sale...on the sidewalk. Which would leave some to believe that they were crap (my husband), BUT I've been looking for just the thing! </div>
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I needed something to put all of the kids' stuff in. Things that I couldn't put in their baby book, but I can't throw away, like all of their birthday cards, candles and special things like that. Hoarder stuff.</div>
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I picked out Addie's, obviously, it's adorable. </div>
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And I let Henry pick out his. </div>
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<em>Awesome.</em></div>
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I was really pushing for a handsome navy stripe, with a herringbone lid, but let's be serious. Giant Octopus is the trump card.</div>
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2. I've been having a terrible time lately. (duh.)</div>
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But it's not what you think. </div>
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Addie is still a crawler. (I didn't really have the highest hopes knowing our children's track record with walking. I'll start to worry in nine months.) </div>
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Having a crawler and going to the park sucks. It really sucks. </div>
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It's hot so you want to put them in shorts, but then their little knees get all scraped up by the cement and wood chips. And then they eat the wood chips. </div>
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It's a disaster. </div>
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But, mostly because I'm a cheapskate, I was trying to shoehorn Adeline into an old pair of pants, when I discovered something amazing. </div>
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All of her nine month pants will fit, except now they are adorable capri pants!!! (Again, note my excitement!!!) </div>
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(I know the high capri pant is a little dated, but we're going to cut her a break because she's one. I have hopes that her twelve month stuff will be ankle length by the end of the summer. Very chic and on trend.)</div>
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I got distracted. My point is that the capris are cooler, but also protect her knees. Sold.</div>
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3. When we were at Target (see #1) I decided I really want a label maker. I've wanted one for some time now, but it's always been something I never bought because well, who buys label makers. </div>
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But now I need one. I want one. I must have one. </div>
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So when we move, and I have died from anxiety, everything will be exquisitely labeled for Michael.</div>
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4. Addie is cutting her two front teeth and she's mean. She whines. She's not very fun to be around. Even medicated. But there is one thing that makes her happy. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUkaHud4_W9zss0koWIeGXqQYnOubOsCdjoQ0GnoJHc2l9aV0jVgpgu6kSPZoMxYLngJslua1AGbwtELdYHDMC5ImBzQ0mWYHm6jQ9eMnQQuMm_y3-Dr9KCnWCT772PiadBL1L9MmPHZok/s1600/washcloth.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUkaHud4_W9zss0koWIeGXqQYnOubOsCdjoQ0GnoJHc2l9aV0jVgpgu6kSPZoMxYLngJslua1AGbwtELdYHDMC5ImBzQ0mWYHm6jQ9eMnQQuMm_y3-Dr9KCnWCT772PiadBL1L9MmPHZok/s400/washcloth.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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This old, nasty ass washcloth. It is actually clean. It's just <em>that</em> disgusting looking. </div>
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I can't pry it out of her hands. I don't want to pry it out of her hands because if there's nothing in her mouth she's crying. </div>
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So it travels. </div>
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And I look like a negligent mother. Letting my daughter chew on garbage. </div>
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But, it makes her happy. So what can you do.</div>
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5. Trying to sell our house is making me an angry person. (Angrier than normal.)</div>
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A very clean, angry person. </div>
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I have prayed. I have buried statues. I have sacrificed animals. </div>
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Not really.</div>
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Seriously. Don't tell me how great my house is and then not buy it. </div>
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You're like that dick in college, </div>
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"I think you're really great, let's go out sometime!" </div>
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"Just kidding, you're gross." </div>
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<em>I feel like I'm going to cut somebody.</em></div>
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6. Addie's first birthday was last week! Wheeee :)</div>
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She's one year closer to making her own sandwiches and hating six o'clock in the morning.</div>
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We ate cupcakes and opened presents. And mommy took pictures. </div>
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And then mommy realized she took everything with the camera set on black and white. </div>
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And then mommy cried. And we had to restage the birthday a few days later and get new pictures. </div>
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(Don't get me wrong, I love a black and white photo as much as the next guy. But the <em>best part</em> was the pink frosting all over her face. Total mom fuck up.)</div>
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So now her brother thinks she has two birthdays.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN4xDtLQKXNVBRUzDqw9Arv3r5m48swv_0JjNmcilDtVvrzH2oOrCqhiQZbpZQ0SIxpmavksLZ9DQBFqXsF-GNfMJbxPJDMzpzafG6dgnmAUMcKuiqbxr4Z6r2VhX9JmimApwRnSOhxrWC/s1600/IMG_2270.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN4xDtLQKXNVBRUzDqw9Arv3r5m48swv_0JjNmcilDtVvrzH2oOrCqhiQZbpZQ0SIxpmavksLZ9DQBFqXsF-GNfMJbxPJDMzpzafG6dgnmAUMcKuiqbxr4Z6r2VhX9JmimApwRnSOhxrWC/s400/IMG_2270.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Birthday #1</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3JHecBi1rGKLePPOYpxwSZ41M3YBMh8qRoH7IJKE13QTr-w7cvFRn3NZierFuf8TkaroT1R89QuFDySuNkBNYwXdntxBt1hcojTHdCScQWr1ydkMK7oN6sHCPEXQj3j07ZwQdPOGkItYa/s1600/IMG_2359.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3JHecBi1rGKLePPOYpxwSZ41M3YBMh8qRoH7IJKE13QTr-w7cvFRn3NZierFuf8TkaroT1R89QuFDySuNkBNYwXdntxBt1hcojTHdCScQWr1ydkMK7oN6sHCPEXQj3j07ZwQdPOGkItYa/s400/IMG_2359.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Birthday #2</div>
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And mommy's nervous breakdown was postponed another week.</div>
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(She's totally cute enough to deserve two birthdays.)</div>
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7. We bathe Henry and Addie at the same time. </div>
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We used to bathe them separately but Henry always went first and then Addie had his left over bath water and it all felt a little, "poor Cinderella in her brother's dirty bathwater." So now we dump them in all at once and let them stew in each other's filth. </div>
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Addie is a curious one year old. The other night she lunged over and grabbed Henry's wiener. </div>
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Henry: NO SISSY!! Mommy, Sissy Addie just grabbed my wiener!</div>
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Me: I'm sorry Henry. Addie didn't know what she was doing. It's not okay for her to touch your wiener. You are the only person that is supposed to touch your wiener. </div>
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And then it felt like an after school special. </div>
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When do you start bathing your boy and girl separately?</div>
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8. Someone asked me if I'm nervous about what people think about me because of how I write. Especially how I write about motherhood.</div>
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You know, sometimes I see someone with their new baby and I think to myself, "Now, there is a natural. A born mommy." </div>
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She doesn't mind being up at 11 pm, and then 1:30 am, and then 4 am. And then up for good at 6. You can tell it doesn't even phase her. It's just more time to snuggle.</div>
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Well. I hated being up at 11 pm, 1:30 am, and 4 am. And I especially hated, and still do <em>really, really</em> hate 6:00 am.<br />
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But I still love being a mother. </div>
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My kids are everything to me. </div>
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I started this blog because I was spending inordinate amounts of time at home staring at a two month old and a breast pump. And it sucked. I would look around and think, "Is this supposed to get awesome soon?" Because this isn't awesome. I loved Henry more than anything in the world, but it was a gigantic change. Life was suddenly completely different, and it was hard for me. </div>
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I just felt like somehow I was missing something that other moms had. I couldn't relate to these other perfect 'natural born mommies.'</div>
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I just wanted to talk about being a parent in a real way. And I wouldn't have ever dreamed that people would respond the way they have. When I get a comment and someone I don't even know says, "Wow, that is exactly how I feel. Thank you so much!" It makes me happy, not because I wrote it, but because someone read exactly what they needed to hear at exactly the right time, and hopefully it made them feel less alone.</div>
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I feel like there are plenty of people out there for whom parenthood was an...<em>adjustment</em>. That doesn't mean they are bad parents. It doesn't mean they love their babies less. They are great parents. </div>
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I'm sure there are tons, TONS of people that can't stand me. <em> And that is totally fine</em>. <strong>Perfectly understandable</strong>. There are some people I don't really like. But that is what is so great about adulthood; I don't care anymore what people think about me. </div>
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The people that matter to me know who I am. </div>
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I write what I write because it's how I feel, and I hope that there is some mother out there in her sweatpants with a two week old that finds my blog just in time. Just when she starts to feel really bad about herself because she is miserable and she thinks that makes her a bad mother. </div>
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You are a fantastic mother. You are not the only person that has ever felt this way. It will get better. Being up in the middle of the night is terrible. Cut yourself some slack.</div>
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So<em> no</em>, long story short, I don't feel nervous.</div>
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Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-16356658868091451522013-06-24T11:38:00.000-04:002013-06-25T08:23:01.846-04:00Thanks and love.There are just some things that are hard to tell people.<br />
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Like, it's hard to complimentarily (look I made up a word) ask someone if they've lost weight, because no matter how you do it somehow it always sounds like you thought they looked like an obese freak before. And sometimes that sucks, because you're really trying to say, "You look really awesome, great job!" <br />
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But I feel like it must sound like, "You look great, <em>thank God</em>...you looked hideous before."<br />
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I find you just can't win with that one. <br />
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(Maybe it's just in my mind. I <em>never</em> over think things.)<br />
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Similarly, it is extremely difficult to tell people that you love, people that you are close to that you're moving. No matter how you do it somehow it seems to sound like, "We're getting the hell outta Dodge! It sucks ass here and your friendship wasn't enough to make us stay. <strong><em>Deuces</em></strong>." <br />
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When what you really want to say is, "We've made a really difficult decision to relocate so that we can be closer to our families, and so that the kids can grow up close to their grandparents and aunts and uncles."<br />
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And your friends are really supportive, but what you think they're really thinking is:<br />
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It's <em>terrible.</em><br />
<br />
It's been twelve years since I've lived in the city I grew up in. All of my memories of that place are in the context of a completely different time in my life: <em>High School. </em>So, obviously I'm feeling a small bit of trepidation as to how it will feel living there again. <br />
<br />
In full-on adult mode. <br />
<br />
This time I won't be trying to sneak downtown and scoop the loop with my friends. I'll be taking my kids to preschool and racing to find a bathroom at the zoo while my son poops in his Cars undies. <br />
<em></em><br />
There are people I really didn't know when I did live at home, but now feel as though I do know them because I've seen pictures of their weddings and the births of their children. Are we really friends?<br />
<br />
If I see them in the grocery store do I say hi, ask about the kids I've never met and seem like a total creeper?<br />
<br />
(Speaking of grocery stores, I'm sad to leave a state in which the grocery store chain is called Harris Teeter. "The Teet" "Harry Teets" "The Tit". Telling Michael I'm running to the store will never be as much fun again. Sad face.)<br />
<br />
And then, unfortunately. there are those very, very few people that you did know like 1000 years ago, but since 2004 and the advent of the 'status update' you are totally comfortable being 1600 miles away from.<br />
<br />
I can't be the only one that has suffered these feelings at the hands of Facebook. <br />
<br />
<strong>Tell me I'm not the only one.</strong><br />
<br />
And in the inevitable event that I run into them it'll be like:<br />
<br />
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This is new territory for me, and embarrassingly, these are the things that keep me up at night. That and a host of other terrible made up scenarios. </div>
<em></em><br />
In all seriousness, making these decisions has been awful. We are elated. And we are devastated.<br />
<br />
It would be so<em> easy</em> if we hated it here. But we don't hate it here. <br />
<br />
We chose to start a life together in North Carolina. We became a family in North Carolina. We were amazingly blessed to have been welcomed by people that made us Yankees feel like we belonged here. People that made us feel like family. Michael was incredibly lucky to have been united with a group here that is beyond wonderful; they too have shared in all of our joy from day one. Deciding to leave his practice here was the most agonizing decision of our married life. Not for one moment have we ever taken for granted the love and support everyone here has shown us. We will miss everyone so much. <em>So much</em>.<br />
<br />
And here's where it gets hard for me. <br />
<br />
Sometimes in life the trees seem really dense and it is tough to see the path God wants you on, <br />
<br />
And you feel a little lost. <br />
<br />
Thankfully I found my way here, and I am truly sad to leave the community of people that made me feel like I wasn't lost anymore. <br />
<br />
My nurses. <br />
<br />
I wish I could explain just what they mean to me. But I can't. I can't come up with the words that do my heart justice. <br />
<br />
When I go to work I am surrounded by women that inspire me. They are fearless. They are so brave. I watch them work and I feel like I will never be what they are. They are the smartest, most compassionate, most incredible people. Their hands are skilled and gentle, and in the face of what seems like chaos they come together as a team in the most beautiful way. It looks choreographed; you wouldn't ever know they were struggling to save a life. They make it look effortless and easy. They aren't scared, and I'm terrified nearly every day. They always have the answers, and I always have the questions. <br />
<br />
Instinct would have anyone do this job with a closed heart. With armor, to protect themselves from the things they see. But everyday their hearts are open. More days than not they are called to do a job that requires a level of focus, concentration and composure that is exhausting. I have seen them come in on their days off to say goodbye. And I have seen them come in on their days off to celebrate tiny victories. When I feel like I would have crumbled under the immense pressure a thousand times, their courage never fails. They have hope when a situation feels hopeless, and they have humor when days feel really, really dark. They have comforted me when I've cried and shared wisdom when my heart was hurting. They are my mentors, they are my teachers, and I feel so incredibly lucky to call them friends. They are my heroes. <br />
<br />
I'm ecstatic to have been welcomed by another great children's hospital; I don't doubt I will make new friends, but I will never forget the old. One is silver and the other's gold. :) <br />
<br />
Flannery O'Connor wrote, "I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say."<br />
<br />
I'm nervous to move. I'm scared to start over in a place that should feel like home, but may not feel like home for a while. I'm sad to move the kids from the only home they've ever known.<br />
<br />
But. I don't feel like we could ever make the wrong decision by choosing family. So we chose our families. <br />
<br />
My dad can teach Henry and Addie about cars and Michael's dad can teach them how to fish. Adeline's aunts can teach her how to accessorize, and that no matter what anyone says you can never have too many pairs of boots. <br />
<br />
And in the midst of all this family. I'll be able to do something amazing.<br />
<br />
Nap.<br />
<br />
Just kidding. Kind of.<br />
<br />
Soon we will say goodbye to North Carolina and hello to Iowa to start a new chapter in our lives. We just wanted everyone here to know how much they have meant to us. <br />
<br />
I'll leave it at that before I start quoting the lyrics to Jason Aldean's 'Fly Over States'.<br />
<br />
:-/<br />
<br />
Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone for making it so easy to fall in love with North Carolina. <br />
<br />
And to our friends and family at home, we can't wait. <br />
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Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-39835743123951560482013-04-12T15:18:00.000-04:002013-04-12T21:28:54.985-04:00Our Genetically Modified Catastrophe.Well, Henry said 'shit' yesterday.<br />
<br />
It was bound to happen. With a mother like me. <br />
<br />
Although I am very good about not swearing in front of my children, I was forced to do battle with a giant, mutant killer bee that was trying to sting me in my jugular in the middle of my kitchen.<br />
<br />
I <em>dare </em>you to not say 'shit' when you are doing this.<br />
<br />
I had tried to kill the bee/wasp/vampire yellow jacket (I'm not sure what it was, but I guarantee you, it was not natural) ten minutes prior. But all I did was piss it off. <br />
<br />
I presume I unknowingly bred this beast-insect myself, by accident. <br />
<br />
Stupid me, trying to be a good mother (I always get myself in trouble when I try and do that) I buy fruits and vegetables for my children to snack on. <br />
<br />
Come to find out, you're not <em>actually </em>a good mother unless you take label reading classes, (which I'm sure are offered at your local Whole Foods!) and do extensive research to make sure none of your produce is genetically modified and has never been touched by an errant chemical molecule other than pure spring-fed water and liquid love.<br />
<br />
I guess that's a great lesson to learn early on; Motherhood is a <em>tricky </em><em>bitch</em>. Just when you think you're really on a roll, someone is going to tell you you're killing your children by not buying organic apples or by giving your child a baby carrot. I guess baby carrots are a <em>big</em> chemically leaden no-no. Color me surprised to find out that if I feed Henry carrots in that form, I may as well just dump chlorine all over him and light him on fire. <br />
<br />
I suppose my only option is to hire live-in help so I can fly down to Guatemala and source my own produce, fresh from the jungle. I'm sure I'll have to be quarantined for an unspecified amount of time and when I get back Addie will be starting Kindergarten, but it will still be cheaper than buying an organic orange at Fresh Market. <br />
<br />
Sorry, I got side-tracked. It's probably a mental defect because I just ate a strawberry from Walmart. <br />
<br />
Very likely the same strawberry that the mutant bee-wasp snacked on before he grew fangs, breathed fire and decided to try and kill me. <br />
<br />
The mutant was seen and heard buzzing in the kitchen light fixture (As Henry reminded me on repeat for 10 solid minutes.)<br />
<br />
<strong>Henry:</strong> "Mommy, there's a bee in the light. Bzzzzzzz. Mommy there's a bee in the light. Bzzzzzzzzz. Mommy, there's a bee in the light. Bzzzzzzzzzzz. Mommy, there's a bee in the light. Bzzzzzzz. Mommy there's a bee in the light. Bzzzzzz........x 5000."<br />
<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: "Okay, go stand over there, love. I'm going to get it so it doesn't kill us all." (I guarantee if he grows up with an irrational fear of bees, I had <em>nothing</em> to do with it.)<br />
<br />
I had already managed to show it my cards by trying to beat it with a JC Penny coupon catalogue. (Which I think just angered it even more. In retrospect, the mutant bee-wasp just wanted to die with some dignity; at the hands of the J. Crew Spring Catalogue. It's the way I would want to go.)<br />
<br />
In flashbacks, I remember seeing a glimpse of the wasp-bat as it emerged from the fixture and flew straight at my head. <br />
<br />
I screamed and danced around swinging blindly. <br />
<br />
I vaguely remember noticing that there was no more incessant buzzing. Which I slowly realized meant that the wasp-bat-snake was no longer airborne. <br />
<br />
However, I circled slowly and couldn't see it anywhere... <br />
<br />
And then in a very "the call is coming from inside the house" moment, I realized I couldn't find it because it was on <em><strong>me</strong></em>.<br />
<br />
And then I blacked out. <br />
<br />
<strong>Me: </strong> <span style="font-size: large;"><em>"Shit, Shit, Shit, Shit, Shit, Shit, Shit, Shit, Shit, Shit, Shit, Shit, Shit."</em></span><br />
<br />
Finally, after an undetermined amount of time, I bested the bee-spider and it lay twitching on the kitchen floor.<br />
<br />
Staring down at it, Henry said the same thing we all do when we've witnessed something so horrific and or awesome that our brain is having trouble processing it:<br />
<br />
<strong>Henry:</strong> <em> "Shit, mommy."</em><br />
<br />
It was hard to argue with that assessment.<br />
<br />
I guess the real irony is, I'm told the world will end when all the bees are gone. <br />
<br />
Maybe the upside is, by that time the evil (but, conveniently inexpensive) genetically modified food we've been ingesting will have given us superpowers. Like wings. <br />
<br />
Probaby wings<em> and</em> gills. <br />
<br />
So we will be able to escape into the sea and survive the beeless catastrophe that I, once again unknowingly, and with the best of intentions, created for myself.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-81036539263815393142013-03-06T15:04:00.001-05:002013-03-10T11:30:17.511-04:00Formula = Not Unicorn TearsBrace yourselves. Or as Samuel L. Jackson would say,<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>"Hold on to your butts."</em></span><br />
<br />
(Sorry, am I the <em>only</em> one who quotes Jurassic Park!?)<br />
<br />
I have a fan.<br />
<br />
Now wipe that shocked look off your face and let's all give a round of applause to my one fan, "J."<br />
<br />
She is a new mom, living in Florida. And she looks like a freaking super model or really, really classy porn star. (By the way you should take that as a compliment. Because that is totally how I meant it.)<br />
<br />
Super, super beautiful. <br />
<br />
Her long blond locks are always styled to perfection and she has a <em>gorg</em> baby boy. <br />
<br />
Sounds like Ms. "J" has been having a rough time lately.<br />
<br />
Because being a new mom can be hard on a gal. And that's just the truth. <br />
<br />
This shit ain't for the weak. (I apologize, I'm kind of stuck in Samuel L. Jackson mode now. I'm trying to turn it off.)<br />
<br />
<strong>SO</strong>, I have had a request to write a little something about formula. <br />
<br />
And, if there's anything I can do to help out a fellow mom in need, well I'm damn well gonna do it.<br />
<br />
So if you don't give a toot about hearing about formula, then go on your merry way and we'll see ya when we see ya. <br />
<br />
I am going to preface this whole discussion with this:<br />
<br />
If you find yourself looking for formula because you tried breastfeeding and it didn't work out, or you breastfed as long as you could and now you are weaning baby, or you breastfed and now baby is weaning him or herself, or you're going back to work, or you just don't want to breastfeed, etc; <br />
<br />
First of all, STOP CRYING.<br />
<br />
That is step one. <br />
<br />
(Cause, Lawwd knows, it can be hard.)<br />
<br />
Put the baby down. Wipe your tears and have a cocktail, girl. <br />
<br />
We are celebrating. No matter what you did, you tried. And now you're moving onwards and upwards and your baby is going to be fine.<br />
<br />
Better than fine, in fact.<br />
<br />
Your baby will be fat and happy and smart and healthy. <br />
<br />
<em>So, relax. </em><br />
<br />
Now, I'll tell you what I know (which might not really be more than the average Joe, but I will open up the floor to comments at the end; so hopefully if we pool our brains (?) we can all get something out of this!)<br />
<br />
There are many, many brands of formula. This can be extremely overwhelming for the formula newbie. Because as a new mom, you want to make sure you are buying "the best." And you will find that no one is going to be able to tell you what is "the best." Because they are all good, and they will all nourish your baby. The government has regulated baby formula, so each kind has to meet specific standards. We began using Enfamil with my son, solely because those were the samples they sent us home with from the hospital. <br />
<br />
It could have just as easily been Similac. <br />
<br />
People have asked me in the past what kind of formula we use in the intensive care nursery, so for what it's worth, we mostly use Enfamil products in my nursery. But we do stock Similac. So don't take that as one being better than the other. We are also sending many babies home now on the Gerber Good Start formula. This is the formula that WICC is now using, so that's one I'm seeing more and more of. There are also specialized (read, very expensive) formulas out there for infants with milk allergies, etc.<br />
<br />
Now that you've chosen which brand you prefer, there are ten different options within that brand... <br />
<br />
<strong><em>Devil!</em></strong><br />
<br />
As always, first consult with your pediatrician and see if he or she has any specific recommendations that would be particularly good for your baby. <br />
<br />
(And if you have a premature infant, or received special dietary instructions for your infant when it was discharged from the hospital,<em> ALWAYS</em> follow those directions.)<br />
<br />
Adeline uses the Target brand Gentlease. <br />
<br />
She was a farty little thing in the beginning, so we opted to try out the Gentlease formula which claims to help with gas and be easier to digest. Just like "Gripe water" or Mylicon drops whether it actually makes that much of a difference is debatable. <br />
<br />
But, you will find, as a new parent you will cling to any shred of hope. And then you will convince yourself that it is getting better. <br />
<br />
It's a survival technique. <br />
<br />
And no, you did not read that wrong. I did say we used the Target brand. <br />
<br />
Many new parents find it economically easier to buy generic formula. I know people that have used Costco's generic formula as well. <br />
<br />
<em>IT'S FINE!</em><br />
<br />
(Geez, I feel like I'm yelling at you guys a lot in this post. Sorry, I guess I'm just super impassioned by this discussion.)<br />
<br />
You may find that you are not in charge of what your little Duke or Duchess drinks, anyhow. The little tots can be picky! You may be forced to give them whatever they will deign to drink. For this reason I do not recommend buying a specific kind in bulk until you are sure that your baby will drink it. <br />
<br />
(Same goes for baby bottles and pacifiers. But that's a whole different post.)<br />
<br />
If you are really struggling to find a formula that your baby finds agreeable, because baby is used to your breastmilk, you may try mixing them together to ease them into the new menu. <br />
<br />
Ex. If you're making a four ounce bottle, mix three ounces breastmilk and one ounce formula. Keep decreasing the amount of breastmilk and increasing the ratio of formula. They just may need a little time to adjust. <br />
<br />
(We had to do the same thing with Henry when it was time to switch from formula to whole milk. And it did work.)<br />
<br />
I would not use this mixing strategy if, by doctor's orders, you need to have your baby on higher calorie formula. Breastmilk and standard formula are both 20 calories/ounce, so mixing them will not change the net caloric intake. If you are mixing plain breastmilk with a higher calorie formula it will dilute the caloric value. And for little teeny-weenies that is not what we want.<br />
<br />
We want <strong><span style="font-size: large;">fat</span></strong> babies!<br />
<br />
Many new parents also find that their baby's poop-a-dupe changes drastically with the switch to or addition of formula. <br />
<br />
And this is not uncommon. <br />
<br />
Addie's poops turned army green. A little off-putting, but completely normal. <br />
<br />
You will find there is a vast, vast range of what is considered normal in baby poop. The color or consistency may change, and the frequency may definitely change. <br />
<br />
As always, if you have <em>any</em> concern, call your pediatrician. <br />
<br />
<em>Lord knows</em>. I make our pediatrician <em>work</em>.<br />
<br />
(Bloody stools, or stool that looks like coffee grounds = never normal. Get your ass to el doctor.)<br />
<br />
Since babies don't just chew on the powder, we have to mix it with water.<br />
<br />
(God, babies. So high maintenance.)<br />
<br />
We use the jugs of baby water from the store. <br />
<br />
Much of this depends on the water in your area and the age of your home. There can be varying levels of different elements in tap water that you may not want your baby to have. <br />
<br />
We used tap water with Henry. <br />
<br />
We use bottled water for the princess.<br />
<br />
Both children are perfect. (In my ever-so-humble opinion.)<br />
<br />
If you do decide to use tap water, let the faucet run a bit before you fill up your bottle, just to flush out the water that was sitting in your pipes. <br />
<br />
(Be a good person and save it to water your plants or something.)<br />
<br />
It is not advised to use warm tap water for bottle mixing. Use cold water and then a bottle warmer if you must.<br />
<br />
Sorry this is getting long and boring. But you have a baby now. So, I'm guessing your days of fast-living are over, anyhow. <br />
<br />
<em>So I'll just go on.</em><br />
<br />
Breastmilk, like unicorn tears, has special properties. <br />
<br />
Freshly pumped breastmilk can sit out unrefrigerated for a period of time. <br />
<br />
Mixed formula can not. <br />
<br />
<strong>The directions say to mix what is needed for the feeding and discard unused after feeding or within one hour.</strong> <br />
<br />
You guys be good and read the directions. <br />
<br />
<em>Sometimes</em>. When God has his back turned because he's busy dealing with Lindsey Lohan or comforting a brokenhearted Taylor Swift; I will put a full fresh four ounce bottle back in the refrigerator after Addie takes two pulls off it and then decides she's not interested. <br />
<br />
This is against the rules. I'm probably going to Hell. But I do not let it sit out and I do not keep it in the refrigerator for more than three hours. I will rewarm it for her next feed. (I would <strong>not</strong> do this for a premature infant, newborn or other baby that may be more sensitive.)<br />
<br />
Addie's a hoss.<br />
<br />
Someone can write me a comment telling me about how I'm going to give her dysentery or make her explode or something and I promise I'll stop. <br />
<br />
I just die a little inside when I have to poor that much formula down the sink. I just see the money slidin' down the drain. <br />
<br />
[<em>Goodbye nice things</em>. <em> See ya never</em>.]<br />
<br />
So I've written you a book. About formula. <br />
<br />
And still not addressed many things. <br />
<br />
But that's life.<br />
<br />
Please feel free to leave additional questions, or <strong>PLEASE</strong> leave comments if you feel you have further wisdom to share. Or tell me that I'm a fucking wing-nut and I'm completely wrong. I adore those comments. <br />
<br />
Thanks "J" for reading and making me feel like a celebrity.<br />
<br />
Just keep on keepin' on. You got this, girl.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-14607182524138128072013-02-13T15:21:00.000-05:002013-02-13T22:19:54.760-05:00Delightful DIYsFor the non-SAHMs and unPinterest addicted (I think those two are probaby synonymous), I thought I'd share what you've been missing on Pinterest, while you're off doing <em>fabulous</em> things, having a <em>fabulous</em> time. <br />
<br />
I'm somewhat of a serial-crafter. I love me a good DIY.<br />
<br />
These are some of the <em>beauts</em> I've stumbled across lately:<br />
<br />
1. Your hallway looking a little drab? Need a little lift?<br />
<br />
Just break out the glue gun and some old Kenny G CDs.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Seriously y'all.<br />
<br />
When you have people over you may need to break out the acid wash jeans and your banana clips to complete the trip back to 1990 though. <br />
<br />
(I don't even know the rules about reposting pictures from Pinterest on here and for some reason can't get the source of this. But since this blog is not a money making venture and no one really cares, I don't think there's much to worry about. If you are looking for it on Pinterest, just search "broken cd mirror". And then automatically unfriend me. I don't think we're right for eachother.)<br />
<br />
2. I think it needs to be said that a white flip flop is a white flip flop. <br />
<br />
There is no dressing up a white flip flop. <br />
<br />
Or is there!?<br />
<br />
Make a 99 cent shoe...look like a $2.50 shoe. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL_eazkHvjdn5Umf8NQwVBlzVjJahwT1XPQLR3WNt6UrRd49DxtLtXJ1FT8iqBRWhhwwnq2w0-QHshnxbBuY4ZSl8fFRae2TVucS03xXGH9yYSHw3_eDChZmCv5tk1tSjT6cKzfaHYpwgL/s1600/adde718c4a9dfaac956c43a472c5b36b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL_eazkHvjdn5Umf8NQwVBlzVjJahwT1XPQLR3WNt6UrRd49DxtLtXJ1FT8iqBRWhhwwnq2w0-QHshnxbBuY4ZSl8fFRae2TVucS03xXGH9yYSHw3_eDChZmCv5tk1tSjT6cKzfaHYpwgL/s400/adde718c4a9dfaac956c43a472c5b36b.jpg" uea="true" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://diariodemiarmario.blogspot.com.ar/2012/06/sunday-diy-flip-flop-with-pearls.html" target="_blank">source</a></span></div>
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(If you're going to do this please follow the directions and 'just add a pedicure'. I'm hoping that the pedicure will distract from the greasy black foot stains on your bedazzled flops.)</div>
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3. Don't throw away your old paper towel rolls. </div>
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Please make these:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlElcQEqEto5SnJVTFLw72afJp6iIuQAehjxbsw5kp_hF9BY6ZWJYBqM1ZGbOo5aW9y0nVIo9f-6WTULllZTKePS4dou5ozcaYf7JDFmLH9wR7BsGIE_xO0OH7M074CCvxfYhpf8NZWM9P/s1600/4edcf3d0aac5bab3c5e5eeeb24a8b59e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlElcQEqEto5SnJVTFLw72afJp6iIuQAehjxbsw5kp_hF9BY6ZWJYBqM1ZGbOo5aW9y0nVIo9f-6WTULllZTKePS4dou5ozcaYf7JDFmLH9wR7BsGIE_xO0OH7M074CCvxfYhpf8NZWM9P/s400/4edcf3d0aac5bab3c5e5eeeb24a8b59e.jpg" uea="true" width="287" /></a></div>
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And then send me some pictures. </div>
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(Again, trouble finding a source. I did manage to find one link that wouldn't fully load. It looked like it was in Swedish. Those crazy Sweds. Just search 'cardboard tube cats.' And then message me and I'll give you my phone number and we can be best friends.)</div>
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4. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMB9D3FvPVYzn3vTqfU2IEDJ0tEGasvb4yKdo1Wgeo1HPdgIH5HpYaqbcleMw0L7IIImEKmmWxwkUgqsfn-YHzEN8NX0wz_C4v0ISQCtYqa6-ax97T1L6aTUhM6xu-b2B-gkaema1YHnjW/s1600/fd0476198bb9c910e23fbc797f48b2c7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMB9D3FvPVYzn3vTqfU2IEDJ0tEGasvb4yKdo1Wgeo1HPdgIH5HpYaqbcleMw0L7IIImEKmmWxwkUgqsfn-YHzEN8NX0wz_C4v0ISQCtYqa6-ax97T1L6aTUhM6xu-b2B-gkaema1YHnjW/s320/fd0476198bb9c910e23fbc797f48b2c7.jpg" uea="true" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
People will put anything in a mason jar.<br />
<br />
Here's a turd in a mason jar.<br />
<br />
Put it on your mantle. Or possibily hang it from a tree in your yard. Which I guess is something else people do with mason jars.<br />
<br />
