caffeinated

today seemed like a good day to start blogging again

2011-08-11T21:07:00.018-04:00

if you're looking for a fun, low-cost way to entertain and enrich your children for the afternoon, you should look further than the arlington country fair. i took the kids (now almost 5 and almost 2, if you can believe it) this afternoon for rides! games! fun! deep fried oreos! we could have minded our own business, for free, at the pool, but it's going to be a tough, too-busy weekend for us to make it to the fair, and besides, it's so much better when there aren't hordes of clueless parents like myself toting around hooligan children like mine, as there would be on the weekend. so, off we went.

a veteran of this fair with hooligan children in tow, i knew what to bring: water, snacks, diapers, and of course, plenty of cash. we started off with the restrooms (free, although the hand soap had a strong, lingering aroma of vomit -- um, this is foreshadowing ) and lemonade ($5, with refills only $3 all weekend long), and then headed to the kids' corner, where it was surprisingly fee-free for an opportunity for your kids to hurl themselves around the inside of a moonbounce.

when that fun wore off (approximately three minutes later), we headed to the midway for the rides and games. i bought a sheet of tickets (24 for $20 -- a bargain!), and we made out way over to the sad little choo-choo ride, 3 tickets per go. there was no one on the ride, and the ride attendant reluctantly hoisted himself up to help us on. madeleine made a mad dash for the engine, and though hunter wanted to follow, he was sidelined by the attendant, who wanted to measure him first. sho' enough, the h-man was about an inch too short to ride by himself, so the guy told me i had to ride with him. i forked over six tickets, but he told me i needed to pay, too. and i was like, "dude, seriously? i don't even WANT to ride," but the kids were already on board, pulling imaginary train whistles and whoo-whooing, so what was i going to do? i joined them, and thought about how this carnival train ride was costing me nine dollars, which is about twice as much as i would pay for a real metro ride, where i would end up someplace better than the grounds of the thomas jefferson middle school.

when it was over, hunter screamed to stay on the choo-choo. but at the rate of $9 per three minutes, we'd have been broke in about another six minutes, so i tried to lure him away with the promise of a ride on the next attraction, the sad, broken-down car ride. after a few more minutes of screaming and a pretty spectacular tantrum on the dirt fairground, he agreed to try out the cars. we walked over, and yet again, the carnie, taking his job way more seriously than i would have envisioned, propped him up against the "YOU MUST BE TALLER THAN THIS LINE" sign. i already knew he was too short, but before i could mention it, the guy was like, "sorry, he's not tall enough." and i was like, "i know, it's ok, i'll ride with him," but the guy was like, "no, he can't ride this ride AT ALL." and of course, by this time, hunter had already become one with the hoopty fire engine, so there was no way i could have told him no. the guy eyed me suspiciously, "you're not no cop or nothin', are you? 'cause he can ride if you sit with him, but i ain't gettin' in any trouble." THIS is what the modern-day carnie is worried about? if i HAD been a cop, i'm pretty sure i could've have found more on this guy --who looked like he probably stored human heads in his freezer -- than the fact that he let my two-year-old on a dilapidated carnival ride. six tickets later -- the dude even cut me a break!! -- we were off. or, more accurately, around and around and around until i thought i might puke (do you prefer i use foreshadowing or premonition here? what the hell, take your pick).

once that was over, i realized i couldn't bear to do the rides any longer. i pointed madeleine in the direction of the games, thinking i might be able to entice her with the prospect of a stuffed animal. (hunter was enticed by no such prospects. however, the rest of my lemonade, sipped through a bendy straw, seemed to suffice.) we played a couple of simple games -- all with the "everyone wins a prize" guarantee, and we quickly amassed a herd of stuffed dolphins, unicorns and monsters. it was fun. the kids were totally into playing these dumb games and "winning" prizes. at our last game, madeleine also "won," and the attendant was all, "congratulations! let me get your goldfish for you!" and it slowly dawned on me, as she headed for a huge plastic barrel to scoop one out, that she was not talking about some stuffed animal, but an ACTUAL, REAL LIVE GOLDFISH. fucking fuck.

"here you go! the directions are on the side of the bag. enjoy!" madeleine, wide-eyed, took the bag with her brand-new pet and yelled, "I CAN'T BELIEVE I REALLY WON A REAL GOLDFISH!!!!"

omg. me, too, madeleine.

as we walked back to the car, my emotions wavered between dread (because "winning" this new "pet" would absolutely result in my explaining the concept of goldfish heaven by the weekend) and extreme pissed-off-ness (OMG, WHAT SORT OF CARNIE GIVES AWAY LIVE ANIMALS AS A PRIZE AND DOESN'T WARN YOU FIRST? answer: carnie folk, that's who). and also, i tried to be happy for madeleine, because by this point, she was all moony and googly-eyed over her new pet, which she named rainbow. "mom, i love my new fish. do you think she recognizes me? how many times a day can i feed her? do you think rainbow loves me? can i take her to camp tomorrow? can she sleep in my room? mom, i LOVE my new fish and she loves me, too!"

