Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Windex Clean

If I wasn't so damn scared of getting caught I'd run outside and snap a picture right now. But I don't think I could explain straight-faced, "Sorry, didn't mean to invade your privacy - just thought this would make an excellent post!"

Some Grandma is walking a toddler outside our office. As in, the kid is strapped in one of those harness things that dogs wear except it's been cutesified to look like a monkey with the world's longest tail is hanging on to this kid's back. Grandma is seemingly bored following the monkey around (can you blame her? She's walking up and down sidewalks holding a tail), but compensates by puffing on the cigarette she has drooping from the corner of her mouth. If she isn't careful ash will burn monkey's tail. Who am I kidding? It probably has scorched the fur multiple times by now.

Anyway, Smokin' Granny isn't exactly paying attention to the toddler on the other end of the monkey... which is why I'm at my desk laughing my arse off because I had a clear view of toddler toddling up the sidewalk beelining it to our door... and SMACK! Just like a bird - didn't see that glass comin', did ya, big fella?

Monday, July 27, 2009

Is this for real?

I'm not a big fan of those on-line quizzes... you know, the kind reminiscent to the back-in-the-day Teen Magazine quiz where you answered ten vague questions and they told you what kind of kisser you were. This during the time the most passionate kiss I ever experienced was with my wrist.

I guess I just don't buy into the fact that a ten question on-line quiz can tell me how many children I'll have, what house I should live in, or which part of the country I'm best suited. At this point in my life I think I know what I want. (Now, how I get there is an entirely different story.)

Alas, I was suckered into taking a quiz... a handwriting quiz. You write some simple words down and disect away: open letters versus closed letters, slanting to the left or right or standing straight up and down, tails of letters short and chopped off or long and lingering... this is my type of quiz!

This is what I learned about myself after my ten word sampling:

You tend to be logical and practical.
You are guarded with your emotions.
You are well-adjusted and adaptable.
You tend to be skeptical.
You tend to be unswayed by emotional arguments.
You might not be following your heart - for example, you always wanted to be an artist, but you have a career in finance.

How frickin' right on is that?!

Hungry, are you?

Satan ate our wall.

Satan being the dog. V's dog. Not mine. I would not tolerate a dog like this. It is, undeniably, the most destructive dog on the face of the planet. There is nothing off limits to the dog. There is nothing the dog won't try to destroy. The house and everything in it and around it seems to belong to the dog. We just happen to live amongst its belongings. I'm actually surprised I haven't woken up to the dog gnawing its way through my tibia.

The dog existed with V before I met him. Just as my girls existed with me before I met V. It seems only fair, as pointed out by V, that since I can keep the kids he can keep the dog.

I've pointed out that the kids haven't peed on the carpet, or puked on the floor, or eaten my most favorite pair of heels, or chewed through three couches (yes, three). V pointed out that they do mess up the bathroom with their make-up and hair ties and wet towels on the floor. I pointed out that I can make them clean it up, where as the dog just sits there with a smirk on its face watching the poor schmuck clean up doggie do.

The dog is naughty. The dog is destructive. I know this and yet the shenanigans this weekend still threw me over the edge.

V was gone all day Saturday installing carpet for a "friend" who wasn't really a friend of his at all, just someone his sister's husband was friends with, and therefore pushed into the category of "Don't Charge Me - We're Friends, Remember?" (I got to hear later about how much that job would've cost - should've cost! - anyone else. I got to hear about that a lot.)

I woke up by 8 - which is sad, because I used to be able to sleep until 10am easy, but not anymore, thanks to this watermelon attempting to bust through my abdomen. Dotter woke up around then, too. I spent the day washing laundry. Dotter spent the day running around with Satan, making beds for her to sleep on, throwing bones that were never brought back, running around in a game of doggie tag. The dog, in my estimation, received plenty of exercise and plenty of attention. Not to mention every time the washing machine drained the dog sprinted down the basement steps to bark ferociously at the opposing appliance.