I'm baffled, but I'm pretty sure if I wrapped a burlap bow around the top, heads would be heard exploding 'round the world. Or maybe just around the contiguous United States... below the Mason-Dixon line... east of the Mississippi. Add a monogram and you could take over the South.<br />
<br />
(If you need directions for this: it's lights...stuffed in a mason jar.)<br />
<br />
5. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN2Bw-CUHzJ0IeM5HuRRC-6Ecq0mcsjrbpnhny-DydRRCNNA59k5pik7QBQUWuoRpi-S4JuuPl2M6OVszYSzRaSFW3JSqT-CVss-kIHlpWMHBP2oRNvL45jvuVzazrhsD-mAAhmkrAhNPV/s1600/ca1b7a7f45fa82a8d6806da1e10b1311.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN2Bw-CUHzJ0IeM5HuRRC-6Ecq0mcsjrbpnhny-DydRRCNNA59k5pik7QBQUWuoRpi-S4JuuPl2M6OVszYSzRaSFW3JSqT-CVss-kIHlpWMHBP2oRNvL45jvuVzazrhsD-mAAhmkrAhNPV/s400/ca1b7a7f45fa82a8d6806da1e10b1311.jpg" uea="true" width="400" /></a></div>
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The funny thing is, I'm sure I know plenty of actual people in my life that would do this. </div>
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Unfortunately, I am not one of them. </div>
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Legos are expensive, yo.</div>
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(Damn, I thought I had that Mom of the Year award on lockdown. For all of you still in the running, just search 'lego invitation'. And don't worry about it; I'll just assume ours got lost in the mail.)</div>
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6. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlnsNrj_cIo1kpItd_S0jfzGFDmxQmPEhIJxIAtpgGffLC9ZoM5I2f0PRx2lEmu2X3MtgSqeDMc1LQzUtS33_FOgFrDFu1fhrCtvBvva9D2x3huA0GUoAfrG5rX9ekZF4aX86fgn6hHCq2/s1600/034d15fa5ab51f1c4aa88563ad9f5b37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlnsNrj_cIo1kpItd_S0jfzGFDmxQmPEhIJxIAtpgGffLC9ZoM5I2f0PRx2lEmu2X3MtgSqeDMc1LQzUtS33_FOgFrDFu1fhrCtvBvva9D2x3huA0GUoAfrG5rX9ekZF4aX86fgn6hHCq2/s400/034d15fa5ab51f1c4aa88563ad9f5b37.jpg" uea="true" width="232" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.connectingthedots.dk/2009/07/29/feel-good-pants/" target="_blank">source</a></span></div>
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DIY drawstring pants</div>
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There has got to be someone in this girl's life that said, I think straight leg may be a better look. </div>
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I feel sure of it. </div>
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Coming next week: The DIY Magic Carpet. </div>
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7. Your dog will hate you forever.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV38jOvlxzoyhHlZsPDu83wR4OWk0goMp2KE-TV2UbWE-XhC30M57qlYSHgGqwU6ah_NmHTlDXhvz6VRdBAH1uddEi1mz7QdrXeC5KKfOTE_jC1XuERsISaIAf8IFmbxd5BiruAi4KOIJE/s1600/f572aa7816b4b3444ef3069a52698736.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV38jOvlxzoyhHlZsPDu83wR4OWk0goMp2KE-TV2UbWE-XhC30M57qlYSHgGqwU6ah_NmHTlDXhvz6VRdBAH1uddEi1mz7QdrXeC5KKfOTE_jC1XuERsISaIAf8IFmbxd5BiruAi4KOIJE/s1600/f572aa7816b4b3444ef3069a52698736.jpg" uea="true" /></a></div>
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Unless your whole family was going as the Fruit of the Loom characters, and you <em>needed</em> the dog to finish it out. </div>
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Then I'm pretty sure the dog would just be happy to be a part of something so <strong>amazing</strong>. </div>
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9. I had no idea that college freshman everywhere were so eager to figure out how to make a projector for their dorm room.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6oLRMwRb9HyDzLWp6pEw7VOy4c1tZN20ZdQWn0bk90U_v2WJGebgnWQF0C0WtF9sHmJYa_81MNWtlaTfpPN67nmyqYfJvfp4rq7GBTquj9Ea64y_GWjwtgbcugmSykvhB2ryH17lBov8y/s1600/451c8d5045f8f327c58ec012f2b27574.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6oLRMwRb9HyDzLWp6pEw7VOy4c1tZN20ZdQWn0bk90U_v2WJGebgnWQF0C0WtF9sHmJYa_81MNWtlaTfpPN67nmyqYfJvfp4rq7GBTquj9Ea64y_GWjwtgbcugmSykvhB2ryH17lBov8y/s320/451c8d5045f8f327c58ec012f2b27574.jpg" uea="true" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://thecollegejuice.com/2012/07/diy-dorm-smartphone-projector/" target="_blank">source</a></span></div>
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Of course there are days when I think I can still smell the Long Island Iced Tea coming out of my pores and I graduated in 2005. </div>
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I bet if I would've went to more projector parties I wouldn't have changed my major five times.</div>
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10. Formula-feeding moms get dogged on sometimes. </div>
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<br /></div>
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But I'd just like to point out that I can repurpose my formula containers. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRx4KAoyD4QR5hMbbkcadUlg84m5hrOExnFmePAOKOcY6LQAHlDcZwEDRE8i8CxZMCMcZLVqBbSrDmNV0d4jz93SyGGYUKxcrcYZTQzDdJOiMPzpe5EZloaQ3KUNTcSFfGpRKbXQ2FDkvq/s1600/6680a47357c7422d5e4bf6ab4766a158.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRx4KAoyD4QR5hMbbkcadUlg84m5hrOExnFmePAOKOcY6LQAHlDcZwEDRE8i8CxZMCMcZLVqBbSrDmNV0d4jz93SyGGYUKxcrcYZTQzDdJOiMPzpe5EZloaQ3KUNTcSFfGpRKbXQ2FDkvq/s1600/6680a47357c7422d5e4bf6ab4766a158.jpg" uea="true" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://icanfindthetime.blogspot.com/2012/02/turn-used-formula-bin-into-cute-storage.html" target="_blank">source</a></span></div>
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You can't mod podge scrapbook paper on your boobs and store colored pencils in them, can you?</div>
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<strong>Can you?</strong></div>
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That's what I thought. </div>
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Point to the bottle feeders. </div>
Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-39157535005664944062013-02-05T14:38:00.001-05:002013-04-13T22:07:20.705-04:00It's Two Lines, Toaster!WARNING!<br />
<br />
This post will contain the word 'fuck.'<br />
<br />
Probably multiple times.<br />
<br />
But it's only because it's part of the story I'm trying to tell. I'm really not trying to be mommy gangster and scare you away with my sailor-mouth. <br />
<br />
The story I'm about to tell is actually supposed to be inspirational. Well, inspirational probably isn't the right word...<br />
<br />
<em>Supportive</em> ?<br />
<br />
<em>Motivational</em> ?<br />
<br />
I can't quite pin down the right word. I'll go with motivational. <br />
<br />
Personally, I think the word 'fuck' can be used to convey all of those things; I would buy ten Hallmark cards right now that said, <br />
<br />
"You are a <em>fucking</em> great person." <br />
<br />
And send them to all my friends.<br />
<br />
But that's probably just <em>me.</em><br />
<br />
If it offends you, but you still somehow want to read this post then try substituting a different word whenever I use 'fuck.'<br />
<br />
Like<em> toast</em>.<br />
<br />
Or <em>beehive</em>.<br />
<br />
I'll leave it up to you. <br />
<br />
If you have not had children yet and think you are above the word 'fuck', just wait until the first time you spill eight ounces of pumped breast milk.<br />
<br />
<em>Beehive</em> just doesn't cut it.<br />
<br />
<strong>Back to my point.</strong><br />
<br />
These days we are bombarded with pictures of how things are supposed to be. Movies, television...Facebook. They work together to plant little seeds of expectation in mothers' and and soon-to-be-mothers' minds.<br />
<br />
But it is <em>hardly ever</em> reality. <br />
<br />
As someone I respect once said, <br />
<br />
Facebook is just a highlight reel of someone's life. It's not the whole story. <br />
<br />
It can lead us to think we're doing things wrong when the real story doesn't play out like a scene from a Saturday afternoon Hallmark movie. <br />
<br />
(Side note: Hallmark Channel was <em>killing</em> it last Saturday with the movies. I don't even care that they are all different versions of the same story. <em>Awesome</em>.)<br />
<br />
On a cold December morning 36 months ago it was that adorable seed of expectation fluttering in my belly as I prepared to tell Michael that I was pregnant. <br />
<br />
(In my mind it was going to involve lots of laughter and joyful tears and possibly some lovely instrumental music.)<br />
<br />
<strong>Me:</strong> Well I'm not pregnant.<br />
<br />
<strong>Michael:</strong> It's okay, we'll just keep trying.<br />
<br />
<strong>Me:</strong> <strong><em> Psych. </em></strong>I am pregnant.<br />
<br />
(None of my fantasies of this moment involved using the word <em>psych</em>. It's like I was suddenly in 5th grade again. I blame it on the excitement. Maybe the hormones. I definitely blame the hormones for what happened next.)<br />
<br />
<strong>Michael:</strong> Wow! That's great let me see!!<br />
<br />
<strong>Me:</strong> {Excitedly showing off the pee stick.}<br />
<br />
<strong>Michael:</strong> I don't know. The second line is awfully faint. I can hardly see it...<br />
<br />
<strong>Me:</strong> <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjykGvvO5gWSXBPoehYdcikNJh7cIt36MKi1dMRas_odkbFZwRyo85JpfauLHy-a-b7RQq43DD-l73XIigIOUIeuAjkMwfGxx8esbES4glzCvb3N4KK4rCdQbsZ2ptnMw1VNvsfiwNwJ_3P/s1600/tumblr_lqu14fBg1z1qh1km4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="302" jea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjykGvvO5gWSXBPoehYdcikNJh7cIt36MKi1dMRas_odkbFZwRyo85JpfauLHy-a-b7RQq43DD-l73XIigIOUIeuAjkMwfGxx8esbES4glzCvb3N4KK4rCdQbsZ2ptnMw1VNvsfiwNwJ_3P/s320/tumblr_lqu14fBg1z1qh1km4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>It's two lines, fucker!</em></span></div>
<br />
<strong>Michael:</strong> What just happened. Shake it off.<br />
<br />
<strong>Me:</strong> Wow.<br />
<br />
Just as my fantasies didn't include using the word 'psych', they also did not include calling my husband 'fucker'.<br />
<br />
(Incidentally, the moment did also include laughter and joy. Sadly, no lovely instrumental music though.)<br />
<br />
This actually couldn't have been a more perfect beginning to our journey into parenthood. <br />
<br />
It is parenthood in a nutshell. <br />
<br />
Impossible to plan, and almost never what you thought it was going to be.<br />
<br />
(Mostly it's vastly better, occasionally far, far worse.)<br />
<br />
Parenthood just happens. It unfolds in front of you with no way of planning for the dips and dives. But it's the dips and dives that you have to embrace. They will be the highlights of your memories with your children. I'm sure my parents don't remember every 'perfect' moment we ever shared, but they sure do remember the time I pooped all over the conveyor belt at the grocery store. <br />
<br />
My lovely co-worker probably won't remember every 'precious' anecdote from her son's childhood, but when he's all grown up I'm sure she'll tell him that when he was two he liked to sit on the air vent and feel the breeze in his hair while he took a dump. (Who can blame the kid, really?) <br />
<br />
These ugly beautiful, unexpected and crazy moments.<br />
<br />
(Ugly beautiful is a thing. I made it up, or someone made it up. It's something so hideous that it's sort of beautiful. Like hairless cats. Or most of the contestants on America's Next Top Model. Or penises.)<br />
<br />
So I guess my motivational message is:<br />
<br />
Don't get caught up in expectation. <br />
<br />
Just let it unfold, and like we do when something totally unexpected, but nonetheless memorable, and oftentimes hysterical happens;<br />
<br />
Just think to yourself, "It's two lines, fucker!"<br />
<br />
Or, "It's two lines, toaster!"<br />
<br />
(If that makes you more comfortable.)<br />
<br />
P.S. If any of my poor, poor in-laws end up reading this... hopefully not; this is not the story you heard. <br />
<br />
This is what actually happened.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-21401413844488346492013-01-29T14:50:00.002-05:002013-01-30T23:57:26.820-05:00Fancy NancyOkay, I'm not proud of it, but I used to be a judgey-wudgey bear.<br />
<br />
Okay, I'm not proud of it, but I probably still am a bit of a judgey-wudgey bear. <br />
<br />
BUT<br />
<br />
Now, I have shat out two children and have earned the right. <br />
<br />
Under no circumstances do I want "Parenting Advice" (i.e. random facts someone heard once about babies, veiled in judgement) from someone that doesn't have children. <br />
<br />
But, But, But, But:<br />
<br />
I have <em>lots</em> of cousins.<br />
<br />
But, But, But, But:<br />
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I used to babysit <em>all</em> the time.<br />
<br />
But, But, But, But: <br />
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My neighbor has kids and I watch them every third Saturday for an <em>hour and a half.</em><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">Nope.</span> <br />
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Wrong answer, but good try.<br />
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Come back when you have stretch marks. <br />
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<u>Things uttered by the<strong> bad</strong> childless friend (also goes by the aliases "Fun and Fancy Free" (FFF), "Fancy Nancy" (who does that bitch think she is, always in real pants.) and "Judge Judy."</u></div>
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1. "Wow, little Horatio is still waking up in the night to eat. Geez, babies are supposed to be able to go twelve hours with out eating by this time!"<br />
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2. "Goodness, little Henrietta still has a pacifier when she goes to bed. Man, she's creeping up on three. You better get rid of that or her teeth are going to be really messed up."<br />
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3. "You give Franklin M&Ms if he behaves at the grocery store and stays in the cart. Well, I guess <em>bribery</em> is one way to do it..."<br />
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4. "Fart blossom isn't pooping in the potty yet! Wow, she's four!" <br />
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<em>Really,</em> you don't say!<br />
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5. "Just let them cry it out."<br />
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Sure thing, FFF. That always sounds like such a great plan at 9:00 pm.<br />
<br />
Oh how the picture looks different at 1:00 am. <br />
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Do you want to come over at 3:20 am and listen to two hours of screaming, all the while knowing your other child will be up at 5:45 am come hell or high water. Or do you want to pop that paci back in???<br />
<br />
6. "Just turn the monitor off!" <br />
<br />
Another one of my favorites!<br />
<br />
The joys of the "Starter House." <br />
<br />
You don't even need a baby monitor. You can hear a mouse fart when your bedrooms are two inches apart. <br />
<br />
7. "Why are you always late!?"<br />
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Hmmm. That's a tough one. Coming from a neurotically punctual person, who could never even grasp the concept of lateness:<br />
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"I mean, why don't they just get up earlier and give themselves more time... or leave earlier...there's really no excuse."<br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure Jesus heard those words come out of my mouth at some point, as he has spent every day of the last two years making me regret them. <br />
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Children don't have organs, they have accidents.<br />
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They are chalk-full of accidents. In every conceivable way possible they will slow down the process of whatever you are trying to do.<br />
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If Jesus had a toddler with him, it would have taken four days and nights to rise. <br />
<br />
Count on it.<br />
<br />
Preschool start time is 9:00 am.<br />
<br />
I start getting them ready to leave at 7:00 am, yet somehow we are still always running through the parking lot at 8:59, with me yelling,<br />
<br />
"Henry, show Mommy how fast you can run!!"<br />
<br />
Things spill, people poop (<em>ALWAYS </em>two minutes before you walk out the door) and keys get "hidden."<br />
<br />
And your toddler will not remember, ever, ever, ever, what happened to <em>anything</em>.<br />
<br />
That is the only fact of parenting you can truly count on. <br />
<br />
8. "I just can't stand to <em>not</em> wash my hair every day!"<br />
<br />
No.<br />
<br />
9. "You must enjoy napping while they nap!"<br />
<br />
You know what, damn it, I do enjoy it!<br />
<br />
It doesn't happen often, and on the occasions it does, I earned it. <br />
<br />
So yes, I do enjoy it.<br />
<br />
Keep telling yourself that because I get to nap for an hour during the day every two months my job is way easier than whatever it is you do.<br />
<br />
10. "When I have kids..."<br />
<br />
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.<br />
<br />
Sorry I tuned out because whatever you're saying is not going to happen.<br />
<br />
I'm just going to save every mom, everywhere the time and energy: <br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;">SHUT YOUR FACE, FANCY NANCY.</span></em><br />
<br />
Unless, you have stared down the barrel of 2:15 am, a screaming toddler, a baby with croup and a double ear infection and a wake up time that even the devil can't conceive, I don't want to hear about how bad a pacifier is for my toddler's teeth.<br />
<br />
We all know Judge Judy. We all<em> love</em> Judge Judy. She is a great person. She just doesn't have kids. <em> Yet.</em><br />
<br />
But we will rest comfortably (and slightly smugly) in the fact that she will someday.<br />
<br />
And that fact alone, is enough to keep us going.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-47447044554370080732013-01-16T14:04:00.002-05:002013-01-16T14:04:44.072-05:00The Check-Out HoodI find myself a little scatterbrained as of late. That being said, I'm having terrible trouble forming coherent paragraphs with a clear message. <br />
<br />
So<em><strong> lists</strong></em> it is for now, ladies and gents. <br />
<br />
We are in the thick of toddlerism here. Sometimes it's funny. Oftentimes maddening, with a fair bit of completely embarrassing thrown in for good measure. <br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: large;">Toddler Survival Tips/Unexpected Nightmares/Fooling the Toddler/ Why Didn't Anyone Ever Warn Me About This?</span></strong></div>
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1. They have been watching. Yes, this <em>whole </em>time.</div>
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If we learned anything from Jurassic Park it's that we should all be scared of the Velociraptors.</div>
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Because they<i><b> learn</b></i>. </div>
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Toddlers are tiny velociraptors. Everyday they kick metaphorical pebbles at the electrified fence that is your mental and emotional stability. </div>
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They are searching for weaknesses. Flaws in the system.</div>
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They will find and exploit the weaknesses. </div>
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2. Toddlers are master manipulators. </div>
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See #1.</div>