instead of heading back home for a now badly-needed glass of wine, we detoured to petco to find a new suitable home for rainbow. by this time, hunter was starving, so he was shoveling cheez-its in his mouth as fast as he could, but madeleine was transfixed by the myriad fish "houses." i was stymied: pick up the $4.99 no-frills "tank" (knowing this fifty-cent feeder fish would probably only be living there for approximately fifty hours) or spring for the $34.99 disney "little mermaid"-themed set-up? or something in between? (can you guess which one madeleine was rooting for?)

as it turns out, i didn't have to make the choice. hunter started choking on a cracker, and then, in a dazzling orange eruption, barfed up every cracker he'd eaten in the past 15 minutes (um. a LOT) all over himself and me. "EWWWWW. hunter's VOMITING, mommy!!" i grabbed some wipes out of my purse, mopped up the puke, and we got out of there.

after he got home from work and the kids went down to bed, joe graciously went back out to the store to get a tank. rainbow is now living in a little mermaid aquarium on the kitchen counter.

oh, rainbow. for fuck's sake, please stick around with us for a while, ok?

but not quite "ancient"

2010-07-18T08:52:00.000-04:00

madeleine and i are headed off to a concert this morning featuring my fave kids' band, rocknoceros, and the kids' performer i've been dying to see, the great zucchini. (note: shut UP. i know. but this is my life now.) i was trying to describe the phenomenon of TGZ to joe.

me: he's this kids' magician... he's, like, seemingly totally normal on the outside, but really appeals to kids for some reason. he's young, like our age...

joe: we're old.

me: oh.

i'm slightly less excited to see this old fart now, but it should still be fun, if i can stay awake.

(faux) pearls (of wisdom) (that i'm trying to pass off as real)

2010-07-14T22:27:00.001-04:00

i have a lot of advice. most of it, people don't ask for, and most of it is, i imagine, probably largely unhelpful.

but it's my delivery. when i tell you what i (presume to) know, i say it with such conviction, goddammit, that you have no choice but to believe me. i don't have many talents (however, i am an excellent speller, i'm quite good at reading maps, and at parallel parking, i'm unparalleled. hahahaha!), but i can talk some shit. i think it comes from my previous-life career as a human resources manager ("no, we can't offer you health benefits, and i'm so sorry we can't go above $6 an hour, but dude, i am TELLING you. you totally want this front desk job at gold's gym. think of all the hot girls you'll meet. YEAH. you know what i'm talkin' about."), where i routinely talked a whole lot of shit and tried my best to convince people to do whatever the hell i needed them to.

but back to present day. there's someone in my life who's going through a really hard time right now. it's someone i care about deeply, and it hurts to see this person agonize over all the crappiness they're enduring. this person's a tough cookie, and has been through worse, but it's still a sucktastic place to be. and though it's easier said than done, i want nothing more than for this person to remember that even if you can't change the direction of the wind, you *can* readjust your sail.

because this person is pretty awesome, and deserves all the happiness in the world.

but i still can't climb a tree

2010-07-13T14:29:00.000-04:00

i have a claw toe.

it doesn't look all that bad there. kind of normal, even. but wait:

ew. gross. is that even human?

small children are scared of the claw toe.

rawr! claw toe!

in which i am not slowly dying of melanoma

2010-07-12T19:35:00.000-04:00

i have this new mole on my chest. it's not hideous or anything, but it's new, and the fact that i hadn't had it for the previous 36 years of my life seemed kind of weird. plus, it's been accidentally scratched off twice: once by me in the shower, and once by hunter while he was nursing. and both times, it grew back, which also seemed kind of weird.

the best course of action, it seemed, was to employ my "ignore it and maybe it will go away" method, which works well for returning phone calls and not acknowledging repeated demands for dora fruit snacks (note: not as good for dental pain and indescribable, ominous noises emanating from the car).

but then a few weeks ago, i was getting my hair did. i had the last appointment of the day at 6pm, so i brought a bottle of wine for my stylist, katie, and me. and as i sat under the dryer, the heat scorching the bleach into my roots, my brain buzzed on chardonnay and no food, i read an article about skin cancer in "glamour" that convinced me i had one foot in the grave already. i read all eight pages of grim-looking photos of moles of all shapes and sizes, and sidebars of warnings and information designed to kick you the hell out of any false sense of security you might have previously had about being safe in the sun, and i fondled my new mole anxiously. i got home and fell apart, crying to joe that i was dying of skin cancer.

the next week, i booked an appointment with dr. simone mckitty, partly because i got a few recommendations for her, but mostly because, let's be honest... could YOU resist that name? i saw her this morning and me-YOW. the woman's hot.

and also? she made me feel like a colossal idiot for wasting her time. she breezed into the exam room so fast, it was as though she made the stop on her way to take a leak, she snapped on a rubber glove, and she got busy. i showed her the mole, and she was all like, "THAT? that is nothing. next." i showed her the weird patch of skin on my forearm, the spot that's bumpy and itchy and seems like it's wrinkling prematurely. also nothing. she stifled a yawn.