Anyway, V was back by 4:30 just as Dotter and I were on our way out to Cheerleading Registration (for her; not me. I know you were wondering). V offered to go with since he hadn't seen us all day. We left at 4:50... registered, stopped at my mother's for about twenty minutes, ran to WalMart to get a skimmer for the pool (and a new raft that was on sale), visited the drive-thru at Taco Bell and made it back home by 6:30pm.

For the record, an hour and a half is plenty of time for a dog to chew through the wainscoting, destroy the base trim, chair rail, and trim around the door, get its teeth around the metal fire door to dent and scratch that, pull out insulation, start gnawing on the piano, and vomit.

V thinks this happened because the dog obviously didn't get enough attention throughout the day. (Can't wait until Cletus the Fetus appears, taking more precious one-on-one time away from the dog.) V also suggested we just wait until the dog dies before we fix up the house and everything it destroys. He estimates about 8 more years of life for the dog. I'm estimating 8 more weeks before I find myself residing in the state mental institution, rocking alone in the corner while mumbling "no bite... no bite... drop it... drop it..."

Job Title

It's almost 9:30 in the morning... can I call it quits?

This job is getting to me. My pregnancy seems to be taking any patience I may have had and is using it for some other valid reason I'm sure. I've been here for an hour and all I've heard is whining. I wish there was a clause in my contract that allowed me to say, "Look, not only are you an adult, but you're actually considered a professional adult. Professional adults don't whine."

I can't help but be brought back to when I was a whiney 9-year old with my mother standing over me saying, "You can stand here and complain for twenty minutes, or you can get started on this and be done in twenty minutes - either way it still needs to be done."

In a few minutes I will be sending out my third eMail describing the same requirements to the same self-entitled person. *sigh* Really I'm nothing more than a babysitter for really big babies who get paid way more than me.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Some things are better left unsaid.

V and I had yet another baby appointment yesterday. It was scheduled for 3:45 and I think we waiting about an hour. Lovely time, this waiting.

We had a loud-talker who insisted on conversing with her friend via her cell phone. We were all suddenly invited into her world where Shaina is going to get her ass kicked the second she gets out of jail, 'cuz she don't play that! Also, we're now very concerned because no one knows where Katie is - she might be in jail, too, but her brother isn't saying nothing.

Then came two teen-looking girls, each pushing a stroller containing a toddler along with two very active boys running circles around them. While Teen-Looking Mom #1 pushed her stroller up and down the hallways, Teen-Looking Mom #2 had her blood drawn. This left the second baby stroller (with the toddler still in it) pushed next to the water fountain with the poor child staring at the wall. While toddler was nervous and whimpered quite a bit, there never was a full out wail. The boys - about 4 & 5 years old - jumped from seat to seat... literally JUMPED from seat to seat, like they were frogs manuevering their way through lily pad world. When they were bored with that they went to the check-in counter and pulled out all the tissues one at a time from each tissue box. (There were three.) One punched the other one in the melon causing him to scream, "Knock it off or I'll kill you!" The receptionist looked frightened and afraid and decided not to actually make eye contact with the kids, much less tell them to sit down and be quiet; that this was not the way to behave in a waiting room.

Finally teen mom came back, oblivious to the fact that her boys were hanging from the suspended television in the corner of the room and that her little girl who had been held hostage in the stroller was already mentally preparing what to tell her therapist when she was old enough to pay for one. Teen-looking Mom #1 came back from hiding in the hallway with her baby and announced, "I hate going places with you 'cause you can't control your kids."

I glanced over at V and could tell he was busy pleading with God to please, please, pretty please don't give us a child like any of those....


The appointment took us to after closing time, so V and I walked out into a darkened waiting room and creepy dimly lit hall. A technician met up with us at the elevator and calmly asked when I was due. "Two more months," I answered proudly. After all, I am a warrior princess - this is a piece of cake! (Secretly I was a mess. I had come to this appointment planning on the doctor announcing there had been a mix-up on the due date and I was actually due today so let's induce immediately! She didn't do that. Not at all. In fact, she didn't even come close.)

"Oh." replied the tech cheerily. "So you're having twins!" Why does everybody say this?!

"Uh, no... just one."

"Really?" Why is she sounding so doubtful and looking at me like I'm a big liar?

"Yep. Just one."