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The first time you realize that, "I wub bu momma" is not just a sweet sentiment whispered by your sensitive and adorable toddler, but actually the first step in an intricate dance to acquire Teddy Grahams. </div>
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3. Toddlers learn new words at an alarming rate. While you may struggle with understanding their quickly growing vocabulary, no clearer words will ever be uttered than in the presence of judgemental outsiders. </div>
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i.e. grocery store clerks, preschool/daycare teachers, other moms. </div>
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So when you pick your son up from preschool and the teacher pulls you aside and says, with an extremely concerned look on her face, that your child has said, </div>
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"Mama, divorce. Mama divorce." several times. </div>
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You will then be forced to explain that it's because as you were flipping through US Weekly, you mentioned that you couldn't believe Bethany and Jason were getting a divorce. </div>
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And then you have to face the questioning/disapproving look as the teacher tries to decide what is worse: </div>
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That she thinks you're trying to cover up your own divorce; or that you read US Weekly to your toddler like other moms read bedtime stories. </div>
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Telling her, "It's no big deal, he also knows the words 'faux hawk' and 'rehab'," will not help the situation. </div>
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Trust me. </div>
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4. Toddlers are like little shadows. </div>
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I have become so accustomed to this that I stopped giving it a second thought, long ago. </div>
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This results in your now very verbal toddler making descriptive proclamations to all who will listen. </div>
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In the check out line at Target,<br />
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"Mama poops."</div>
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"Mama poops brown."</div>
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When Henry's vocabulary includes the words 'mangled', 'saggy' and 'varicose veins'. I know I'm going to have to be more careful of his whereabouts when I get out of the shower. </div>
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5. Television is not the enemy. I don't know how many times I've heard that television is bad for my kid. </div>
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Well, sure, if I plop him in front of it <em>all </em>day. </div>
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But in doses, my friends, the television is your ally. </div>
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It can buy you a few minutes to vacuum a room, scrub a poop stain out of your couch, sit down for five minutes to hook a baby to the old boob, or talk on the phone with your therapist....</div>
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I mean friend. </div>
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Henry knows all of his letters and most of the accompanying sounds. </div>
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And I can guarantee that is about 80% Super Why and 20% me/preschool.</div>
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Maybe 95/5.</div>
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6. Another benefit of television occurs when your child adopts a favorite show. You can use fictional television characters to get your toddler to do whatever you want. </div>
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Examples:</div>
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Henry, Caillou loves to brush his teeth. </div>
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Henry, Caillou doesn't sit on<em> his</em> sissy's head.</div>
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Henry, Caillou loves to go to bed, it's his favorite.</div>
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Done and done.</div>
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7. Check-out lines are toddler minefields.</div>
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I am in the process of devising some sort of hood that I can put on Henry's head while we wait to check out. </div>
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The presence of candy bars, match box cars and any number of other trinkets is just too much for him. </div>
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I know the "Check-out Hood" sounds drastic, but I'm quite sure if I make it out of burlap, twine and decorative felt flowers it will become an overnight Pinterest sensation. </div>
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I never realized how much women love burlap (?)</div>
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8. Don't fall for "kid's salons."</div>
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They woo you with their bright colors, fancy chairs and prizes, but I'm concerned that the employees have never actually learned to cut hair. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZap-IHlysaj5brY5O06GGqCKPAjPDMBWqjVdj6WvrBblbAQJew3ARX4su510MX7fhimGxOaY_mtMa5lQTszw5e5qKa9W5bJF1rJt_uti09xBV8UA07cBouxiC1xMPj2laYU8e7U5qU9W/s1600/IMG_2225%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvZap-IHlysaj5brY5O06GGqCKPAjPDMBWqjVdj6WvrBblbAQJew3ARX4su510MX7fhimGxOaY_mtMa5lQTszw5e5qKa9W5bJF1rJt_uti09xBV8UA07cBouxiC1xMPj2laYU8e7U5qU9W/s400/IMG_2225%5B1%5D.JPG" width="298" /></a></div>
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They have, however, watched Dumb and Dumber.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihzzy3ZxIkYVwDXSKUklTOYoo-GfyQ35ELWbZx29sEFSgyQjzW_6C8kERSgEn078Rc2DfIkPjYtGNIOvANrq5tWxJOeBJDrYG1w90gvTy2BxERbIsM1UxtrTTeHVxZGeYseLByGkP-leM_/s1600/Jim-Carrey-in-Dumb-and-Du-010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihzzy3ZxIkYVwDXSKUklTOYoo-GfyQ35ELWbZx29sEFSgyQjzW_6C8kERSgEn078Rc2DfIkPjYtGNIOvANrq5tWxJOeBJDrYG1w90gvTy2BxERbIsM1UxtrTTeHVxZGeYseLByGkP-leM_/s320/Jim-Carrey-in-Dumb-and-Du-010.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Capturing Henry's stunned attention was easy, I just said, "Hey look, there's Caillou."</div>
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Works every time. </div>
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9. Toddlers poop like adults. </div>
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It's terrible and hideous and it'll give you nightmares.</div>
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As my husband so eloquently stated, "There's meat in that diaper."</div>
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10. A toddler would eat a turd if it had Parmesan cheese sprinkled on it. </div>
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Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-9704174030007476552013-01-11T21:50:00.001-05:002013-04-16T13:51:49.848-04:00A Different ViewpointIf you're looking for something funny to read, you might want to keep moving. <br />
<br />
Cause mama's 'bout to vent. And it probably won't be funny. (It will probably be full of run-on sentences. And it will contain no actual data that required research and reading articles...who's got time for that? Just me, getting pretty damn fed up.)<br />
<br />
I had to stop watching A Baby Story. This used to be one of my staple shows. I loved it. I didn't even mind the birthing bathtubs and chanting peace mantras. Whatever floats your boat. <br />
<br />
(From personal experience I can say some prettttty creepy mess comes out of the business-end before, during and after labor; the thought of soaking in those juices made me heave. So we opted out of the birthing tub. But <strong><em>no</em></strong> judgement. You <em>work</em> that tub girlfriend.)<br />
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I had to stop watching it because I just got so tired of hearing mothers talk about the "birth experience" that they wanted. <br />
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<em>Nay,</em> expected. <br />
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I got tired of hearing, "Women have given birth for centuries with no medical intervention. Our bodies <em><strong>know</strong></em> what to do." <br />
<br />
While this may be true, please consider how many infants died throughout the centuries in these unassisted, squatting-in-a-barley-field births. Probably upwards of 50%. (Just throwing that out there. There is NO factual data that supports that statement. Just logic.)<br />
<br />
Then the other day I had the misfortune of stumbling upon some "article" someone had posted on Pinterest that<strong> <em>EVERY FUTURE MOTHER MUST READ! </em></strong><br />
<em><br /></em>Ahh, just the stuff I love (If you couldn't tell from my blog.) Please enlighten me Pinterest! (I am the most willing and avid student of Pinterest that has ever lived.)<br />
<br />
<em><strong>THE TOP FIVE HOSPITAL INTERVENTIONS THAT WILL RUIN YOUR BIRTH, LEAD TO COMPLICATIONS AND UNNECESSARY INTERVENTIONS.</strong></em><br />
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Wow. <br />
<br />
That's a bold statement. Now I'm really interested. <br />
<br />
I love the Internet. I love google. I love having information at my fingertips. <br />
<br />
I do not love that anyone can post things on the Internet (irony?) I do not love that people can post data, possibly out of context that can affect many peoples' important decisions.<br />
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If you are a mother doing research on giving birth, I congratulate you. You are being proactive and trying to gain all the information possible to have a healthy birthing experience. And <em><strong>most importantly</strong></em>, a healthy baby.<br />
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(I fear, in this day and age, the "Birth Experience" of mom has come to lie in front of "Healthy Baby" in the grand order of importance of things...) <br />
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Oh, you want to give birth on the beach, listening to the waves and have a sea turtle lick the cheesy mess off your baby so it can become one with nature right out of the womb? GREAT! Go right ahead! <br />
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I'm afraid a well meaning mother may come across articles that villainize western medicine and medical intervention. They may see the statistics that tell them they are 95% (a complete shot-in-the-dark percentage, totally made up) likely to have a completely normal, uncomplicated birth with out going to the hospital and enduring the wrath of all those <em><strong>evil</strong></em> nurses and doctors. <br />
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How dare those evil nurses stick you with a needle and start an IV! How completely unnecessary!<br />
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Unless, of course, an emergency arises and they need to do an emergency c-section to save your baby's life. Actually it's life and it's brain function. Or your life. <br />
<br />
Your life with your new baby...who now may or may not live because they had to take two extra minutes to start an IV. Two minutes is a long time to a fetus that isn't getting enough oxygen to its brain. Or God forbid, you start to hemorrhage. Two minutes is a long time when you're losing blood at an alarming rate.<br />
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How dare those bitchy nurses make you wear fetal heart rate monitors! How dare they expect you to be tethered to a machine while you're in labor. Don't they know you need to walk and chant and bounce on your exercise ball and go to the cafeteria for frozen yogurt? After all, intermittent monitoring is proven to be just as effective! Yes, how dare those nurses tether you to a monitor. It really is<em> useless</em>. <br />
<br />
Unless, of course, your baby isn't tolerating the contractions as well as you think he/she is. Unless your baby has a knot in its umbilical cord, and that knot starts to tighten as it reaches zero station. Unless your placenta abrupts. Unless any other number of things happen that affect the blood flow to your baby.<br />
<br />
When the blood flow to your baby is affected or the baby is not tolerating labor it drops its heart rate. It drops its heart rate and hopefully it rebounds back up. Hopefully, your intermittent monitor catches one of those episodes. Hopefully, that umbilical cord knot you had no way of knowing was there doesn't start to tighten right <em>after </em>they get done with that intermittent heart rate check. It'll be another 30 minutes until they check again. I wonder what that would do to your baby?<br />
<br />
I'll tell you what that would do to your baby. <br />
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Your baby's brain would slowly be suffocated. It would not receive enough oxygen to maintain its metabolism and it would start to die. When they did check your baby's heart rate again, it may be 30. It may be 56. It may be 85. There might not be a heart rate. <br />
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A sustained heart rate of 60 beats per minute is when we start doing chest compressions in the neonatal intensive care unit. That is when your baby would be ventilated with a bag and mask or other resuscitator. <br />
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That is when your baby starts to turn blue.<br />
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When your birthing team realizes that an emergency is taking place you will need a c-section. They will get your baby out as fast as humanly possible. <br />
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And it won't be fast enough. <br />
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His Apgar scores will be zero at one minute, zero at five minutes. <br />
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And, <em>just maybe</em>, they manage to revive your baby after five minutes. Maybe his ten minute Apgar is two. <br />
<br />
That means your baby was dead...dead...and then barely alive. <br />
<br />
The baby will mostly likely go on a cooling blanket to lower its core body temperature and try to save some brain function. <br />
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He will most likely be diagnosed with Hypoxic Ischemic Encephalopathy (HIE). This means that the baby's brain degenerated drastically because it suffered a prolonged period of inadequate blood supply or oxygenation. <br />
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Your baby most likely will have lost his reflexes. He won't suck a pacifier. He won't suck a bottle. He will get fed through a tube that goes directly into his stomach. He will be sort of floppy because he doesn't have the brain function to maintain adequate muscle tone. That means his airway will be floppy too. He won't be able to manage his secretions by swallowing and coughing, so a nurse will have to suction his airway when they start to build up. Or about every 15 minutes. If he doesn't get suctioned he will go into respiratory arrest and he will die. <br />
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This is just a snapshot. A horrifying picture. But I paint it because it's important. I had a completely healthy pregnancy with my son. I was not overweight, I was not diabetic. I followed all of my prenatal instructions explicitly. <br />
<br />
After my son was born we saw that he had a knot the size of a nectarine in his umbilical cord. <br />
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Thankfully, it never tightened. It never affected him. At least that we saw on the monitor. <br />
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But I rest comfortably in the fact that I was monitored. Had something gone wrong, we would have known immediately. <br />
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He would have been out<em> immediately</em>. And that still may not have been fast enough. <br />
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But <em><strong>I</strong></em> would know that he didn't suffer because<em><strong> I</strong></em> wanted to labor on the beach.<br />
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The point of this post is not to scare pregnant women or expectant parents. Quite the opposite. It is meant to paint a picture of reality. While there may be a 98% chance that everything will go perfectly, I challenge you to think of the other 2%. <br />
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What they wouldn't give to change their situation. To have made a different decision. To decide that maybe the ability to jaunt around freely during labor wasn't so vitally important. <br />
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I don't understand why parents make every change expected of them to keep their baby safe during pregnancy and then question every single safety measure when it comes time for the birth. When it comes time for the birth everyone wants to hand out their laminated birthing plan, detailing which interventions are acceptable and which are not. <br />
<br />
Everything that happens in the hospital is designed to get your baby out as safely as possible. <br />
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Hospital protocols are not arbitrary. They are not designed to make you feel trapped and unnatural. They are not designed to lessen your birth experience; <br />
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Hospital protocols are put in place because of extensive research and past experiences. Past tragedies. <br />
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Hospital protocols exist so that the terrible thing that happened to a bunch of people before you, doesn't happen to you. <br />
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Doesn't happen to <strong>your</strong> baby. <br />
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I am a nurse. I am a neonatal intermediate and intensive care nurse. I <em>have</em> a job because things go wrong.<br />
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I wish things always went smoothly. I wish I wasn't needed. I would pay good money to unsee some of the things I have seen at work. <br />
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But I can't. <br />
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If you are pregnant, congratulations!! You have wonderful things in store for you. The odds are in your favor that everything will go perfectly :) I want you to have the best birth experience possible. I just felt I had to share the view from the NICU. <br />
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It is a place I don't want to meet you. <br />
<br />
(I just know this post is inviting a whole bunch of people to chew my ass out and thow statistics and midwifery text books at my head. Have at it. This was just one person's opinion. One side of the story I've never seen shared, and I thought it was just high time.)Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-91901761827297332542012-12-20T14:23:00.000-05:002012-12-21T09:19:53.571-05:00And a Most Exciting Kwanzaa to You!Well. It has been a hot minute since I have been up in your grill with my nonsense.<br />
<br />
I hope I can remedy that today.<br />
<br />
The last month has consisted of much gift preparation. Leaving no time for writing. <br />