i only had one trick left to show her: my lips that have been all dry and flaky and oddly prone to breakouts lately, although today, they looked much better than they have in a while. "yeah, that happens sometimes. i'll prescribe you an ointment," she told me, looking bored, and that was it.

i'm getting my hair done again in two weeks, and next time, i'm going to read a novel.

nablopomo = fail

2010-07-11T06:37:00.000-04:00

aw, nuts. three days in and i fucked up. and here i am reminded of the following pearl of wisdom: "if at first you don't succeed, failure might be more your style."

it's 6:30, i've been awake for two hours, and i'm off to will the refrigerator to magically produce another container of half and half, having just poured the last of it in my second cup of coffee.

more later.

happy birthday, goddammit

2010-07-09T13:11:00.000-04:00

my only surviving grandparent's birthday is fast approaching. grandma mary will be 97 on july 30. she technically lives in new jersey with her older son, but really, she spends just as much time in maryland with my dad, her younger son, which means she's here a lot. ALOT.

my parents come over to our house every sunday morning and have been doing so ever since madeleine was a baby. it's nice. they bring bagels, we sit around and shoot the shit, and the kids entertain their grandparents. once in a while, i take the opportunity to use it as free babysitting and escape for a pedicure, or sometimes just to sit in my car by myself and mutter.

so when grandma's in town, she tags along. for someone who's almost a century old, she's doing pretty damn well. she's about four and a half feet high and weighs 70 pounds soaking wet, but she's healthy. she forgets where she is sometimes, but late in the afternoon, after the kids have run me ragged and and i'm on my second glass of cheap trader joe's wine, i forget, too. she's kind of a pain in the ass, what with her needing help up and down the stairs and her incessant chatter (do you want to hear about the great depression? again and again and again? because if you do, you might want to stop by. don't bring anything, we've got bagels.), but holy hell, she's NINETY-SEVEN FREAKING YEARS OLD. she's allowed.

so, anyway, my dad called this morning, and left me a long, rambling voice mail asking if it would be ok if we celebrated grandma's birthday this sunday when they came over. nothing fancy, no cake, maybe just a candle in her bagel, but would i mind terribly if we did this? would it be too much of an imposition? would it be ok with me?

it got me wondering what kind of an asshole i must be coming off like lately. would i mind if we celebrate an old lady's birthday, my GRANDmother's birthday? why, YES. yes, i would mind. jesus, what a fucking lot of nerve someone has to even SUGGEST such a thing. take your goddamn birthday and get the hell out of my house, dad. you AND the horse you rode in on.

seriously, am i an asshole? because i don't think i am. but maybe i'm wrong. i'm usually not, but there's a first time for everything.

a nablopomo of one's own

2010-07-08T14:09:00.000-04:00

enough. i think about this dang blog every day but haven't actually posted in close to two months. TWO MONTHS! think about what you could accomplish in two months.

***thinks, can't come up with anything.***

starting today, i'm posting every day. every damn day, dammit, like as if i were doing nablopomo, only not officially, 'cause, you know, what if i can't? (i don't know what the repercussions of skipping a day with nablopomo are. maybe they put worms in your food. maybe you have to bite the head off a dove. these are chances i cannot afford to take.)

so, whether or not i have compelling things to tell you (ooh, ooh! you know when you go to the container store, you're all inspired, like, "holy shit! look at all these ways to organize your rooms, your home, YOUR LIFE!! i must have these rectangular fiberboard stacking storage boxes. i can keep... STUFF in them!" and you buy, like, 6 of them? at $14.99 a pop, because, yeah, that's expensive, but can you really put a price on thoughtful organization and how much it will improve your otherwise sucktastic life? and then you get them home and you put some random shit in them but then realize you don't have anywhere to actually put them, and then after awhile, they just become part of the crap landscape that is your basement? and goddamn, you just wasted 90 bucks on decorative cardboard? THAT is a little what my thought process is like.), you'll be subjected to it daily.

i'm back. you're welcome.

his name is hunter. i call him hunter. thanks for asking.

2010-05-13T10:12:00.000-04:00

my almost-97-year-old grandma, who is slowly but surely losing her marbles, seems to have a real problem with my son's name. upon learning his name after his birth, she allegedly wrinkled up her nose and asked, "hunter? what kind of a name is that?"

lest you think she was catty about it behind my back but polite about it to my face, i assure you: no. when she first met him, she asked me the same thing: "what kind of a name is hunter?" how do you answer that? when she sent a congratulatory card and gift for him, she addressed it to "hunter." i mean, she used the quotation marks, as though the name hunter was a pseudonym designed to throw the paparazzi off the trail, and we'd be divulging his real, normal name later.

i don't know how i came up with hunter. i don't think it was even on my list during my first pregnancy, before we knew we were having a girl. it's just one of those names i've always liked. it's short and sweet, not ordinary but not all that out-there, easy to spell and pronounce. "diana" is the greek goddess of the hunt, so i thought that significance was kind of neat. it's classic and cool, like the kid i know he's going to be. and it took almost the whole nine months to convince joe.

i had my doubts for a few weeks after he was born. was i really the type of person who could have a child named hunter? was i cool enough, hip enough, for that? i mean, i got lots of compliments (not from grandma, though), so i think most people liked it. our families thought it was weird, i think, but in the end, i think we all agree: he's a hunter. and not just because he spends most of his waking hours stalking the wild cheerio or whatever other petrified nuggets of foodstuffs that happen to be littering our floors.

on mother's day, she asked me, "what do you call him?" uhhhh. "i call him hunter, grandma," i replied, hoping my eye-rolling wasn't all that obvious.