"How many ultrasounds have you had?"

"Just the one... well, two - but the first one didn't really count because it was, like, still a yolk... but then the one at 20 weeks and it just showed just the one."

"Humm."

[crickets chirping]

"Does that happen often?"

"What?"

"That people have twins after being told there's only one? .... Because I actually googled 'surprise twin births' but the results really focused on people that were initially told there was only one, but then later on at the 20 week ultrasound they were surprised to find there was two... "

"Well, yeah, it does happen sometimes."

"Like that, right - not like you're pushing out the baby and ready to relax and the doc's like, 'Woah! Hold on here - what the heck is this? Another one?!' "

"No. It happens like that too. It's not common, but I've actually been there when it has... [noting my blood rapidly draining from my face] ... but not here at this particular hospital."


V did cartwheels and handsprings to the car while yelling out such things like, "How cool would that be?!" and "Can you imagine? That'd be AWESOME!" He said other stuff, too, but I couldn't make it out while I was crawling across the parking lot trying not to have a panic attack.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Can it get any harder than this?

I've been forced into attending a baby shower that V's family insists on throwing. Keep in mind this is the warm fuzzy family that has made the following comments to me:

"We just don't think you really love V."
"If you don't get married in a Catholic church then you don't really love V."
"You're taking advantage of V."
"You're just using V for his money."
"If you and V really do get married, then your daughter will be the first grandchild - and K won't be anymore."
"Does V even get a vote?"
"You're taking V down."
"V should break up with you and date Sarah."
"Get back here! I'm not done with you yet!"

Yeah, they're a lovely bunch.

And so, although it is beyond painfully obvious that they would prefer if I were to get hit by the next Greyhound, they feel "social ettiquette" (their words, not mine) demands that a baby shower be thrown. Yippee us!

Months (and months and months) ago the question was asked: "What would you like for a baby shower?" After discussing with V we decided on a relaxed couples shower. This is my third child, but V's first - so I (along with my family and friends) have been there, done that. I really don't feel comfortable asking them to pony up for more baby stuff. But if V's family is all excited for the upcoming birth then I believe he should be there to experience it. (Let's be honest: like I'm really going to set myself up for abuse by going solo.)

So, months (and months and months) ago we answered: "A relaxed couples shower."

After being asked and explaining (without waivering) five - yes, FIVE more times... the Forced Shower is set for August 21st. A Friday night. At 6:00pm. Even though I work until 5:00pm and then have to get Dotter and usually don't even get home until 5:45pm.... but for this special event I'll be sure to dig into my vacation and personal time which I was going to save for maternity leave so I'd actually get paid while I was off recovering, but hey, since this is such a sweet gathering I'll do it!

Of course, one must understand that it's not common to have men at a baby shower [scoff here]. It's practically unheard of. They tried to warn us... but if this is what we really want, then I guess they have no choice. So it is now referred to as "That Couples Thing You Want For The Baby."

The next problem came with who to invite. As if I'm going to subject my friends and family to this. As I said - it's my third. But even if it was my first I would be smart enough to hold a seperate shower at a seperate (and secret) location. Again, insisting that "social ettiquette" requires that I invite my family, I've been told I must submit names and addresses. At this point I felt the need to point out that V's sister (who I used to think was the nice one) was not practicing social ettiquette when she freaked out in the WalMart checkout lane at us by screaming "When are you going to F-ing grow up?!" (She was upset about many things, one being he failed to call her 5 year old on her actual birthday and now the 5 year old was absolutely DEVASTATED!) V didn't think it was necessary to point out the inconsistencies of social ettiquette practice, so I just listened while he held his hand over my mouth.

As if that's not problem enough -- "What do you need for the baby?" was the next unanswered question. I know it sounds like an innocent question... but it's so not....

That's because we have everything. Honestly. I have an AMAZING friend who was so unbelievably gracious -- we have all that we could need. Honestly. The only thing I'm going to get is a crib set (bedding) at IKEA if we can ever get down there and some onesies.