<br />
And zero outlet for my bitchy side, Francis. Francis has been under wraps and she is <em>raging</em>.<br />
<br />
Michael has been<em> loving</em> it. (Written in sarcastic font.)<br />
<br />
I was feeling a little puffy. So full of pent up snark.<br />
<br />
And then Friday happened. <br />
<br />
And then I didn't know what to feel. <br />
<br />
Except scared. Hopeless. Devastated. Confused. Sad. <br />
<br />
Just so sad.<br />
<br />
I lost all snark. The bitchiness was gone. I didn't even want to punch anybody in the face. <br />
<br />
And then all the gun debates started and I quickly regained my urge to punch people in the face. <br />
<br />
So don't worry. Francis lives on. <br />
<br />
In the spirit of trying to find some light in these dark days, I thought I'd make a list.<br />
<br />
I don't know what to call it because there really is no theme...?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>Things that Don't Suck/Things I am Thankful For/Funny Things/Things that are Better than the End of the World.</strong></div>
<br />
1. Upon threat of death, Michael finally stopped wiping tooth paste on the hand towel in the bathroom. Yay! I'm pretty sure he feels severely oppressed, but I told him that towel was purely decorational and did not serve any actual purpose. Except to dry the hands of the guests we never have. <br />
<br />
2. Giant seasonal tins of popcorn. I hate carmel corn and Michael hates chedder corn. I am only luke warm about the butter flavor. It results in all dividers of popcorn being eaten at the same rate. Very pleasing to my OCD side. <br />
<br />
3. Pinterest taught me to wrap the stem of my bananas in plastic wrap. It kept our bananas longer. Thanks Pinterest.<br />
<br />
4. Pinterest also taught me how to clean the wax out of old candles. Which did sort of suck. And now I have many glass jars that I have nothing to do with. But because of Pinterest I refuse to throw them away. <br />
<br />
Horrible Catch 22.<br />
<br />
5. If the world does end, there will be no more Ke$ha.<br />
<br />
'Bout damn time.<br />
<br />
6. Last night I looked over to find Michael drinking a cup of cocoa and eating a hard boiled egg. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3uScvYuUCj_Lmd7XDC6kGsvKgHgNvwLgEZ2djWusjZ905Pj5eqLT4jwbMrUKFSZ5kYdqxjnIEcR-A-InmLeiolFED7JaaWStjAOM5qqLhuwV3A7IgkrXpvu4JWmDN8NeRVQigg-hGfgL9/s1600/IMG_2171%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3uScvYuUCj_Lmd7XDC6kGsvKgHgNvwLgEZ2djWusjZ905Pj5eqLT4jwbMrUKFSZ5kYdqxjnIEcR-A-InmLeiolFED7JaaWStjAOM5qqLhuwV3A7IgkrXpvu4JWmDN8NeRVQigg-hGfgL9/s320/IMG_2171%5B1%5D.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>
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I married a retiree.</div>
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(Excuse the crack in the lens. That happened in the 4 hour span in which my phone was with out a protective cover. True story.)</div>
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7. Incidentally, I also found out that he thinks the lyrics to Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree are:</div>
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Rockin' around the Christmas tree</div>
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At the Christmas party <em>house.</em></div>
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Mistletoe hung where you can see</div>
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Ev'ry couple tries to stop</div>
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Christmas Party <em>House</em>? </div>
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I said, it's <em>Hop. The Christmas Party HOP.</em></div>
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He disagreed, and it's pretty much the only debate of this kind I have ever won in our entire marriage. </div>
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Merry Christmas to me!</div>
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8. The fact that I have never won any of these small debates doesn't bother me. All I have to do is look at our children. It's like my genes kicked his in the shins and said, </div>
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<br /></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: large;">"Sit yo ass down."</span></em></div>
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So maybe I won the most important battle of all. </div>
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9. Michael made the soft almond sugar cookies from Pinterest, upon my request. </div>
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They were spectacular. I highly recommend!</div>
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10. Doing some blog clean-up, I noticed a crazy amount of views on one of my old, old, old posts. (The ones I can't read because they are full of long, un-funny paragraphs with run-on sentences and a thousand commas. Although, I do still love commas. A lot.)</div>
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This is highly unusual because really only about 8 people visit this blog a day. And I bet I could tell you who they are. And they're probably just killing time on the toilet. </div>
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We've all done it. </div>
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The winner is: <a href="http://realnewmom.blogspot.com/2010/11/undie-sundae.html" target="_blank">Undie Sundae</a></div>
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After looking it up, I've found that 9,266 people have read this post since I wrote it.</div>
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It gives me great joy (an unreasonable amount actually) to know that I have, unbeknownst to me, been helping to heal, to coin a phrase of one of my co-workers, Miss. Kittys, since 2010. </div>
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(See that sentence right there, that was a nod to my love of commas. I don't even care if I use them right. I just throw them around willy-nilly.)</div>
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I can really ring in the new year with hope now;</div>
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I feel like a vaginal guardian angel of sorts.</div>
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11. Commas.</div>
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12. This face:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ-A-n2I-1kYQlWDTszN_oCyaDmFk1di2zeidfzxD3vxp9SP8LWIZsFOoDHakqgsj_Hl1MQmep9TbEyN7tJDqXwenfVRjVXnFsWR8aNndjwOWmglhOkO2rEp2w0ptLh_SyAv7GERPm48U0/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ-A-n2I-1kYQlWDTszN_oCyaDmFk1di2zeidfzxD3vxp9SP8LWIZsFOoDHakqgsj_Hl1MQmep9TbEyN7tJDqXwenfVRjVXnFsWR8aNndjwOWmglhOkO2rEp2w0ptLh_SyAv7GERPm48U0/s400/photo.JPG" width="342" /></a></div>
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<em>I mean. </em>I die.</div>
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13.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAGx3_so5dC-JuSG6lJbMZwW_VT0SJCCYHlhDkulUbwPexrILExNmfRJi-GOBJkJZD5dk3bzVHCEV9Iji0PsZodRMHkpeDRSOxC504kuAMgSXGx5cd7qJjOazMQoqEBZO2Iv-G38HMgeIl/s1600/IMG_2124%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAGx3_so5dC-JuSG6lJbMZwW_VT0SJCCYHlhDkulUbwPexrILExNmfRJi-GOBJkJZD5dk3bzVHCEV9Iji0PsZodRMHkpeDRSOxC504kuAMgSXGx5cd7qJjOazMQoqEBZO2Iv-G38HMgeIl/s400/IMG_2124%5B1%5D.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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14. Our refrigerator.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDjMM-xu2VwYaE6sgXtahiOxevqyED0t6bmslZyXQpgepGpuchrkJaMdU0oiqjV5q7vyj0Ksn3jjNR18_mhg3eSmhZWCeMIfP8-4pZdMsqXcPzXEw6n7woQC6wC-aTg1J7roe1WOr18qNK/s1600/IMG_2180%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDjMM-xu2VwYaE6sgXtahiOxevqyED0t6bmslZyXQpgepGpuchrkJaMdU0oiqjV5q7vyj0Ksn3jjNR18_mhg3eSmhZWCeMIfP8-4pZdMsqXcPzXEw6n7woQC6wC-aTg1J7roe1WOr18qNK/s400/IMG_2180%5B1%5D.JPG" width="298" /></a></div>
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It's not stainless steel, it's not sleek and pretty. The door ice maker doesn't work.</div>
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It is chaotic and messy, but it is full of reminders that a family lives here. </div>
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And we have a lot of love. </div>
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And that is a whole lot of light on dark days. </div>
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Wishing you a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah and Happy Kwanzaa!</div>
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(I actually had to google, "How do you wish someone a Happy Kwanzaa? I wasn't sure if it was Happy Kwanzaa, Merry Kwanzaa, Exciting Kwanzza?? Turns out I was right with Happy Kwanzaa. Joyous and Jubilant Kwanzaa is also acceptable.)</div>
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P.S. I also learned another<span class="ft"> Kwanzaa greeting in Swahili is 'Harambee!,' which means, "Let's all pull together." </span></div>
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<span class="ft">Google, as ever, you are so wise and timely.</span></div>
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<span class="ft">Harambee!</span></div>
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Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-84390367562553634422012-10-25T10:30:00.001-04:002012-11-20T00:09:18.756-05:00Wine NightYou know what is pretty scary?<br />
<br />
Women.<br />
<br />
Women can be very scary.<br />
<br />
A whole room full of women can be very, very scary.<br />
<br />
Even if these women are your friends. There is still a small chance that they could turn on you. <br />
<br />
Probably the only beast God created that can judge you before it rips out your throat.<br />
<br />
Michael, typically, did not understand what I was SO stressed out about on Tuesday night, as I prepared for ten women to come over to my house for book club.<br />
<br />
TEN women.<br />
<br />
That is more people than have ever been in my house.<br />
<br />
By like...ten.<br />
<br />
In the past my idea of entertaining has been setting out a bag of Tostitos and a jar of queso.<br />
<br />
And quite honestly, most of the time it's the Walmart brand of corn chips that are really cheap. So I technically don't even serve people whole chips. I serve them chip pieces. <br />
<br />
What's that? Jarred queso is supposed to be warmed before serving. <br />
<br />
Well. Just chalk that up to something I'll know for next time. <br />
<br />
And no, the chips aren't even in a cute basket.<br />
<br />
So, understandably, I was at DEFCON 5 at 6 pm on Tuesday night. Simultaneously on the phone with my mother, delegating to Michael, who was trying to explain to me what an egg white was, and googling 'italian bread crumbs'. I had regular bread crumbs. Possibly if I just threw in some parmesan they would be 'italian bread crumbs'?<br />
<br />
I'm told no.<br />
<br />
In my opinion, if you put parmesan on something it's a least a little bit Italian. <br />
<br />
Especially if you pronounce it like Giada does. <em> Parmigiano reggiano</em>...<br />
<br />
Then it's at least 75% Italian. (This is true. Just trust me)<br />
<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: WE NEED MORE WINE!<br />
<br />
<strong>Michael:</strong> You have<em> FIVE</em> bottles of wine. On what planet is that not enough?<br />
<br />
<strong>Me:</strong> On my planet.<br />
<br />
<strong>Michael:</strong> Everything is going to be okay. There will be plenty. Plus, people have to drive home, they can't drink <em>that </em>much.<br />
<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: Listen. A large majority of these women are mothers. They are good for at least a bottle a piece. A few of them are attorneys <em>and</em> mothers. So basically when they go to work they get to mediate more toddler arguments...but with adults. I'm going to safely say they can probably put it away. Except the pregnant one. We'll have to watch her. And one is responsible for keeping people asleep while their insides are being sliced open. <em>Sliced open. </em>I can't even imagine the day she's had? Now that I stop and think about it, how are these women my friends? They are all very professional and <em>impassioned </em>about things. I PICK MY FEET AND EAT QUESO! And our carpet is really dirty! <span style="font-size: large;">Why didn't we recarpet when we moved in!? </span><br />
<br />
<strong>Michael:</strong> You are getting a little hysterical.<br />
<br />
And then, like Henry at the fair, my head exploded.<br />
<br />
Two appetizers were served. That I had never made before.<br />
<br />
When my mom heard that. Her head exploded. <br />
<br />
<strong>My mom:</strong> (on the phone at 6:30, guests to arrive at 7 pm) <strong><em>You've never made any of this before!?</em></strong><br />
<br />
<strong>Me: </strong>Holy shit. I can't handle this. It's like you don't even know me!.<br />
<br />
<strong>My mom:</strong> It's going to be fine. Don't worry. If the food is bad, you'll have plenty. If it's good, and you run out, it's still fine. It's not an all-you-can-eat buffet. And if all else fails, there's wine. I love you. <br />
<br />
Thank God for moms.<br />
<br />
And husbands. Who make your egg wash and season your bread crumbs, while you hyperventilate. <br />
<br />
It actually went well...I think...<br />
<br />
There was a point where conversation was centered around the nominees for District Court Judge and all I could think was:<br />
<br />
What are they saying? I don't understand any of these words.<br />
<br />
I hope no one looks at me. The most significant thought I've had today is realizing that my feet are really ugly and I need to do something about that. <br />
<br />
I hate winter feet! You forget about them because they are socked. And then one day you look down and scream.<br />
<br />
Like I said, I have no idea how I fell in with this group of people. It was probably an accident.<br />
<br />
Actually, I think it was my husband. People assume because he acts professional and normal...<br />
<br />
That his wife must be too.<br />
<br />
Mmmm. <em> Notsomuch.</em><br />
<br />
I would like to thank all the lovely ladies that attended. I think we all had fun. Or at least you pretended well, which I appreciate. <br />
<br />
No one even batted an eyelash when I got into a rant about dying infants. <br />
<br />
I'm not sure how it happened. I think I had four glasses of wine in me at that point. (I blame the stress.)<br />
<br />
But let's all just agree to not talk about my job at book club. <br />
<br />
That'll kill your buzz.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-14503844857852625132012-10-17T10:00:00.000-04:002012-10-17T10:03:14.275-04:00I'll be your goat.I believe J. Biebs said it perfectly:<br />
<br />
As long as you love me<br />
We could be starving, we could be homeless, we could be broke<br />
As long as you love me<br />
I'll be your platinum, I'll be your silver, I'll be your gold.<br />
As long as you love, love, love, love me (love me)<br />
As long as you love, love, love, love me (love me)<br />
<br />
Except when I was listening to this song yesterday, he kind of fades out when he sings the word gold.<br />
<br />
"I'll be your platinum, I'll be your silver, I'll be your gooo....."<br />
<br />
To the average person it probably would have been obvious that this word was gold, but for some reason it never occurred to me. <br />
<br />
So as I was jogging on the treadmill yesterday I was probably the only person at the Y singing;<br />
<br />
"I'll be your platinum, I'll be your silver, I'll be your goat."<br />
<br />
(To my credit, I knew this was probably the wrong word, but could not for the life of me figure out what he was trying to say. And it <em>kind of</em> sounded like goat. So I went with it.)<br />
<br />
And then it occurred to me, this song was quite appropriate, as today is our anniversary. <br />
<br />
So instead of writing (what I've come to fear) is a version of the same thing in your anniversary card every year.<br />
<br />
I thought I'd let The Biebs preach it for me...<br />
<br />
As long as you love me<br />
We could be starving, we could be homeless, we could be broke<br />
As long as you love me<br />
I'll be your platinum, I'll be your silver, I'll be your goat.<br />
<br />
'Goat' is actually a much more appropriate word than 'gold' in this song (for my purposes). Because only you (Michael) understand how truly uncool I am, and that the word 'goat' is actually kind of perfect. More perfect than any cool word would be. Because well...I'm not cool. And you know that. And you still love me. And that's why we are perfect for each other. <br />
<br />
Google tells me:<br />
<br />
Goats are good for milk. <br />
<br />
(I have been known to be good for milk in past. But I think we both realize that time has come and quickly gone.)<br />
<br />
It is for this reason that I am not good for cheese. <br />
<br />
(Although I doubt we ever would have made cheese out of my milk. But if the world ends in December, as I have come to fear it will, I will hold no hard feelings if you are the littlest bit regretful that you didn't trade me in for a slightly upgraded model, that is at the very least, capable of supplying you with cheese during the Apocalypse.)<br />
<br />
Goats are good for meat.<br />
<br />
(I try and keep a nice layer of meat on myself. Just for you. All those bowls of cookie dough ice cream, just remember. It's all for you.)<br />
<br />
Goats keep the brush down.<br />
<br />
(I'm not sure that I keep the brush down, but I am a grazer. Once again. It's all for you.)<br />
<br />
Lastly, (It's amazing what you can find out when you google, 'what are goats good for?')<br />
<br />
Goats make good pets, but can also be extremely annoying to care for. <br />
<br />
I think this one speaks for itself. <br />
<br />
I love you babe. I'll always be your goat.<br />
<br />
Good to have around, but extremely annoying to care for. <br />
<br />
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Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-61073263771737284782012-10-11T15:14:00.001-04:002012-10-11T15:26:06.322-04:00"Date Night"Michael and I have this inside joke (half joke/half serious, if I'm being honest) that I need to text message or email him about conversations that I plan to initiate in the future... <br />
<br />
So I can inform him of what the proper response <em>should</em> be.<br />
<br />
I have conversations in my head all the time, and when the real conversation doesn't go like the version in my head, I get a little perturbed.<br />
<br />
When I come downstairs in a new outfit that includes either:<br />
<br />
1. Boots<br />
<br />
or<br />
<br />
2. Any manner of superfluous belt (a belt added merely for style purposes.)<br />
<br />
I warn him in advance. It's kind of like I Cc: him on the conversation in my brain.<br />
<br />
<strong>Text Message to Michael: From Your Loving Wife:</strong><br />
<br />
"I will be coming downstairs in five minutes and the proper response is: Wow you look ravishing. Those boots make your calves look so slender and shapely. And that completely unneccesary belt looks amazing. It's like you walked off the pages of a magazine."<br />
<br />
This makes for a very harmonious marriage. <br />
<br />
It is in this very harmonious state that I sometimes forget that he can't read my mind. <br />
<br />
Which can, on occasion, lead me to behave in ways that are...unflattering. <br />
<br />
<strong>Me:</strong> "Hey babe, I have to work next Wednesday night."<br />
<br />
(Secret test. Will he realize this is our anniversary?)<br />
<br />