"hmmm. sounds like he should have a gun."

as always, direct your criticism my way.

le ballet, c'est magnifique!

2010-05-05T20:55:00.000-04:00

dudes. i totally did it! i went to my first ballet class since reagan was president. i wasn't the worst one in the class. i didn't injure myself. i dressed cute -- completely appropriately and not conspicuously. can we just say it? i rocked.

seriously, it was really, really fun. i'm taking it at this place, a real honest-to-god dance studio, and just walking inside, what with all the dancey-looking chicks prancing around the place in their adorable leotards and cute-as-a-button updos, was intimidating. but by god, i didn't walk back out to the parking lot. i stayed, dammit, and i danced my ass off.

it was hard. i'm coming in midway through the semester, so the five or so other hausfraus in my class already knew the combinations and danced them nicely in their well-worn slippers (mine, meanwhile, were glaringly new). i kept up, mostly, and was only singled out by the instructor a few times. i held onto that barre as if my life depended on it (it did, kind of), and had to be reminded once or twice to stand tall and suck in my gut (a dainty ballerina would probably refer to it as my "core"), but ohmygod, it was so much fun to be pointing my toes and doing plies and leaping across the floor. and though it was jarring to see myself in the mirror in my leotard, cutoff sweats and pink slippers, when i examined myself objectively, what i saw staring back at me, trying hard to balance and not fall on her face, was not all that bad.

and she had some pretty nice arms, i might add. probably from lugging around her 25-pound 8-month-old all day. just a guess.

jock itch

2010-05-03T14:40:00.022-04:00

i'm such a wannabe athlete. i was never really into playing sports as a kid, or a teenager, or, uh, ever, really. it's 50% because i dislike competition, 30% because i hate getting sweaty, and 20% fear of injuring myself due to my breathtaking sense of klutziness. if you know me in real life, and i have never tripped over dust molecules and sprained an ankle in your presence, well, keep waiting, because i can assure you: one day, it'll be your turn to call the hubs at work and let him know i'm in the er, awaiting x-rays and a prescription for codeine.

my resistance to athletics has translated into an utter disdain for working out, for all of the same reasons. throw in my amazing ability to talk myself out of anything, and here i am, at age 36, with a sedentary lifestyle on my hands. (i stretch the truth, a little: keeping an infant and a preschooler alive every day requires a lot of activity, but generally not of the heart-rate-increase variety. unless i'm chasing the preschooler out of the path of an oncoming dump truck, or trying to remember where i left the infant.)

i've lost all of my baby-weight, and then some, through the magic of nursing and not having time to eat, two approaches i'm pretty sure jillian michaels isn't advocating. but i know i'm not in "shape" per se, and though i weigh less, there are some areas that could use some, uh, help.

so, i'm starting an adult beginner ballet class tonight. yes, seriously. madeleine took ballet through the county this past winter, and loved it, but when it came time to register her for the next session, i spaced out and forgot; by the time i remembered, all the classes were full. i emailed her teacher for recommendations for other ballet classes, and during the course of my research, i realized that: i really like ballet clothes. and doing plies waaaay the hell back in middle school, the last time i actually took ballet, was kind of fun. and at age 36, i am unlikely to come across many other opportunities in which i can get away with wearing a leotard in semi-public.

last week, madeleine came with me to pick out my clothes. true, i could really just wear shorts and a t-shirt, but like i said, the CLOTHES. i got a black spaghetti-strap leotard, black footless tights, and pink ballet slippers, which is exactly what i wear in the ballet class fantasy in my mind, the one where i execute perfect pas de deux and i don't fall down. i also got a cute little wraparound skirt. this item makes me a little nervous: i am so not looking to be that woman in the tutu, but i also feel like i need some butt coverage. thoughts and opinions on this matter are welcome.

in addition to my new career as a prima ballerina, i've also decided to start stroller strides. i did it once, last fall, a few weeks after hunter was born. i ridiculed it before i went, but holy shit, that class kicked my ass. and my ass could still stand to be kicked a time or two, so i'm heading back, but first (the CLOTHES!), i legitimately needed new running shoes, since everything i own (athletic shoes included) is strictly for fashion and not for aiding me in the pursuit of trying not to trip and fall flat on my face. hunter came with me to dsw this morning, and with his help, i came home with a very adorable pair of grey with pink-and-green-accents rykas (endorsed by human skeleton kelly ripa!) and which had the added bonus of being 40% off. is it wrong that i choose running shoes almost solely based on their cuteness factor? because, i mean, really, does it make a difference? (and here, i'm picturing the paramedics shaking their heads, telling each other that if only i'd sprung for the $90 nikes, i wouldn't be lying here on this stretcher.)