I should preface this with I'm way too practical at this point in my life. After having two I understand that a newborn is not in need of sixteen pairs of shoes and forty-seven outfits. Cletus the Fetus will need onesies and the little leggings/yoga pants and a couple pairs of socks. We don't even need twelve sleeper sets and/or gowns... have you ever slept in a long sleeved onesie and yoga pants? Completely comfy!

We don't want to be inundated with a hundred plastic rattles. Satan will destroy those in two seconds anyway. We're big fans of simplicity. Look around your house and you'll find plenty of baby funness. You know those fluffy cloth books for babies? Put a couple pot holders together and attach them together with a ribbon... instant baby book. And when baby is done drooling on them you can still use them in the kitchen!

And so the answer, unfortunately is that we need diapers, baby wipes and probably some baby butt creme. I've got sensitive skin so we're stocked with baby wash and baby powder. Sorry to disappoint. And disappoint we did. "So you just want me to tell everyone to get you a gift card for WalMart? Oh, that'll be fun." (But you asked what we needed...)

And so V, after many l-o-n-g minutes of criticism, uh, I mean, conversation - agreed to go "register" so people knew what to bring.

When we were alone I asked him what his plan was. If we registered and people bought stuff that we just took back to the store, weren't they going to notice if we're using a different boppy than the one they bought us?

V just looked at me and said pointedly: "We're going to register at Target for diapers and baby wipes." Oh-KAY! (This is going to be a really fun Forced Couples Thing For The Baby!)

Friday, July 17, 2009

Hands Off, Punk

I bought a personal pan pizza and breadstick meal at the gas station for lunch yesterday. Except my stomach can't fit that much food, so I ate one piece of pizza and the breadsticks with the spicy nacho cheese before warding off the heartburn.

This morning I was sitting here working on the most boring review EVER which included such things as fuel tanks and lake water, while trying to block out this elderly gentleman who had been droning on to my co-worker for the past twenty minutes about how things were done forty years ago, when I started getting dizzy.

Oh, boy. Got to eat... I know! MY LEFTOVER PIZZA!!!

I must admit I was salivating something fierce while skipping to the lunch room fridge... but 'lo and behold MY PIZZA WAS GONE!!

Every so often this guy in the office gets a cob up his butt where he throws anything and everything that isn't important to him away. As in, "I don't need it - it's gone!" Not just food, mind you, but things like files, reports, correspondence, etc. Does he ask anyone if they still need something? No. Does he consider that someone else might have a need or a use for something other than him? No. Because he is God and the world revolves around him.

Now you've got a dizzy pregnant chick who can barely fit in her pants pissed off because you chucked her food. Game on, asshole!


Update:
After lunch today God Wannabe was taking out the garbage. This was three hours AFTER I learned he had thrown my pizza away. He called out to me, "Hey! Your pizza is still in the box and wrapped in the bag you put it in if you want it... it's still good; it's not like it got garbage on it."

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Crash Test Dummy

I take a slow country road into work each day. This is a long, straight, seriously should be 55 mph but only allows you to go as fast as 35 mph kind of road. It's very important to not exceed 35 mph. I know this because I've gotten a speeding ticket along this road. Twice. But that's not the point. The point is when traveling at a speed that ridiculously slow on a long, straight country road, you have a lot of time to take in the view.

Today's view included a minivan approaching in the opposite direction. They were also going slow, which may or may not be indicitive of any speeding tickets they may have received along this particular roadway.

The view also included the farm to my right.... which happened to have a red farm truck bouncing its way up the driveway and directly out into the road.

According to my super quick calculations said farm truck would meet said minivan at the exact same time said minivan was passing the driveway, and from the way said farm truck was moving, it didn't really care about said minivan, or anyone else on the road, like me. So I stopped. And waited. And told myself to pay attention so I could make an effective witness.

Just as I envisioned minivan got closer and Farm Truck Guy continued out the driveway, into minivan's lane, causing minivan to turn sharply to the shoulder and off into the steep country ditch, narrowly missing a mailbox in its path. You never really appreciate the steepness of country ditches until there's a vehicle hanging precariously into it.

Farm Truck Guy turned out to be a kind soul, or maybe was just being nosey, because he stopped opposite me and my parked car, probably wondering what I was doing there. I calmly rolled down my window.