<strong>Michael:</strong> <em>[cocked eyebrow]</em> "I know, I guess we'll have to celebrate our anniversary a different night."<br />
<br />
(The look on his face says, "Ha, crazy bitch be tryin' to test me.")<br />
<br />
<strong>Me:</strong> (In my brain) "Ahh, very good, Grasshoppa."<br />
<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: (out loud) "We don't have to do anything. It'll really just be too expensive."<br />
<br />
<strong>Me:</strong> (In my brain) "We could get a babysitter and go out to a nice dinner and exchange nice, thoughtful gifts."<br />
<br />
<strong>Michael: </strong> "We could just do cards if you want. You don't have to get me anything. Or we can make each other something!"<br />
<br />
<strong>Me:</strong> (In my brain) "<em>Son of a bee-sting</em>, Abort mission! Abort mission! Nope. I want a real present. From a real store. With a real receipt. And dinner that I didn't cook. Where no one poops their pants at the table."<br />
<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: (Out loud) "Yeah, cards are good. We don't <em>need </em>to do presents."<br />
<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: (In my brain) "Oh my God. It's only been three years. And we're already stopping presents. We might as well just start separating our DVDs."<br />
<br />
<strong>Michael:</strong> <em>[genuinely happy] </em> "It'll be great!"<br />
<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: "Yeah, Wooo Hooo. Great!"<br />
<br />
Now, I have two choices:<br />
<br />
1. I can be a nice person and be grateful. Grateful that I have a wonderful husband that I get to celebrate <em>any</em> anniversary with. <br />
<br />
or<br />
<br />
2. I can go crazy. <br />
<br />
But not <em>obviously </em>crazy. <br />
<br />
That would be too easy for Michael to decipher. <br />
<br />
I must go <em>secretly</em> crazy and reveal my frustrations through snarky comments about strangers on Facebook. <br />
<br />
I enjoy really making him dig to find the root of the crazy.<br />
<br />
I really should not be allowed to go on Facebook when I'm not in a good mood; the mere existence of other people in the world, doing fun things, instantly pisses me off.<br />
<br />
"Oh, look at you stranger, on your <em>date night.</em> Please tell me, what is this <em>date night</em> that you speak of?"<br />
<br />
"Oh you have free babysitting! Tell me about how great that is. And then kill yourself."<br />
<br />
"I sure hope you don't choke on that chicken parm at your 'nice dinner out with friends'!"<br />
<br />
"A long weekend away with your husband. Please do enjoy! It would be terrible if your plane crashed."<br />
<br />
<strong>Me:</strong> "Oh look babe, look at these people on a <em>date night</em>, isn't that adorable!"<br />
<br />
"When was the last time we had a date night? Oh I remember! After I had Adeline and they wheeled me down to the tiny, "mole-people" post-partum room we ordered Jimmy Johns and had it delivered! That thirty minutes she was in the nursery was really wonderful. Just the two of us. Does that count? I suppose for fifteen minutes of it you had to help me to the bathroom. It was so chivalrous of you to stand there while I changed my peri-pad so that if I fainted from blood loss I wouldn't fall off the toilet. So romantic, wasn't it?!"<br />
<br />
<strong>Michael:</strong> "<em>I get it</em>. We'll do presents."<br />
<br />
<strong>Me:</strong> "Okay, only if you<em> </em>really want to..."<br />
<br />
Happy Anniversary to the most patient, wonderful man in the whole world. Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-85340648207013334422012-10-04T11:13:00.000-04:002012-10-04T11:13:05.504-04:00The Seed of ADHDAs we were sitting down at the dinner table last night:<br />
<br />
<strong>Michael:</strong> So, I looked it up online and it turns out there are quite a few people vehemently opposed to toddler backpack leashes.<br />
<br />
<strong>Me: </strong> Yes, it is hard to believe that leading your child around like the family pet would be such a polarizing issue.<br />
<br />
<strong>Michael:</strong> We're still getting one...<br />
<br />
I imagine every parent (let me rephrase that, 'new parent') looks forward to the day that they see their child gaining more independence. <br />
<br />
I prayed day and night to see Henry walk.<br />
<br />
And God listened. And Henry walked.<br />
<br />
Now I pray night and day that Henry will just <strong><em>sit in his stroller</em></strong>.<br />
<br />
Let me set the stage for you:<br />
<br />
Last weekend at the Dixie Classic Fair. (You already know this is bound to get good.)<br />
<br />
We had two strollers.<br />
<br />
Man-on-man defense.<br />
<br />
Adeline slept in her stroller and just enjoyed the general splendor.<br />
<br />
Henry, on the other hand; <br />
<br />
Lost. His. Damn. Mind.<br />
<br />
To his credit, I imagine the whole thing was very overwhelming.<br />
<br />
(You know how science teachers put a camera on a little bean sprout and record it growing and then you watch it grow in fast forward. When you take a two year old to the fair you can look in their eyes and watch the seed of ADHD sprout and quickly take over their brain.)<br />
<br />
Two words: crazy eyes.<br />
<br />
Alas, the county fair is not exactly the time and place you want your child to exercise their growing love of independence. <br />
<br />
i.e. refusing to sit in the stroller.<br />
<br />
I am all for Henry walking by himself. BUT. He looks at his feet when he walks. He walks into walls. He walks head-long into groups of people. (Further evidence that 99% of his genes came from me.)<br />
<br />
He is easily distracted:<br />
<br />
"Oh a stuffed banana, Is that something shiny? Oh a rock, I'm going to pick it up and put in my pants, OH MY GOD a basketball!, Is that an inflatable Dora!?, I see a man with pizza, I want pizza, Oh, there's another rock, I'll put this one in my pants too. Is that a slide. That woman has blue pants, I'm going to touch the blue pants. Stuffed monkey, stuffed giraffe, stuffed pencil, STUFFED PICKLE. Mine. Mine. <span style="font-size: large;">Mine. Mine. Mine.</span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.)</span><br />
<br />
And then we saw fluid start to leak out of his ears.<br />
<br />
We said, "You have to hold our hand, Henry."<br />
<br />
We said, "You have to hold on to the stroller, Henry."<br />
<br />
Henry heard, "Run like Hell."<br />
<br />
It was a good thing the midway was so loud, because Henry's screams as we tried to force him back into the stroller might have <em>really</em> gotten on people's nerves.<br />
<br />
Picture a giant squid with rigor mortis.<br />
<br />
Nearly impossible to jam in a stroller with out some faintly disturbing cracks and pops.<br />
<br />
Don't worry. Only slight bruising was sustained by the handlers.<br />
<br />
We left feeling defeated. <br />
<br />
Saying to ourselves, "Well, this <em>will</em> be fun...in five years."<br />
<br />
No, we don't <em>want</em> to leash Henry. But what is one to do?<br />
<br />
I hear that "leashing parents" are bad parents. We don't try hard enough. We don't teach our kids the correct way to behave. <br />
<br />
We don't "reason" with them.<br />
<br />
Doy, Why didn't I think of that?<br />
<br />
Reasoning with a two year old is<em> highly</em> effective.<br />
<br />
I figure leash opponents are either,<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />A: Not Parents.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
or</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />B: Much better parents than me.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
So, please. Sing me the song of your people. I'm listening.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
In the meantime, please ignore that little boy at the fair who wants to feel your pants, steal your pizza, beat you about the head with an inflatable whale and show you a rock he just extracted from his diaper. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My <em>sincerest </em>apologies.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-33511128312127933542012-10-03T15:22:00.001-04:002012-12-20T08:35:30.825-05:00Mean Eyebrow ChildrenI came to the realization this morning that I may be a slightly mean person.<br />
<br />
I don't mean to be mean.<br />
<br />
I just think mean thoughts. In my head.<br />
<br />
This past Spring, when I was big and pregnant, I would drop Henry off at preschool and I would see this other big and pregnant lady. It was obvious that we both had toddlers. It was obvious we were both big and pregnant, seemingly due about the same time.<br />
<br />
But the bitch wouldn't ever talk to me.<br />
<br />
Um. wtf?<br />
<br />
I talk to everyone. I think my husband considers it a sickness or bizarre condition, but I find it to be one of the traits I like most about myself. I will talk to anyone who makes eye contact for more than 2 seconds, which I think is a standard conversation invitation.<br />
<br />
And if I don't have anyone to talk to I'll start a blog and pretend like I'm talking to people.<br />
<br />
The act of simultaneously raising toddlers would have been enough of a conversation starter, let alone the fact that we were both smuggling fetuses (feti?).<br />
<br />
But no.<br />
<br />
Nary a word was passed between us. We could have been best friends. <br />
<br />
But apparently I wasn't good enough for her. <br />
<br />
Sure, she swept in with her linen pants and monogrammed backpack.<br />
<br />
And I drop Henry off looking like a gremlin in my stained sweatpants.<br />
<br />
But still. <br />
<br />
This continual lack of acknowledgement festered in my brain until there was no other choice than for her to be my arch-enemy.<br />
<br />
Linen pants bitch.<br />
<br />
(I don't even know her name and I couldn't tell you anything about her other than the fact that we've never spoken, but I don't like her. <em> I can tell ya that much</em>.)<br />
<br />
Michael tried to tell me, "Maybe she just never saw you," "Maybe she's a shy person," "Maybe she has social boundaries like regular people."<br />
<br />
<strong>Wrong. </strong><br />
<br />
<strong>Wrong. </strong><br />
<br />
<strong>Wrong.</strong><br />
<br />
Well guess what happened today?<br />
<br />
I was dropping the kids off at the childcare room at the Y, when guess who strolls in...<br />
<br />
None other than. Linen pants bitch.<br />
<br />
We stood <em>this close. Our arm hairs touched.</em><br />
<br />
She picked her toddler up and her baby. <br />
<br />
I dropped off my toddler and baby. <br />
<br />
The car seats <em>bumped.</em> <br />
<br />
<strong><em>Nothing.</em></strong><br />
<br />
Not even a "How do ya do," "Nice baby stranger," "I see you shit out that baby, good work."<br />
<br />
She's Satan.<br />
<br />
But I was skinnier than her...<br />
<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
I felt good for a nanosecond. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Until I realized that is <em>just</em> the thought that a mean person would think.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
A mean thought.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I don't want to be a mean person. And I don't want my kids to be mean people. When they aren't toddlers anymore and aren't supposed to be mean, that is.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It hasn't even been two days since the bizarre "Children as Eyebrows" conversation with Michael:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Oh don't worry. I'll give you a brief recap.)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
As I was getting ready to go to the Dixie Classic Fair with Michael and the kids, I was plucking my eyebrows and putting on make-up. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
FYI: Both of these things would have been unnecessary to attend the DCF.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
When a horrible thought struck me. And I immediately ran downstairs;</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>Me:</strong> (Panicked shriek) <span style="font-size: large;"> "What if the kids grow up like my eyebrows!?" </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>Michael:</strong> "What, excuse me. What now."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>Me</strong>: "I try my hardest to train them, I groom them, I buy them special products. I say nice things to them, but yet they are still unruly and I can't trust them."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>Michael:</strong> "The kids?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>Me:</strong> "No. My eyebrows."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>Michael: </strong></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>Me:</strong> "At the end of the day they're just mean and do their own thing."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>Michael:</strong> "The kids?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>Me:</strong> "NO, my eyebrows."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>Michael:</strong> "You think the kids are going to be mean and do their own thing?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>Me:</strong> "What if despite our best efforts...they are and they do?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>Michael:</strong> "I guess we'll just have to get rid of them."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>Me:</strong> "The kids?"</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<strong>Michael:</strong> "No. Your eyebrows."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>Me:</strong> "You are completely underestimating the severity of this absurd, made-up scenario and all of its implications."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<strong>Michael:</strong> "Indeed."</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Now it is obvious that I am unbalanced,</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
but I have good intentions...</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
(Like many of you, I assume.)</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
So I'm going to try and be a nicer person. And think nice thoughts. And be a good example.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
Hopefully this will prevent my children from descending into madness and rebellion. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Like my eyebrows.<br />
<br /></div>
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<br />
If they do, I guess we'll just get rid of them.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-55526799225923938702012-09-26T14:49:00.001-04:002012-09-26T18:53:54.246-04:00The Best Laid PlansDamn you Babycenter.com, damn you to Hell.<br />
<br />
There are a few things in this world that I wish I never found out about:<br />
<br />
1. Salt and Vinegar Kettle Chips.<br />
<br />
I don't know how many layers of tongue I have lost to those irresistible bastards. Too many to count.<br />
<br />
2. Rainbow Chip Frosting. <br />
<br />
I don't know how many pounds of fat I owe to this devil in a can. Too many to count.<br />
<br />
3. Babycenter.com<br />
<br />
I don't know how many hours of sleep I've lost and hissy fits I've thrown at the hands of Babycenter.com. Too many to count. <br />
<br />
It all <em>sounds</em> so well and good:<br />
<br />
Subscribe to website; get useful information and updates on your pregnancy, baby, toddler...<br />
<br />
During my pregnancy this was a Planners Nirvana. My ultimate destination for all things baby.<br />
<br />
For a person with a moderate to sometimes severe anxiety issue these updates are only useful if everything is going as planned. <br />
<br />
But things <strong><em>don't</em></strong> go as planned. <br />
<br />
Parenthood 101:<br />
<br />
Make a Plan B. Plan C. And Plan D. <br />
<br />
Because Plan A <em>ain't</em> <em>never gonna happen</em>.<br />
<br />
It wasn't my <em>plan</em> that Henry would decide he didn't want to walk until he was 19 months old... <br />
<br />
But I'll be damned if I didn't get that update email every month:<br />
<br />
"Your Baby at 15 Months"<br />
<br />
"Your Baby at 16 Months"<br />
<br />
"Your Baby at 17 Months"<br />
<br />
Please enlighten me Babycenter.com! <br />
<br />
What is my XYZ Month old supposed to be capable of this month?<br />
<br />
Walking, you say!?<br />
<br />
50 words, you say!?<br />
<br />
Sentences, you say!?<br />
<br />
Algebra, some light calculus!?<br />
<br />
Well, I have something to say to you Babycenter.com:<br />
<br />
Fuck you. <br />
<br />
(Cut to me, slamming the computer into the wall.)<br />
<br />
Kids don't all develop at the same rate.<br />
<br />
Every child does not walk, talk, run, jump or fart at the same time. <br />
<br />
So I'd like to thank you for the monthly anxiety attack I have come to expect from you. <br />
<br />
You never fail me.<br />
<br />
What's that?<br />
<br />
Just <em>don't read</em> the emails....<br />
<br />
Well, then I wouldn't be a good mom, now would I?<br />
<br />
So as we speak I am in the midst of a Babycenter-induced-panic-attack. <br />
<br />
They tell me that we should be establishing good sleep habits for Adeline. <br />
<br />
They are warning me that bad sleep habits can get out of hand <strong>quickly</strong>.<br />
<br />
Currently she loves to sleep in her crib at night, but refuses to nap in it during the day. <br />
<br />
She likes to nap in her swing. No motion.<br />
<br />
Just sitting in her swing. <br />
<br />
Happy as a clam.<br />
<br />
But, that's not a <strong>good</strong> sleep habit!! <br />
<br />
She should be napping in her crib...<br />
<br />
This<span style="font-size: large;"> is getting</span> <span style="font-size: x-large;">out of hand!</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDvEmDMpRsam2vFf5gZC-_CrD-QbJeavr-SVFjkCx32QZlxFUD0wDgEqW8Ekk2lGonxMtG9keOeD5vWkV7YcOK99jI4hU1e3KPakRBApgi1I1hwa6tLqEELKqgvzJu9aCmF3yiy-QmFTxr/s1600/freaked_out_cartoon_character.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" kea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDvEmDMpRsam2vFf5gZC-_CrD-QbJeavr-SVFjkCx32QZlxFUD0wDgEqW8Ekk2lGonxMtG9keOeD5vWkV7YcOK99jI4hU1e3KPakRBApgi1I1hwa6tLqEELKqgvzJu9aCmF3yiy-QmFTxr/s1600/freaked_out_cartoon_character.jpg" /></a></div>
<div align="center">
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">AHH.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
How are we going to explain to her college roommate that she needs to sleep in a custom made basket?<br />
<br />
She's going to be that weird girl on the 5th floor who sleeps in a basket.<br />
<br />
Thanks for the update Babycenter.com.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-22633104003106948472012-09-19T14:56:00.001-04:002012-09-20T10:45:06.573-04:00Tiny SchizophrenicsI'm going to say something that may shock you. <br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You may think I'm a terrible person. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I've managed to do a little unofficial investigation on the subject. (By unofficial investigation, I mean listening to a lot of moms bitch about the same thing.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, I'm quite confident that instead of throwing shoes at my face and shunning me, you will most likely agree wholeheartedly.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Toddlers are mean.</div>
<div>
<br />
Toddlers are selfish.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Toddlers can be assholes.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I mean assholes in the best sense of the word. <br />
<br />