cute, right?

swimming with the fishes, but not in a crime way

2010-05-03T14:30:00.001-04:00

dudes! are you going to the guppy gala? we totally are! (and by "we," i mean "me and the girl," 'cause ain't no way the baby is going to stay up that late, not without a lot of ear-splitting screaming, anyway, and well, we don't want to scare the guppies.)

so. the guppy gala. it's at the national zoo, a place we don't get to nearly enough, and it promises to be a night of "tasty treats, silly songs, and fun!" and who doesn't like fun? (my mother, for one. joe once referred to her as "captain no-fun." that didn't go over well, but it was fun. which is probably why she didn't like it.)

anywho, it's at the zoo on friday, may 14th from 6-8:30 pm, and tickets are $25 for everyone 2 years old and older (unless you're a FONZ member, in which case, they're $15. yee-haw!). BUT if you are the lucky sort, you can win two tickets just by commenting* on this here blog. you are so lucky you read me.

*by noon EST this friday, 5/7/10. you must leave your email address in your comment, which should be either a) an amusing anecdote, b) a blush-worthy compliment, or c) a recipe for a fabulous summer cocktail. winner will be drawn at random by madeleine's picking a number out of a hat or otherwise similar container.

porntastic

2010-04-28T22:51:00.000-04:00

recently, i posted about all the wacky asian comments i've been getting here. i naively assumed i had somehow struck a chord with my many asian fans. (side note: i just finished reading david sedaris's "when you are engulfed in flames," which i started last july, and holy shit, it is fantastic. i mention this because of the last chapter, "the smoking section," which chronicles his brief time living in tokyo. i love when he talks about the engrish: the sign outside the beauty parlor reading "eye rash tint," and what's printed on the wrappers of the ready-made sandwiches at the chain convenience store: "we have sandwiches which you can enjoy different tastes. so you can find your favorite one from our sandwiches. we hope you can choose the best one for yourself." sedaris, like me, enjoys humor at the expense of others' ignorance.)

anywho. so. turns out the friendly asians were not complimenting me on my eye rashes, or my choice of sandwiches, or anything at all, really. because, as new reader jenni told me yesterday, "hey sister, that there is asian porn." oh. of COURSE it is. because when you read about a preschooler vomiting all over the place, naturally, your thoughts will turn to barely legal horny schoolgirls.

on a completely unrelated note, i made the BEST ("made" is pushing it; "threw ingredients for in bowl and wolfed down" is more accurate) dessert tonight: ben & jerry's dulce delish ice cream, a sliced banana, heated caramel and whipped cream. you're welcome; what would you do without me?

in which i am a survivalist in the wilderness known as THREE

2010-04-27T21:04:00.000-04:00

i posted today over at DCMM, all about the evil that is the three-year-old child. join me, won't you?

mmmm... vomity!

2010-04-15T10:18:00.002-04:00

my latest post is up today at DCMM. read it and puke.

huh?

2010-04-08T20:58:00.000-04:00

i got seven comments on my most recent post about potty training. three of them were in mandarin. here's the latest one:

好文章給人的感覺就是很好，謝謝您~~........................................

whuck?

if you're reading my blog, you obviously understand english. so why are you leaving me a comment in a language that looks like my daughter's drawing of "a tree, a kitty cat playing a piano and a pop-tart"? is it flattering, at least? because i'm pretty sure it probably says, "you suck. fuck you and your family, too."

i joke! i kid! please, friendly asians, do not hate me. thank you for reading my blog! i'm not sure what i could be writing about that both captures your interest and does not offend your sensibilities, but thank you all the same.

she came, she saw, she peed

2010-03-24T23:24:00.001-04:00

i pulled the plug on pull-ups today. and i've been awash in a tidal wave of urine ever since.

potty training: it's an ugly, ugly thing, my friends.

i bought madeleine her first potty nearly two years ago now. at first, it was a cool hiding spot for her treasures. then she took our word that you could actually pee on it, no, really, you can, and by god, one day, she went and peed on the darn thing. we praised the living bejesus out of her.

slow, slow small steps and two years later, here we are. i haven't forced it, because i've heard forcing it is the worst thing you can do. but now i wonder, is it? or is having to change your pull-up before you hit a keg party with your sorority sisters the worst thing? because, uh, that's where girlfriend is headed.

i ditched the diapers a couple of months ago, and stuck her in princess-printed pull-ups (there's an image for you. if you were a princess, how'd you like to be stuck to the rear end of a three-year-old all day? probably not how you envisioned royalty.), but they totally DID.NOT.WORK. she treated them just like diapers, and even had the nerve to pretend like she wasn't wet, or worse, shitty, when, hello, the cartoon stink lines were practically coming off of her.

i bought her underwear late last year, and she wore them a few times, but every time she wet them, she decided she was done, and it was back to the pull-ups. today, we went straight for the undies, and i carried around two spare pairs at a time all day, as well as several outfit changes. we changed underwear seven times. the last time, i had to chuck them, because, let's just say it would have taken a hazmat team to reclaim them.