Farm Truck Guy was actually Extremely Old Farm Truck Guy whose mouth was missing all teeth except one unnaturally big and long tooth on the side of his mouth. I thought I heard the Deliverance banjo music playing.... yet I braved myself and politely said, "Good Morning, Sir. Did you happen to see the minivan you cut off and caused to go into the ditch?"

"What?!" Extremely Old Farm Truck Guy spat at me.

"Did you happen to see the minivan you cut off and caused to go into the ditch?" I asked again (thoroughly impressed that I could sound so polite and so cheery in spite of my personal feelings on the situation).

"I DIDN'T PUT NO VAN IN THE DITCH!" he hollered in his old, haggard, I've-been-smoking-since-I-was-eight-don't-mess-with-me-you-prissy-bitch voice. "GO TO HELL!"

And off he drove.

Well. I guess that was that.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

What the --- ?!

No one told me my crotch was going to sweat this much. Yeah, yeah, I know - waaayyy too much information. Whatever. I've got a feral chihuahua taking over my uterus - Cletus the Fetus has been hitting, kicking, and beating at me for the past three hours. Yes, three hours of me trying to come across as professional in a conference room full of egotistical males with titles and salaries that far exceed my measley portions, while my stomach contorts itself in astounding, never before seen patterns and I sweat profusely - apparently only between my thighs. I was afraid to stand up after the hour-and-a-half pow-wow; fearful they'd think my water broke.

Another joy of pregnancy that I had not experienced the first two rounds.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

From One to the Other

On a good note, Dotter's latest test results came back looking normal. No blood or proteins in the urine. Not a drop out of line. Yeah for good test results.

On the flip side, what the heck? Are we ever going to find out what's going on in that little body of hers? Or is she just to be labeled the sickly one?

Today she skipped off to school with her backpack strapped to her back, conveniently filled with a pair of sneakers, fresh pair of socks, a box of crayons and a sketchbook. On our way to school I asked her about lunch - whether they could sit anywhere or if they had assigned tables by grade. She told me they have assigned seats. She doesn't know who she sits by so it's like she sits by herself.

My heart tore in pieces. My precious, sweet, kind hearted daughter sits alone as she eats? I wanted to cry. The ironic part was she didn't think there was anything wrong with it at all. "Don't you talk to them?" I asked. She looked at me like I was missing an obvious, yet innocent point, "Why would I talk to them, Mom? I don't even know them."

My two lovely daughters, as opposite as opposite can be. Dotter sees no shame in eating quietly, enjoying her food, relaxing before the next class... The Bean wouldn't dare enter the cafeteria without friends at her side. She'd choose to go without eating than go into the cafeteria to look for where her friends are sitting.

Dotter has decided to join cheerleading. She's awkward and gangly in movements. She definately doesn't look the cheerleader part - but she loves it. Even being the worst in class she loves every single second of it. She comes home to practice - and practices seriously every single night. Unless the Bean is the absolute best in the class she won't continue. She'll quit if someone does better than her because the shame and embarrassment of being a "less than" can't be tolerated. Where Dotter continues to plow forward, the Bean will quit and give up if someone passes her by.

I love them both and wish they could only feel happiness and acceptance and huge heapings of self-worth for all the days of their lives.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Third Times the Charm

With my first pregnancy I barely gained 20 pounds. I wore my own pants until, well, pretty much until she climbed out of my vagina and introduced herself to me.

My second pregnancy I was slightly bigger. At least one would gaze upon me and ponder the possibility that there may be a child in there... or I drank a ton of beer and had a manly beer-belly. I tried to wear maternity clothes because mine didn't fit, but I ended up looking more like a haggard bag lady than a cute little pregnant woman that you see in the movies.

This pregnancy has got me beat. I'm seven months along and already weigh more than I did coming out of the Army. (Trust me: lots of exercise and lots of free food equals massive weight gain; but I swear it was all muscle.) I have gained more than my 'healthy' 25 pounds. I have leaped to a size Large in maternity pants. And I have two months left to go.