Actually, no I don't. I mean assholes in the <i>terriblepersonItryandavoid,</i> sense of the word.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am writing this so that new moms do not feel as if they are doing something wrong when their child turns into a demon at approximately 18 months of age. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Give or take 2 days.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Facebook would have you believe that toddlers are wonderful, smiley, clean, cute,<i> nice</i> people.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That's true, for about 20% of the day. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Give or take 20% (In my experience it's always, always<b> <i>take</i></b>.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I admit, I'm a repeat offender. I love to post pictures of Henry and Adeline doing cute things and acting like they don't want to shank each other behind my back.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It warms my heart.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8SgkXbyXuz2T4LZ4n6BG9rwZSlLppUNhHP9LGVxL7KJsVG4y37zjIpeQH7BFPGhIH9PCRIgZQVoRc8lbt00mX-om92NxKG7mEkiCeFafbjrf_Ie1XFHIwKeKSnMy1BiKWWZ7WphdMJNWW/s1600/IMG_1401%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8SgkXbyXuz2T4LZ4n6BG9rwZSlLppUNhHP9LGVxL7KJsVG4y37zjIpeQH7BFPGhIH9PCRIgZQVoRc8lbt00mX-om92NxKG7mEkiCeFafbjrf_Ie1XFHIwKeKSnMy1BiKWWZ7WphdMJNWW/s320/IMG_1401%5B1%5D.JPG" width="239" /></a> </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I know it warms my mom's heart when I text her pictures like that. And then she responds,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Ohh, look, Henry is such a great big brother! That's adorable!" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Ten minutes after this photo he drop-kicked her in the head.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm sure other parents can corroborate this story: </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In the 15 minute window before or after<i> every</i> adorable photo, the "so cute" toddler/s had an ear-splitting, jaw-dropping, pants-peeing, vodka-bottle-opening:<br />
<br />
Tantrum.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That made you question every choice you've ever made in your life.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
**I'm <i>sure</i> that you never imagined yourself coming home from a trip to the pediatrician saying to yourself,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Shit, there's nothing wrong with my kid."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Because your child was acting so incredibly heinous. So inexplicably horrible, that your only possible explanation was that there must be some severe physical ailment in progress.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There <i>has</i> to be some form of bodily illness or injury to blame for this behavior.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Nope. They are fine. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Healthy as a horse.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
That's just their winning personality... </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
F-Bomb...<b><i>Dropped.</i></b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
**I'm <i>sure</i> you never imagined these words coming out of your mouth:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I mean, I love my kids, but I just don't<i> like</i> them."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
(An admission from a girl sitting next to me in computer training class. After we had known each other 20 minutes.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
**I'm <i>sure</i> you never imagined yourself googling, "<i>Toddler Multiple Personality Disorder </i>or <i>Pediatric Schizophrenia</i>."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
(As did one of the wonderful girls I work with.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Because you think to yourself,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"My child has a psychiatric disorder. They must. That is the only explanation...I gave birth to a tiny schizophrenic."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Our sweetest, most adorable, cuddly parenting fantasies do not include any of the above.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm quite positive my parenting fantasies didn't include having flashes in my head of throwing myself off a building screaming, "IT'S ALL FOR YOU DAMIEN," </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
as Henry hurls himself across the room in an ear splitting, meltdown.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Because I wouldn't give him a Kraft Single.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But we think that somehow admitting that our child is an asshole too (if only temporarily), reflects poorly on our parenting.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But sometimes it doesn't matter how you parent. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It doesn't matter if you are Dr. Sears-Weissbluth-Murkoff-Poppins. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It doesn't matter if you anticipate every hunger pang. Every sleepy moment. Every irrational toddler fear.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sometimes they will just<i> flip the fuck out.</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But I promise there is a silver lining.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Like every relationship you had in college;</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sometimes the people that love you the very most, treat you the very worst. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Because they know you will<i><b> never</b></i> leave them.</div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
I imagine parenting is a little like self-mutilation.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's horrible and messy and dysfunctional. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But somehow it just feels really good.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-36975437338523449222012-09-14T15:07:00.000-04:002012-09-14T15:31:02.941-04:00Paging Christian Grey, MDAt first I thought, "Hmm...maybe I shouldn't write about this, maybe it's just too embarrassing."<br />
<br />
Then, I thought. Well, what the Hell is this thing for anyway. <br />
<br />
So here you go.<br />
<br />
This past week has been SO thrilling, I can't even begin to tell you!<br />
<br />
18 HOURS of computer training for work. It's called Epic. And let me tell you the name does not disappoint.<br />
<br />
18 HOURS of sitting.<br />
<br />
(Which at first, I was <em>actually</em> kind of excited about. I don't get to sit down that much.)<br />
<br />
Let me tell you. It was<em> thrilling</em>.<br />
<br />
So thrilling, in fact, that the veins popped out of my butt.<br />
<br />
Seriously.<br />
<br />
<em>Hemorrhoids</em> y'all.<br />
<br />
See at first, when I thought this was too embarrassing to write about, I did what any smart medical professional with 500 text books in their house does. <br />
<br />
I googled it. <br />
<br />
According to Web MD, 50% of the population suffers from hemorrhoids at least once before the age of fifty. <br />
<br />
So I did the math, carried the one, and figured that some of you probably know what I'm talking about here.<br />
<br />
Especially since so many of you have pooped babies as well;<br />
<br />
Which, as luck would have it, makes us even more susceptible to the 'Big H.'<br />
<br />
I figured, we should not have to suffer this indignity in silence...alone. <br />
<br />
So I thought I'd tell a bunch of strangers, so we could all laugh about it together. <br />
<br />
:)<br />
<br />
I thought, there must be a quick fix for this. What is happening? I'm only 29. This is not nice. This is not <em>fair.</em><br />
<br />
My <em>dad </em>has 'Hs.' <em> I</em> am not supposed to have 'Hs'.<br />
<br />
That's what I'm calling <em>it</em> from now on. <em><strong>Hs</strong></em>. If I keep typing the word I feel like the hemorrhoids have won. <br />
<br />
Oh Web MD, how many times I have turned to you;<br />
<br />
The year I was convinced I had Lupus.<br />
<br />
The other year I was convinced I had bone cancer. (Neither of which are funny, I assure you.)<br />
<br />
("Nursing is the perfect profession for me! Said no hypochondriac <em>ever</em>.")<br />
<br />
Every time you have comforted and assured me, Web MD. <br />
<br />
This time, however, you told me to stick my finger up my ass. <br />
<br />
Not funny. Web MD. <em>Not funny</em>.<br />
<br />
Now, I have had my finger up a few butts in my day. More than I'd like to remember actually. <br />
<br />
<em>Strictly</em> business, you guys.<br />
<br />
(And, as an aside, when you give an adult a rectal suppository, you're technically supposed to hold it up there a few minutes so it doesn't just come slidin' right back out. Tell me those aren't the most awkward 120 seconds of your life.)<br />
<br />
(As another aside, the first rectal suppository I inserted was for a ninety year old man that looked like Santa Clause and sang me a Bluegrass tune while I had my finger up his ass. Once I also helped an old lady put her vagina back in. Different story.)<br />
<br />
<em>Nursing.</em> So many stories<em>.</em> So little time<em>.</em><br />
<br />
<strong>Back to me.</strong><br />
<br />
Um. I'm not sticking my finger up my butt Web MD.<br />
<br />
And I'm looking around and I don't see Christian Grey anywhere. So I think I'm going to have to find a Plan B.<br />
<br />
Thanks for trying though.<br />
<br />
So now what?<br />
<br />
So now, I'm squatting over the air conditioner vent in our bathroom with no pants on. <br />
<br />
Just like that time I expelled a human and got vagina hives. <br />
<br />
Ahh. Good memories.<br />
<br />
I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Michael, when he walked in on this scene approximately 3 months ago.<br />
<br />
"I can't help it, the cold air just feels good..."<br />
<br />
Lay off a bitch.<br />
<br />
I tell you, child bearing is just the gift that keeps on giving.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-77428618221590355882012-09-06T15:51:00.000-04:002012-09-06T16:02:04.128-04:00Annoyed Much?So, unsurprisingly enough, I've been kind of annoyed by a few things lately.<br />
<br />
I tried telling Michael about it, but he didn't see how any of it was annoying.<br />
<br />
Which annoyed me even more.<br />
<br />
(Sometimes when I try and share things like this with him he just looks at me like I'm a crazy stranger. The person you are afraid to make eye contact with on the street. It's kind of a look of disbelief with a little regret mixed in. It sort of confirms my suspicions that when he proposed to me three and a half years ago it was really just a psychotic episode on the top of Pilot Mountain, brought on by exertion and dehydration. But then he didn't know how to take it back. So here we are...)<br />
<br />
Anywho, I needed someone to validate my constant state of annoyance as of late.<br />
<br />
So I, lovingly, turn to you.<br />
<br />
1. The Direct TV commercial.<br />
<br />
This lady is sitting on a stool with music playing. <br />
<br />
Telling me about how,<br />
<br />
"See we get a lot of tornadoes 'round here."<br />
<br />
She sucks me in with her warm old-ladyness, and I'm prepared to be touched and inspired. <br />
<br />
Moved by the Direct TV commercial.<br />
<br />
She tells me about how her best friend lost everything. <br />
<br />
I'm feeling so bad at this point. I'm really sorry lady; I didn't want that to happen to your friend!<br />
<br />
But then I see it turning around.<br />
<br />
"When it came time to rebuild..."<br />
<br />
(At this point I think she's going to say something about how she helped her friend dig the foundation of her new house. Or plant a commemorative bush. Or dig through the rubble to find her old photo albums.)<br />
<br />
But no.<br />
<br />
"When it came time to rebuild, I told her about Direct TV."<br />
<br />
"And now I save ten dollars on my bill every month."<br />
<br />
Huh?<br />
<br />
You're not her friend. You're a selfish hose beast.<br />
<br />
Remind me never to call that lady when I'm sick and need a friend. <br />
<br />
She'll harvest my organs and sell them on the black market.<br />
<br />
Direct TV <strong>Fail.</strong><br />
<br />
2. Jessica Simpson.<br />
<br />
Why does she have to be the new Weight Watchers Spokesperson?<br />
<br />
I like her better post-baby fat.<br />
<br />
I think everyone likes her better chunky. Especially pregnant women.<br />
<br />
Pregnant women everywhere could look at a picture of pregnant Jessica Simpson and think to themselves,<br />
<br />
"Well, at least I didn't get<em> that</em> big."<br />
<br />
She is relatable this way. I appreciate her double chins.<br />
<br />
Now they are going to tan and tone her until we can no longer relate with the fact that she just had a baby and looks like a real woman. <br />
<br />
That annoys me.<br />
<br />
And God help me, if Adele turns out to the be the next spokesperson for NutriSystem or Jenny Craig I'm going to put a gun in my mouth.<br />
<br />
3. Preschool "Volunteer Lists."<br />
<br />
Henry goes to preschool twice a week from 9-noon. He <em><strong>LOVES</strong></em> it.<br />
<br />
I <em><strong>LOVE</strong></em> it.<br />
<br />
This is time I have to clean the house and run errands that don't really work with him in tow.<br />
<br />
I can browse.<br />
<br />
There is no browsing with Henry. <br />
<br />
<u>The scene is Preschool Open House, last week:</u><br />
<br />
<strong>Teacher</strong>: "Here's our Parent Volunteer List." (thrusts list in my face.) " <em>I </em>know <em>I</em> always want to be involved in <em>my</em> child's classroom." (Narrows eyes at me). <br />
<br />
Shit.<br />
<br />
We are now locked in an epic battle of Good Mom Chicken.<br />
<br />
And I lose.<br />
<br />
So I sign up for "Play Dough Sculpture Day" and "Prep-Parent." <br />
<br />
(I don't even know what a 'Prep Parent' is, but apparently I am one now.)<br />
<br />
I'm sorry, I love Henry more than life itself, but I'm paying <strong>you </strong>to put that Early Childhood Education degree to good use and stimulate his two-year old brain for<strong><span style="font-size: large;"> 6</span></strong> hours each week.<br />
<br />
I'm responsible for the other <strong><span style="font-size: large;">162</span></strong>.<br />
<br />
Can a mom just not have a fucking break once in a while?<br />
<br />
I mean, damn.<br />
<br />
(And yes I really did do the math.)<br />
<br />
Anyhow, I will be present for Play Dough Sculpture Day.<br />
<br />
And, make no mistake, I will probably bronze that play dough "sculpture."<br />
<br />
But it doesn't mean that I wouldn't have rather had three hours alone in Target.<br />
<br />
(And by alone, I mean with a 12 week old infant that has to be fed every two hours, precisely, or her head spins around.)<br />
<br />
3. My neighbor.<br />
<br />
Fall is approaching.<br />
<br />
My very favorite time of year.<br />
<br />
Instead of being excited, I am dreading my damned neighbor and his damned leaf blower.<br />
<br />
He blows leaves until there are no more leaves in a 50 mile radius.<br />
<br />
Four hour leaf blowing marathons.<br />
<br />
So instead of planning my cute fall boot wardrobe, my time is once again occupied by plotting his tragic, untimely and not-at-all-suspicious death.<br />
<br />
4. People that do anything outside between the hours of 1:00 pm and 3:30 pm.<br />
<br />
See #3.<br />
<br />
<em>Anyone</em> that does<em> anything </em>within earshot of my house that has the remote possibility of waking up my children from a nap, is immediately my nemesis.<br />
<br />
I don't care if you are giving CPR to a quadriplegic veterinarian fireman in my driveway.<br />
<br />
If you wake up Henry, I'll kill you.<br />
<br />
5. No-Nap Days.<br />
<br />
In the words of my good friend;<br />
<br />
"If they don't sleep, I can't do this."<br />
<br />
Amen.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-14636547233159175352012-09-05T14:19:00.001-04:002012-09-05T14:19:59.233-04:00The Harbor of RetirementLately, I have been getting a lot of the same question:<br />
<br />
"So, when are you going to have another baby!?"<br />
<br />
Um...lest we forget folks. That <em>just</em> happened.<br />
<br />
Let's just put it this way;<br />
<br />
My maternity clothes have been stowed in a box under our bed with a steel padlock and a warning sign duct taped to the top:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">"Should you need anything in this box, a catastrophic failure has occurred; someone owes you a refund."</span><br />
<br />
I also had Henry swallow the key, and there is no way I'm fishing around in his diaper to get it back. <br />
<br />
That ship has sailed.<br />
<br />
By 'that ship' I mean my uterus. It has sailed into the Harbor of Retirement.<br />
<br />
It is sipping a cocktail and loving life. <br />
<br />
God has blessed Michael and I with two healthy beauties and there is nothing in the world for which I am more<span style="font-size: large;"><strong> thankful</strong></span>.<br />
<br />
Getting knocked up again would only be for selfish reasons:<br />
<br />
1. I love attention. Pregos get <em>lots and lots</em> of attention. Especially when you get really huge and disfigured. <br />
<br />
(Me...love attention. I know you're <em>shocked</em>.)<br />
<br />
2. I will never again be able to refer to myself as a "Sacred Vessel."<br />
<br />
As in:<br />
<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: "Michael, will you go upstairs and get me the box of Cheese Its, pleeeeeeeeeease."<br />
<strong>Michael</strong>: "You have legs, why can't you get it?"<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: "Can't you see. I am a Sacred Vessel. I need to rest."<br />
<br />
3. You get to wear stretchy pants every damn day.<br />
<br />
There is no way to feel fat in maternity jeans. They are a gift from God, and probably the only reason women get pregnant in the first place.<br />
<br />
Don't be fooled; it's not for the baby at the end. <br />
<br />
It's nine months of stretchy pants.<br /><br />For real.<br />
<br />
4. You get tons of gifts.<br />
<br />
So, I know they aren't technically for <strong><em>me</em></strong>, but that's not the point.<br />
<br />
Opening presents is awesome. <br />
<br />
Even someone else's presents.<br />
<br />
5. People dote on you. <br />
<br />"Oh let me get that for you."<br />
"Don't bend down and pick that up!"<br />
"Sit, let me stand."<br />
"Don't push that radiant warmer, let me get it."<br />
<br />
Now, you <strong>have</strong> to put up a token amount of resistance, just so you don't look like an asshole, but it is awesome to have people want to help you<em> all the time</em>.<br />
<br />
You feel super special.<br />
<br />
Like Kate Middleton.<br />
<br />
You get to feel like a fat faced, ugly version of Kate Middleton.<br />
<br />
Which is still awesome.<br />
<br />
6. You get to blame your fat on someone else. <br />
<br />
All you have to say is, "Geez. The baby is hungry today!!!"<br />
<br />
"I can't believe the baby wants four cupcakes and an entire bag of Hot Buffalo Wing Pretzel Pieces!"<br />
<br />
"Aww. Must be a growth spurt. How cute."<br />
<br />
The only thing having a growth spurt is your ass, but through clever mental trickery you can ignore that fact entirely. <br />
<br />
For 10 whole months. <br />
<br />
7. If you're not in the mood to have sex you always have a great excuse.<br />
<br />
"I think if we do it tonight you might kill the baby."<br />
<br />
End of story.<br />
<br />
8. Being in labor is awesome.<br />
<br />
See reasons #1 and #5.<br />