places we had accidents today: at playgroup (twice), at home (twice), on a trail at the nature center and then back at home again, but not before she peed on the floor next to our table at johnny rockets. that one seemed to mystify her: "hey, where's all that pee coming from? hey, look! here's a puddle!"

at home tonight, relating the day to the hubs, i cried. not only because i'd had such an exhausting day, full of lysol and clorox wipes, but also? because in ten years, i'll be sitting on this same damn sofa, crying about something else going on in her life, only this time, it'll be something that'll make potty training look like a joke. and that this whole parenting thing? it's frustrating and exhausting, yes, but it's all going by so damn fast. blink, i'm pregnant. blink, i have a baby. blink, i have a little girl... blink, blink, blink, i'm picking out a mother-of-the-bride dress and then slapping a "let me tell you about my grandkids" bumper sticker on my car.

holy hell, i must be getting my period.

giveaway!

2010-03-23T21:21:00.001-04:00

i get a lot of pitches to promote stuff on my blog. i've passed on most of it, 'cuz i ain't no sellout (YEAH! gin-u-wine! huzzah!), but this one sounds really awesome:

Rosalind Wiseman – the best-selling author of Queen Bees & Wannabes, the basis for the hit movie Mean Girls – will be in town hosting a workshop filled with mother-daughter bonding, but also an interactive discussion about confidence, friendships and how to navigate those sweat-inducing “moments”. She will also be signing copies of her books, which attendees will receive at the event.

Rosalind Wiseman’s Girl World Tour is presented by Dove go fresh
Date: Tuesday, April 6
Time: 7-9 p.m.
Location: Georgetown Day School
Tickets: $40 per mother-daughter pair
Event Details: http://rosalindwiseman.com/events/girl-world-tour/

if madeleine were a tween (and, oh dear god, i can't imagine any more drama than what we currently endure), we would totally go to this. that is, if she liked me on that particular night, and if she hadn't recently told me how i was ruining her life.

most of my peeps have kids close in age to my own, so i'm not sure who's going to win these tickets. (oh! yeah! i have FREE TIX to give away!!!) leave a comment here -- just your name and email address if cool -- but for EXTRA points, tell me what your worst memory of your tween years was. (mine: me, in horrible short dorothy hamill-esque haircut, wearing ugly tan leather-esque jacket, having some neighborhood kid come up to me and asking me, "are you a he or a she?" scarred? me? nooooo.)

get to it, people. (oh. get to it by noon EST friday, march 25, k?)

in which i am unable to locate the sign i'm obviously wearing that reads "bring me your crazy"

2010-03-17T20:35:00.000-04:00

i'm totally a magnet for crazy.

so many bizarre instances throughout my life, too many to count, but highlighted here: the guy following me into the filene's basement, the guy who jerked off in my underwear in the laundry room, the dog that dragged me down a sidewalk and sent me to the ER to get nine stitches in my ear.

today's crazy isn't on par with those, but it still creeps me out anyway.

i was checking out at trader joe's (essentials: wine; um, other stuff). hunter was in the front of the shopping cart, since his now-almost-seven-month-old self (!!!!) can sit up really well, and i was busy getting my wallet out. the guy behind me started commenting on hunter ("what a handsome boy, look how happy he is, look how well he sits up," yada yada yada), and of course, like any proud mama, i bit. i agreed with him, remarking on how adorable he is, but what a big boy, not quite seven months and already 22 pounds, he's breaking his mama's back.

the guy keeps talking and i start to hear the crazy in his voice and the hairs on the back of my neck start to stand up. i inch ever closer back to hunter.

"my wife and i used to have a baby but unfortunately, she was kidnapped," he says.

yup. the crazy is confirmed. there it is.

"oh, my goodness," i stammer, suddenly taking an intense interest in the cashier's speed so we can hightail it the fuck out of there.

"yes. she was taken by an entity called child protective services," he goes on to tell me, because how could i, such a good mother, possibly have heard of such an organization? "our baby lost a few ounces after birth and was taken from us. you should make sure you keep hunter away from bad people, like pediatricians, especially the ones at northern virginia pediatrics, because they're slime." he tells me all this in the most even-keeled tone of voice, as though he were telling me that the high today would be 65 degrees but partly cloudy.

"uh-huh," i blurt. "oh, you can throw everything in one bag," i tell the cashier. "i've got to pick up my daughter. one bag is great. yeah, just throw it all in there. wine, too."

he hands me a business card. "we're working to get our daughter back. here's our website. there's also a major motion picture coming out about this." the card is double-sided and is exactly the kind of thing you'd expect from this kind of crazy. "ok, thanks now, good luck!" i yell, as i race the shopping cart out of there.

i checked out the website later. crazy is sad. i don't know what happened to these poor people. but i'm pretty sure their baby wasn't taken away from them because of some minor post-birth weight loss. i'm hesitant to even link to their website, because i'm not sure i want any hits coming from my site, but suffice it to say, damn. crazy is out there.