I realize now is not the time to diet, so I'm spending this afternoon googling "hip, young muu muu dresses" to see what options I have for the upcoming eight weeks....

Sunday, July 12, 2009

It's for YOU!

Satan (the dog) took a giant dump center stage in the sunroom. Couldn't miss it. Open the door, there it was. The odor nearly knocked me out. And yet there she sat, proud as can be on the other side of the dumpage as if to show me, "Look what I have for YOU!"

I sent a text to V:

"Your dog took a shit big time on the floor. Going to my mom's until it's cleaned."

I know it sounds mean... but I knew what happened... and it was confirmed hours later upon my return... see, the Big V plays ball... any and every kind of ball. Right now he's busy with three leagues of softball (and playing with golf balls on Tuesdays). Anyway, it's very important to get to the fields early, you see, so one can warm up, watch the competition, relive glory days and brag about how awesome your current team is and how you're going to dominate the league. One needs to arrive at least an hour and a half before game time - if you're serious about ball, that is. So, V was in a hurry... and, as he explained, he just didn't have time to let the dog out. Priorities, you know.

(Oh, yes, I was very glad I left it for him...)

Friday, July 10, 2009

Just Passing the Time

Nothing much going on over here. Unless you count passing out in your boss's office, crawling in delusional fury to the conference room floor to sprawl out on my left side all the while my boss saying things like, "Should I call an ambulance? Do you want water? Do you want me to take you to the hospital?"

The answer to all of those was unsurprisingly, "No."

No, I do not want an ambulance screeching to a halt in front of the building, lights flashing, sirens blaring, announcing to the world "The pregnant chick feels woozy! What a wimp!"

No, I do not want water. In fact, I have to pee. Really bad. Right now. On this floor. My crawling and shuffling seems to have rearranged my organs so Cletus the Fetus is now lying completely on my bladder. To be honest, I don't have much control in this area. One sneeze and I can't promise you a thing.

No, I do not want YOU to take me to the hospital. Who wants to be taken to the hospital by their boss? How embarrassing!

As it turns out (after local EMTs were called to casually stroll into the building to nonchalantly take a peek at the whale beached on the conference room floor and a trip to the local emergency room was strongly suggested) I was wheeled - yes, wheeled - out to my boss's car and whisked ten minutes away to the nearest ER.

Let me tell you, if you need to go to the ER, the way to go is preggo! Staff responds so much more quickly. I didn't even have to wait. I did feel bad upon noticing at all the suffering waiting in those bland brown chairs, so I remembered to wave as I wheeled by.

Blood pressure. Tempurature. One hundred eighty six questions. Pee in a cup. (This was very welcome because remember, I'd been wanting to pee since I was on the floor. Needless to say, they got a very full cup.) Find the baby's heartbeat.

The Big V showed up right about then. He's very helpful in emergency situations. He can spin around on the doctor's little wheely-stool. Push off from the wall to see how fast he can race across the room. Get caught by the doctor....

The Doc was a cool guy. Very thorough. Ordered lots of tests - an echocardiogram, blood work, check for blood clots. He called my OB and conversed with her; I felt in very good hands.

V was impressed too, and not just because the doctor let him continue to sit on the little wheely-stool. V said, "I like him. He's Jewish, so you can tell he's smart - like the Amish." I looked at V like he was crazy but V didn't notice because he was busy trying to figure out what some machine on the wall was for. I asked him nicely to please stop pressing the buttons...

In the end I was told I had a "very big uterus" and that it seemed Cletus was pushing down and blocking the vena cava, which is a large vein that carries de-oxygenated blood back into the heart. Apparently you block the vein, you block the blood, and voilĂ ! Instant oh-my-god-I-need-to-sit-down-I'm-going-to-pass-out-I-can't-breathe. I was told some pregnant women are forced to just deal with this, and then he went on to describe some poor soul who literally passed out cold every two to three days during the latter part of her pregnancy. That was not nice.

Big V and my very big uterus were told to make a follow-up appointment with my OB and get out, because the ER was just alerted that the city next door was sending mass casualties and they were getting at least seven patients. I agreed it was a as good a time to leave as any.

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

What might happen?