<br />
**Addendum to #8:<br />
<br />
Labor is awesome until it's not awesome anymore. <br />
<br />
And then it's <em>really</em><strong> not awesome</strong>.<br />
<br />
9. And then a baby pops out. <br />
<br />
And it's awesome again.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Surprise.</span><br />
<br />
10. You get to feel a baby grow inside of you for 10 months.<br />
<br />
A real person.<br />
<br />
And then you get to meet that person and watch them grow.<br />
<br />
You get to see their personality emerge.<br />
<br />And they are the greatest person you have ever met.<br />
<br />
<br />
Well... shit. <br />
<br />
I <em>really</em> don't want to dig through Henry's diaper.<br />
Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-31160303353470575202012-08-30T14:33:00.001-04:002012-08-30T17:23:36.328-04:00Fat AlbertUsually I only get on the scale on "skinny mornings."<br />
<br />
Mornings when I wake up and feel like <em>just maybe</em> the number that pops up won't make me want to jump out a window.<br />
<br />
Possibly the result of trying to<em> '</em>cut back' the previous night, and only eat 2,500 calories after 7:00 pm.<br />
<br />
This morning was not one of those mornings.<br />
<br />
This morning I felt like Fat Albert. A bloated version of Fat Albert.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgjgDYKEurteE_TcifpznWQLJHy8bKCcKDkoZSoOowDcJxsv9cjHkXKo8sTCkRM-ttLiGwnE8HPzllV8CZft0HPiR85ie8ZIRwiD8iu7eOn6x72f5pIxlLjMgJh-PmGmpnNsUG3l6_CPHk/s1600/fat+albert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" fea="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgjgDYKEurteE_TcifpznWQLJHy8bKCcKDkoZSoOowDcJxsv9cjHkXKo8sTCkRM-ttLiGwnE8HPzllV8CZft0HPiR85ie8ZIRwiD8iu7eOn6x72f5pIxlLjMgJh-PmGmpnNsUG3l6_CPHk/s320/fat+albert.jpg" width="319" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
And what did I do, you ask?<br />
<br />
Well, I decided I would show that scale.<br />
<br />
<em>Bitch.</em><br />
<br />
I got on that thing like I owned the world...and then I fainted.<br />
<br />
Not really, but I did get a little woozy.<br />
<br />
With Henry and Adeline cheering me on, I decided that catastrophic blow was not enough.<br />
<br />
I would forge ahead and recklessly try on all my "real pants."<br />
<br />
It is a sad and frightening day when you admit to yourself that maternity pants are for...pregnant people.<br />
<br />
:(<br />
<br />
My brain realized this was a terrible idea. It really did. Every brain cell in my skull was screaming:<br />
<br />
"<strong>STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP</strong>."<br />
<br />
"Why are you doing this; nothing good can come of this."<br />
<br />
"This will plunge you into a hole of self-loathing so deep, you will need to be rescued like Baby Jessica."<br />
<br />
And then my brain gave up;<br />
<br />
"Fine, crazy bitch. You asked for it."<br />
<br />
And boy did I ask for it.<br />
<br />
Please tell me I'm not the only one who has done this?<br />
<br />
There is not a snowball's chance in Hell those clothes were going to fit. But a small part of me hoped.<br />
<br />
<em>Somehow</em>. <br />
<br />
<em>Someway</em>. <br />
<br />
A miracle had occurred.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk00eTYfOuNRgrkJ-Rjr0B1J7JufYiX1R1LhIFrYMywtKijEaiSgxhQAWhmBxr_udsIK9UVBoqRMTueQ31Y0CwOdP__oNgVFswfok9aZ3hanP-UrwFqS6RffxVcfJyEvBIAG4sTvBSiOPS/s1600/IMG_1205%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" fea="true" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk00eTYfOuNRgrkJ-Rjr0B1J7JufYiX1R1LhIFrYMywtKijEaiSgxhQAWhmBxr_udsIK9UVBoqRMTueQ31Y0CwOdP__oNgVFswfok9aZ3hanP-UrwFqS6RffxVcfJyEvBIAG4sTvBSiOPS/s400/IMG_1205%5B1%5D.JPG" width="298" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
This <em>person</em> fell out of my butt ten weeks ago;</div>
<br />
I believe in miracles.<br />
<br />
<strong>And then a miracle happened. </strong><br />
<br />
Henry chose<strong> <em>this</em></strong> morning to talk.<br />
<br />
"Hi Fatty,<span style="font-size: large;"> Hi Fatty</span>,<span style="font-size: large;"> Hi Fatty</span>.<span style="font-size: large;"> Hi FATTY!"</span><br />
<br />
On this particular morning, I really wish we would have named our cat something else.Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-35170644641712664642012-08-28T15:18:00.000-04:002012-08-28T16:10:13.598-04:00Cheap LaborKids are expensive.<br />
<br />
<em>Really expensive.</em><br />
<br />
For most of us, these are frugal times we're living in. So you have to make do with what you've got. If these are not frugal times for you, then go away.<br />
<br />
We're not friends.<br />
<br />
I've compiled a little list of ways we save money around heres. So maybe you can make some of these ideas work for you. <br />
<br />
Here goes nothin'.<br />
<br />
1. Henry loves dirt.<br />
<br />
Parks are<strong> full</strong> of free dirt.<br />
<br />
A word of caution: Choose your park wisely.<br />
<br />
If you pick the wrong park you could end up dodging used needles and Hand, Foot and Mouth Disease. <br />
<br />
OR <br />
<br />
500 SAHMs who all seem to miraculously know each other, and have matching Kate Spade diaper bags. <br />
<br />
For this mom, who 97 percent of the time wears what Michael calls my "Lesbian shorts" and Old Navy flip-flops, the latter situation tends to be kind of awkward. <br />
<br />
Between a rock and hard place, I'd pick the used needles any day. <br />
<br />
2. Instead of spending good money on play equipment that may just be a passing phase, try being creative.<br />
<br />
Henry loves the sandbox...<br />
<br />
At home we have the "Mulch Box."<br />
<br />
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I realize it looks suspiciously like landscaping. </div>
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What's your point?</div>
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3. Start a garden.</div>
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And then have your child attempt to sell the produce to your neighbors.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixGUo14yMzBLBV-MjNMS6D9IVT7_hzGeV9hexSzXvtVmmkKcU_ewWXFczFYvwWUCUXEuqYZ7CUTqMHiTvHQEq2gaFUG2dkO5LGI1IQNeWc58ZtCDchx1Mt5wrjbMZTbuWLqqOI1nPeaJxS/s1600/IMG_1142%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" fea="true" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixGUo14yMzBLBV-MjNMS6D9IVT7_hzGeV9hexSzXvtVmmkKcU_ewWXFczFYvwWUCUXEuqYZ7CUTqMHiTvHQEq2gaFUG2dkO5LGI1IQNeWc58ZtCDchx1Mt5wrjbMZTbuWLqqOI1nPeaJxS/s400/IMG_1142%255B1%255D.JPG" width="298" /></a></div>
<br />
There he goes, I told him not to take less than $3.00 for that green pepper.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXZyNXWllykFNskYbl_BBFYe4lNPb9NZEvCV6WuieaXqpBM92U2gd2JTV2fYZ0XBWcEgznTCYmAf3EVOumV3Cft4iy6MEFTsvJMAdOzzsWKae5aMhHn4Whq2I6Xg78B588oQcfvBHnc1Vu/s1600/IMG_1144%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" fea="true" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXZyNXWllykFNskYbl_BBFYe4lNPb9NZEvCV6WuieaXqpBM92U2gd2JTV2fYZ0XBWcEgznTCYmAf3EVOumV3Cft4iy6MEFTsvJMAdOzzsWKae5aMhHn4Whq2I6Xg78B588oQcfvBHnc1Vu/s400/IMG_1144%255B1%255D.JPG" width="298" /></a></div>
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</div>
It's <em>organic.</em><br />
<br />
**This is actually not representative of our garden<strong> at all</strong>. <br />
<br />
It was really just 500 zucchinis.<br />
<br />
4. Take your child to the Children's Museum.<br />
<br />
$7.00 admission may seem a little steep, but I believe the future job training is priceless.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
A career in the food service industry isn't my ultimate dream for Henry, but at this point at least he'll have something to fall back on. <br />
<br />
5. Reuse baby clothes.<br />
<br />
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If you are going to leave the house with Baby Girl in a hand-me-down ensemble, be sure to employ the extra large bedazzled head flower. </div>
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<br /></div>
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It eliminates any awkward exchanges with grocery store checkers/store clerks/gas station attendants.</div>
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<br /></div>
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She's a girl. <strong>See the flower</strong>.</div>
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<br /></div>
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P.S. I never know if I should correct someone in that situation or just let it go to avoid the weirdness. I usually just let it go, but I'm starting to worry that Addie may be getting confused. </div>
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Oh well, maybe she'll play in the WNBA. </div>
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And I can give her my shorts. </div>
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6. <strong> Don't buy anything nice</strong>.</div>
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That is a<em> </em>great way to save money.</div>
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I guarantee it will get broken, stained, spit up, vomited, peed or colored on.</div>
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Just like the only piece of furniture in our entire house that isn't a used hand me down.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The ONLY one we actually picked out. And spent money on.</div>
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Enter Henry's first bout with the stomach flu. </div>
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7. Don't hire someone to clean your house. </div>
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Make your children do it.</div>
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At two, Henry is great at following simple directions:</div>
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<br /></div>
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"Pick up your trucks."</div>
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"Bring me a diaper."</div>
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"Rub mommy's back."</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlqvN83AJsWPWfGtt6ielvYaCAH6e2BuCHFSz5bdHp9PYZqjVhEOt0Qs-29b4_ixJAJnVMLR0LEG-HuBldar7SccBWQuGJXrA92N0UnraLcZnLLUqFcim7R4xDO1hMn4DlNQfoKWujgvju/s1600/IMG_1149%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" fea="true" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlqvN83AJsWPWfGtt6ielvYaCAH6e2BuCHFSz5bdHp9PYZqjVhEOt0Qs-29b4_ixJAJnVMLR0LEG-HuBldar7SccBWQuGJXrA92N0UnraLcZnLLUqFcim7R4xDO1hMn4DlNQfoKWujgvju/s400/IMG_1149%5B1%5D.JPG" width="298" /></a></div>
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Before you start reciting child labor laws, I'll have you know it's a learning game.</div>
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Me: "Henry, what color is the broom?"</div>
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Henry: "BLUE!"</div>
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Me: "Close, but not quite Love Bug, that's yellow."</div>
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<br />
Me: "Henry, what color are the wipes?"<br />
<br />
Henry: "BLUE!"<br />
<br />
Me: "Sweet Pea, that's orange, but good try."<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhodmcOoT0-FkwB71d1ndcBTwYc3LH43ISiFGdJY24FOpY7c8PJi-1NudwhFVIc4BKsU6KdTASIm_w6QFHPpe-u9ZBgYCF8XoBS4w_6b7YumIkqShHu4G04T-zIfzIBGsl0a4wO65w7cI6-/s1600/IMG_1160%5B2%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" fea="true" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhodmcOoT0-FkwB71d1ndcBTwYc3LH43ISiFGdJY24FOpY7c8PJi-1NudwhFVIc4BKsU6KdTASIm_w6QFHPpe-u9ZBgYCF8XoBS4w_6b7YumIkqShHu4G04T-zIfzIBGsl0a4wO65w7cI6-/s400/IMG_1160%5B2%5D.JPG" width="298" /></a></div>
<br />
Me: "Henry, what color is in the potty?"<br />
<br />
Henry: "GREEN!"<br />
<br />
Seriously.<br />
<br />
I thought he had that one in the bag.<br />
<br />
P.P.S. I don't know what the lighting did, but my toilet isn't that gross in real life. I promise.<br />
<br />
Henry cleans it twice a day.<br />
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Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3829108846468741828.post-5509836579969355622012-08-23T15:58:00.001-04:002012-08-24T08:04:09.215-04:00Chill PillI hate stories that start with my friend's friend's brother's girlfriend said...<br />
<br />
So for the purposes of this next little diddy, I'm just going to refer to "my friend," who in actuality isn't my friend. It's my friend's friend's...see there we go again.<br />
<br />
"My friend" went to her obstetrician for one of her regular prenatal checkups, you know: blood pressure, pee check, reassure nurse you haven't taken up elephant riding or case races in your spare time, quick gaze up the baby shoot. <br />
<br />
And you're outta there. <br />
<br />
Easy peasy.<br />
<br />
"My friend" suffers from anxiety, like myself, and wanted to talk to her doctor about medication options.<br />
<br />
Pros and cons. Yada Yada.<br />
<br />
Her obstetrician told her to:<br />
<br />
"Punch a pillow and get more exercise."<br />
<br />
I can't even begin to address everything that is wrong with that statement.<br />
<br />
If by "punch a pillow," she means, "punch me in the face" I might understand where that would be helpful.<br />
<br />
I don't know about you, but as a pregnant person I <em>always</em> loved being told that I need to get more exercise...<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Hey</em></strong>, there's someone that wants to meet you. <br />
<br />
My middle finger. <br />
<br />
Oh look. My foot wants to introduce itself too. <br />
<br />
To your neck.<br />
<br />
I'm sure once "my friend" stuffs herself into her yoga pants that fit - 25 pounds ago - and realizes she can't do child's pose like all the other skinny bitches because she has a human, covered only by a thin veil of stretch marks, hanging off her trunk, she will feel <em>so</em> much better.<br />
<br />
Completely revitalized.<br />
<br />
And not the least bit suicidal.<br />
<br />
I understand the ideal situation is to have a completely pure pregnancy, just your prenatal vitamins and the occasional bottle of vodka to get you through the day.<br />
<br />
Joke.<br />
<br />
You could probably get away with two bottles of vodka... as long as it's just every once in a while.<br />
<br />
I took my regular low dose of anxiety medication when I was pregnant with Henry, and he is fine. <br />
<br />
Completely fine.<br />
<br />
*So he thinks everything is blue and kind of veers to the left when he walks, <em>but he's fine</em>.<br />
<br />
:)<br />
<br />
Early on in my stint with Adeline I realized that between my regular anxiety issues and the pregnancy hormones, I was turning a particularly unflattering shade of crazy. <br />
<br />
I took my trusty prescription, grateful that I would finally get some relief from the crippling anxiety spiral that I had been sucked into, and I was promptly shamed out of picking it up by two Walgreen's Pharmacists.<br />
<br />
It all happened <em>so fast</em>. <br />
<br />
I gave them my prescription, and the really old mean one said, "Who gave this to you?"<br />
<br />
Looking back, probably not the best moment for sarcasm, but I replied, "I bought it off a 14 year old in the parking lot."<br />
<br />
Then, I realized she was serious.<br />
<br />
Whooops.<br />
<br />
"My obstetrician gave it to me."<br />
<br />
<strong>Pharmadevil:</strong> "Do they know you are currently pregnant?"<br />
<br />
<strong>Me:</strong> "Ummm...yes. Somewhere between the transvaginal ultrasound and the blood tests, I think we covered that."<br />
<br />
<strong>Pharmadevil:</strong> "I'm going to need you to sit over there," (sternly points to the two waiting area chairs, that no one <em>ever</em> sits in because they're covered in Ebola, snot, and the urine of elderly people) " And read this. I'm going to need your signature."<br />
<br />
At which point she hands me a print out from <em>somewhere</em> on the Internet detailing why it is dangerous for me to take this medication while pregnant...<br />
<br />
At this point I'm so confused. <br />
<br />
(I'm sure, to you, this seems like the permanent state of my life. It pretty much is.) <br />
<br />
I feel like I'm back in Kindergarten and Mrs. Jesperson is about to spank me for peeing my pants again. <br />
<br />
So I sit. And I pretend to read.<br />
<br />
It is <em>scientifically </em>proven that one out of every 4 million babies will be born crying if I take this medication.<br />
<br />
At that point I realize that in order for me to get my hands on those pills I'm going to have to face those two<em> really mean</em> looking women and, to them, basically admit that I'm a selfish beast who doesn't care if her unborn child has an extra arm and a penis dangling off her elbow.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>I couldn't do it.</em></strong> <br />
<br />
The nurse in me knew that it was completely fine to take this medication. The friend in me had reassured <strong>countless</strong> other friends that it was completely fine for them to be on medication during their pregnancies. I took this medication during my last pregnancy...<br />
<br />
<em><strong>But I couldn't do it.</strong></em> <br />
<br />
I slank/slunk (?) back up to the counter and mumbled something about managing my anxiety with meditation...<br />
<br />
(WTF?)<br />
<br />
And I turned to go.<br />
<br />
As I was running away from the pharma-wenches I hear a <span style="font-size: x-small;">small</span> little voice, the little mouse of a pharmacy technician; kneeling on the floor, restocking Preparation H. <br />
<br />
The angel: she says,"I was on three different antidepressants when I was pregnant. <strong>You know</strong> if you need it, don't be afraid to get it."<br />
<br />
What a doll.<br />
<br />
<strong>Disclaimer</strong>: I am not a doctor, I don't pretend to know what I'm talking about. This is solely my opinion. Which, is widely agreed to be unworthy of the pixels it takes up on the computer screen, so take it or leave it.<br />
<br />
(As an aside, I work with sick babies everyday. I <strong>do not</strong> take their health or risks to their health, lightly.)<br />
<br />
I know several people that are pregnant right now. Some with their first baby, some with their third or fourth.<br />
<br />
I don't want any<strong> one</strong> of those people to feel ashamed of taking care of themselves. Ever.<br />
<br />
I tell the mothers of my 'work babies' every day: <br />
<br />
<strong>You can't take care of them, if you don't take care of <u>you</u> first. </strong><br />
<br />
It is easy to sacrifice everything for your children. You do it with out thinking. <br />
<br />
Do not be afraid to get what you need to be your best self.<br />
<br />
If that is 10 mg of Celexa, so be it.<br />
<br />
If that is one hour <strong>alone</strong> at Target, so be it. <br />
<br />
Don't lose yourself. <br />
<br />
Apologies for the serious turn of this post. Even I didn't see that coming.<br />
<br />
I know it's hard for you to believe I could ever really act that crazy...<br />
<br />
<em>hahaha</em><br />
<br />
But as I was going through this particularly difficult time, I had a brief phone conversation with a friend of mine who was about to take care of our cats when we went out of town.<br />
<br />
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When your cat sitter leaves you stress relief aromatherapy oil on your kitchen counter, it means one thing:</div>
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Get a fucking grip.</div>
Emilyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17345721302169745251noreply@blogger.com3