later this afternoon, we were leaving the dairy godmother with some of our friends to head to a nearby playground, and crazy, this time in elderly female form, stopped me. she was yammering on and on about st. patrick's day, about how many people were wearing green this year, it was nothing like she'd ever seen on any other st. patrick's day, because wearing green on march 17th? whoa, wacky, dude! and she just went on and on like that, hypothesizing that maybe people really *had* been wearing green all along, but it's just that it's usually so cold on st. patrick's day and are usually wearing coats, so maybe their green had been hidden to her all along, in some vast right-wing irish conspiracy. and since madeleine was intent on throwing rocks into a puddle, i couldn't move it along, so i just kept standing there, offering weak pleasantries ("oh, is that right?"). finally, mic caught on and i can't remember how she did it, but she said something to rescue me and end this exchange. oh thanks god.

so, as i sit here, wearing my green and watching "full metal jacket" (a small, low-budget movie about the plight of the irish. i think. whatever, joe turned it on.), i'm eating potato latkes and vegan blintzes, because is there a better way to celebrate st. patrick's day?

skool daze

2010-03-16T15:28:00.000-04:00

my posts here are few and far between. and i'm sorry. and i know you're dying for more, so why don't you head on over to DCMM today for a looksee, k?

shoefly

2010-03-09T20:16:00.000-05:00

ok. first, i must start off by telling you how ridiculously proud i am of my little girl. (side note: if she heard me, she'd correct me and tell me that she's a big girl. only with her little-girl way of speaking, it comes out sounding like "bagel." joe and i ask her all the time if she's a bagel, and she laughs, telling us, "no, i not a bagel. i a BA-gel." like, duh.) anyway, this morning? she's dressed for school, wearing this cute new floral dress, and i suggest she wear her brown flower shoes, and she takes me up on it, and she looks adorable. only when we're getting ready to leave, i pull her black velvet jacket from the closet, wincing inwardly that she's about to wear a black jacket and brown shoes, but try to ignore the painful eye twitching that ensues. and do you know what that girl does, all of her own accord? she tells me, "mommy, i wear the black shoes instead. i wear black shoes with my black coat."

my girl. i have taught her well. and i love her so.

five

2010-03-05T20:54:00.000-05:00

do you get momicillin? i love the daily emails i get, and not just because one of the coolest chicas i know is their regular wednesday contributor.

this post in particular really struck me, because i remember being five, and it *was* a big deal. i also remember that my auntie lulu (yup, my lulu's namesake) came to visit us when i turned five, which was a HUGE deal. she slept on the bed that pulled out from our sofa in the living room, and i got to sleep in that bed with her on the first night of her visit. and apparently, i tossed and turned all night, as well as talked incessantly about the fact that i was turning five.

and i so totally canNOT believe that next year, my own girl turns five. i'm not trying to rush things; rather, it kills me to think that my baby is growing up so fast.

oh, and that girl? she's no longer lulu. for the past two weeks, she has corrected everyone who's called her "lulu." she says, "i not lulu. i madeleine." even when i address her as madeleine and she *thinks* she's heard me call her lulu, she corrects me.

it's like she has a mind of her own.

seeing spots

2010-02-19T13:27:00.001-05:00

my latest post is up today at dc metro moms. i was planning to blog about it here, but it seemed like such good fodder for a posting that i figured i ought not to squander the opportunity to post it over there, seeing as how i'm brain-dead most of the time and can't come up with topics every two weeks, and that my current list of future post topics for DCMM looks something like this:

1. potty training is a bitch
2. i like chocolate
3. i like butter
4.
5. hey, look over there! (shuts down laptop, runs away)

on my knees, thanking the good lord for prozac

2010-02-11T07:39:00.000-05:00

it's been tough around these parts lately. if you live in the mid-atlantic, you know what i'm talking about. if you don't live under a rock, you also know. if neither applies to you, read my latest post at DCMM.

august 21, 2009

2010-02-08T21:40:00.002-05:00

i have yet to blog about hunter's birth, and the chunkamunk is on the verge of turning six months old. partly, it's been out of ~~laziness~~ not really having enough time, but mostly, it's because i'm still kind of traumatized by what happened.

i don't want to forget the details, though; they're an important part of his birth day, but if i let any more time pass, i'll forget them... the good, the bad and the bloody.

so...

my due date was august 26, but i started having contractions at 35 weeks. that was a lot better than what i was doing when i was 35 weeks pregnant with lulu, which was having a nice doctor surgically remove what i estimated to have been a 10-pound hemmorhoid from my asshole. this time, we were on vacation in cape cod, and this is what i looked like:

my sister-in-law's brother likened me to "an olive on a toothpick," a description i was rather proud of.

on the day i hit 35 weeks, we were at the zooquarium checking out dandelions, an activity we could have done at home and NOT paid the $27 admission fee for, but that's travel with an almost-three-year-old. we were walking around and i felt that crazy tightening sensation i remembered from my first labor, and a squeezing so hard it took my breath away. i headed to a bench to sit down and i remember thinking, "holy shit, we go back home in two days, and i'm going to have my baby at a rest stop on i-95."

as it turns out, i had four more delightful weeks of enjoying contractions that were doing nothing to dilate my cervix. i was 2 centimeters for the entire last month of my pregnancy, and though that sounded like it was possible that a tiny hand could stick its way out and wave me on into labor, the truth was, i was pretty stuck.