My imagination has been working overtime recently. I attribute this to the large amounts of hormones overtaking my normally calm, zen-like personality. Yeah, that was sarcasm. For those of you that know me (mainly my sister, who right now is running to the bathroom before she wets herself while yelling, "Zen-like?! As if!!") you probably know that I'm a little more, uh, high-strung when it comes to safety.

I have been known to caution my children with such advice as:

"Don't ever go out of the house without me - because a stranger could take you, throw you in the trunk of their car and kill you - then you'll die!"

"Don't ever touch a dead bird - they have really bad germs and you could get them and then you'll die!"

"Don't ever go swimming without an adult present - because you could get caught in a current and drown and then you'll die!"

(My sister, the child psychologist, seems to think these cautionary statements is what has caused the Bean to be scared shitless of life in general. What does she know? Masters Degrees are so overrated....)

But the onslaught of hormones has made my fears jump to an all-time high. I worry that bad men are lurking about the perimeter of our home, which has led to a task for Big V: Install lighting around the entire home. I worry that the guy in the parking lot sitting in his car is planning an attack, so I walk with Big V to return the cart - no way I'm left alone in the car like a sitting duck. I worry about strange bacteria working it's way into our systems so I've thrown out anything and everything in our house that has passed its expiration date: Mayonaise, aspirin, sour cream, cold medicine, coupons...

Dotter is in a cheerleading camp for the next 5 weeks, what if she falls and breaks her neck and becomes paralyzed? I've seriously considered taking her out of the camp. It's just not worth it.

Jelly Bean is taking some acedemic classes at the local public highschool - do they have security? What if some crazy kid comes in with a sawed-off shotgun? Maybe she should just wait until the regular school year to start earning credits....

I need to get a handle on these fears soon, before we're all left sitting in the living room staring at each other because I'm too afraid to let anyone actually do anything. Two more months of pregnancy hormones... will we make it?

And so this child shall remain nameless...

Swear to Jesus we'll be "those people" whose kid goes nameless for the first three years of it's life only to be forced to name it something, thus assigning it a number or the name "Baby."

Not knowing what the sex of the baby is we are forced to come up with boy names and girl names. (We can't keep calling the child 'Cletus the Fetus' - especially if it's a girl.)

The Big V and I cannot - honestly, cannot come up with any name we agree upon. I like different names, unique names - but not bizarre names. The two girls I currently have were named somewhat boy names.... but let's be honest, they were whimpy boy names. I like names that are recognizable yet will cause someone to comment that they've never heard that name and where did we come up with it. And so, I like names like "Elliette" (yep, just like Elliott for a boy) or Eisley or Tamsin or Aeslin. I like Tiernan and Henry (ok - that's after my grandfather, who, by the way, was the bomb-diggity of his time).

But the V? Does he like any of those? Oh, NO!

So what does he like?

Here is what he has suggested thus far:

For a girl: Blythe.

For a boy: Zanack. Or Zaynack. (It's a long "a" in the first syllable.) And Cage. Yes, that's right, CAGE. (Which, when compared to Zaynack doesn't seem to bad.)

And so, this child shall remain nameless...

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Rest In Peace, Michael Jackson

I try to stay away from the controversial headlines for the simple fact that I am well aware that I probably am not privvy to all the facts. I work in local government and am quoted in the local papers often. More times than not the article doesn't quite say what I said. Oftentimes the article is written in a way that sways the reader in one direction or another when I was always taught newspaper reporting should be "just the facts;" the concise answers to Who, What, Where, Why and How Much? That being said, I take what I read/see in any given media with a grain of salt.

Do I know if everything I read about Michael Jackson was true? Not at all. Does that mean he never did any of the things he was accused of? Again, not at all. I, personally, will never know. Do I have "feelings about" or "opinions on" - of course. But I'm not an expert and I don't claim to be all-knowing.

However, this is the one fact I do know: three little kids lost their father, the only parent they really ever knew.

If I were to die tomorrow there would be the (seemingly) obligatory custody dispute. My children have, without a doubt, spent way more time with me and my side of their family. I could have my sister & mother bring in boatloads of documentation that shows visits have been cancelled, ignored, disregarded, etc., but the bottom line decision will come from a judge. Presumably there will be a fiery attorney who will "prove" that the children are better off with their biological father they barely see for more than a couple hours a month than with the endless aunts, uncles, cousins and grandma & grandpa that have been an integral part of their lives since birth.

If I die, their world collapses.

If I die, everything they know as normal and (hopefully) comforting in small ways would more than likely disappear. They will be moved from the home they live in and sent to a home they have only spent limited time in. Impromptu phone calls inviting them to Starbucks with Nana, or to a sleepover slumber party with all the cousins at Grammy's house, will be replaced with court decisions over possible visitation dates and times - of which, most certainly, will not be enough.

If I die and am sent to my eternal home for peace, my children will begin an inner turmoil they could never begin to understand.

And so, I say this:
Whatever your opinion is of Michael Jackson, the fact remains this: Three young children lost the only parent they have ever known. The world of three young, innocent, didn't-ask-for-this children has collapsed, and their inner turmoil has begun. My heart absolutely breaks for them.

Thursday, July 2, 2009

Oh, so THAT'S how it works....

I forced Big V to watch an episode of MTV's "16 and Pregnant" because, as I explained, "eventually she gives birth and you need to see it." Quietly he took in the doofus boyfriend who failed to say anything even remotely intellegent, the swoony girlfriend who truly believed they were soul mates, and the can't-quite-deal-with-this mother, who spent the episode cussing out her son and yelling such things as "if you would've just kept it in your pants and not knocked up some girl you wouldn't BE in this situation" in front of the girlfriend. (yes, Awkward!)

About midway through the episode, during a 38 second clip showing the girl pushing, face contorted, knees yanked up to her ears, out pops this blicky-covered baby with a head the size of a cantelope. Knowing that I've got a beefy fetus that continues to expand in leaps and bounds I turn to V and frantically announce "Did you see that? Did you SEE how big that head was? There's no WAY a nine pound baby is pushing it's way out of my loins! You do it. I don't want to do it. It's your sperm's fault anyway!" (Which quickly turned into a 'well, if your egg hadn't been hanging around looking to hook up with the first sperm that passed its way -' 'are you calling my egg a hussy?' discussion...)

After V pointed out that clearly a 9-pound birth weight would be the first great stat for any reputable linebacker, he attempted to further soothe the Ripping Cervix Horror conjured in my mind by telling me - and I quote - "besides, babies just slip right out because they're so floppy. You won't feel a thing."

I stared at him for a good three minutes (he exhibited signs of uncomfortableness around twelve seconds, so the stare was quite effective) afterwhich I calmly announced that I would be in charge of Sex Ed when it came to our children and that from this moment forward he is not to claim to know how anything works when it comes to reproduction and to send all inquiries directly to me.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

Sometimes Less is Better Than More

The doctor took a long time listening to the baby's heartbeat at the last doctor's visit. A very long time. What was odd was that it wasn't one of those "don't panic but oh my god she can't find the heartbeat" kind of moments. It was more of a "Wow! There it is - nice and strong!" and yet there she was, instrument in hand, swirling and moving it over my exposed abdomen to listen to what? More heartbeats? Different ones? Faster... Slower... first on the left side... now on the right...

Big V and I exchanged looks... mine of panic... his of excited anticipation... and for what seemed like hours (but was probably more like two minutes) we waited silently as the noise of horses galloping took over the exam room.

Finally the Doc straightened up, smiled, and announced, "Nope. Only one in there!" (V was heartbroken; I relieved.)

My little Cletus the Fetus is such an acrobat that s/he wouldn't sit still and confused the doctor with its little shenanigans. What was briefly thought of as possibly two little fetuses was actually one little wise guy playing tricks, running a game of "catch me if you can!"

It is an active little fetus. Active to the point I asked if there was any correlation between in-womb activity and ADD. (She assured me there wasn't - after she laughed - but I don't believe her.)

The One in which I take my Father for his Covid Vaccine

I got a voicemail the other day from the hospital saying ‘since you’re the contact on record we just want you to know your Dad can get a Cov...