as my due date drew near, the contractions increased in intensity and frequency. by august 19, they were becoming regular and time-able. that night, i went out to dinner with some chicks from my moms club, and as i wolfed down a bacon cheeseburger, my friend melissa timed my contractions at the table. after about an hour, they were coming five minutes apart, so i decided to pack it in and head home.

when i got home, i told joe that i was pretty sure we'd be heading to the hospital soon. i timed the contractions for another hour, called my OB, and was given the green light to go on in. i called my parents to come stay with lulu, and by about 11:45 they arrived. we were off to labor and delivery!

except it was a total uterine tease. i was contracting, but it wasn't doing anything to dilate my cervix. and i wasn't in enough pain to be in true labor. the nurse made me walk the halls for an hour, but i was so damn tired and full of bacon cheeseburger that i kept stopping to take a break, and then falling asleep on joe's shoulder. after about four pathetic hours, i was sent on my walk of shame back home, still pregnant. i came home to find my dad passed out on the sofa and my mom asleep in our bed. i crawled into bed next to her and fell asleep.

by this time, it was thursday. i was now 39 weeks and still contracting, at times so fiercely that i'd lose my breath. and i'd had enough. this kid had to vacate the premises immediately, if not sooner. i didn't want to be induced, necessarily. i'd heard it could lead to a more painful labor, and anyway, i much preferred the idea of letting the baby come on his own time, but by god, enough was enough. i called my OB's office and asked how soon they could forcibly evict my tenant, and they set an induction for the next morning, friday, the 21st. end in sight! woo-hoo!

so the 20th was kinda weird and kinda cool. it was my mom's birthday, and hoped i'd go into labor on my own that day, but at least i had one more day to prepare myself. i can't remember much of what i did -- i know i picked up some contact lenses and i took lulu out for custard.

(we sat here, too.)

and i remember just hugging on my little girl all day, thinking about how i couldn't believe it was the last day i'd be a mother of one. a stinky boy, an interloper who would grow up to play with dirt and fire, was coming.

my parents came early friday morning, and joe and i left the house before 7 am. checking in was a little difficult, since i had just checked in and then back out the day before but was now trying to re-check in, still pregnant, but we somehow made it through the thick skull of the woman in registration. and then we were upstairs, headed for labor & delivery.

my labor was pretty free from drama. i got hooked up to some pitocin and joe and i sat around the plush L&D suite watching tv. i did a lot of facebooking, mostly in an obnoxious, "whee, look at me, i'm in labor" vein. joe hid his snacking from me, since i was prohibited from eating. and i hung out and flipped through an us magazine and waited.

by about noon, the contractions were coming on really strong, and before they became anymore painful, i asked for an epidural. i'd had both an epidural (for the labor) and a spinal block (for the 'rhoidectomy; ouchie) last time around, and i hadn't remembered the epidural being particularly bad. it's dramatic, though: you first sign a waiver acknowledging that you could die, and then everyone in the room puts on hairnets and masks and booties. the first time around, there was an uncomfortable pinch when the first needle went in, and since i'd given myself hundreds of injections for the IVF, i wasn't all that worried.

but, oh, i should have been. the anesthesiologist had all the warmth and bedside manner of hitler, which did not set us off on the right foot. i thought, "it's ok, give her a pass, this is why she's not an internist or something." she gave me the death form, yanked me into position (seated on my bed, legs on the floor, hunched over a pillow, facing joe, also seated, who held my hands), and scrubbed down my back. then she poked me with the first needle, which hurt more than i expected, but i held on. and then she jabbed me with the second one (which, after subsequent internet searching, i would learn was actually more like a serrated knife), and holy FUCK it was excruciating. it was literally like being stabbed in the back and i howled in pain.

"you feel that?" she asked, in a tone that was half bored, half snarky, as though i had cried over a hangnail. DO I FEEL THAT? yeah, i feel that, and if a needle wasn't in my spine right now, i'd be scraping your eyeballs out with a rusty scalpel. she persisted (and i'm actually feeling a little nauseous right now as i write this, remembering just how unbelievably painful it was), and the pain, OMG THE UNBEARABLE PAIN, shot up and down my spine. i thought about that death form and wondered how many of her previous patients had perished at her hands. i gripped joe's hands so tightly i was sure i would crush every bone and i cried, but not too hard, because between the contractions and the EXCRUCIATING PAIN, i was risking paralysis by moving around too much.

finally, the anesthetic kicked in and i was blissfully numb. dr. death left the room, and i asked my nurse, who was fabulous, wtf was up with the anesthesiologist. "i should have warned you," she admitted, "but i feel bad talking rudely about my colleagues. she's pretty abrupt, and she never gives the initial injection enough time to numb you before she inserts the epidural catheter. everyone complains about her."

despite that experience, i was actually feeling pretty comfortable after that. my contractions were getting stronger and i was dilating right on schedule, and my OB estimated that i'd be pushing by dinnertime. (other people's dinnertime. i still couldn't eat.) joe and i decided on hunter's middle name -- james. i resumed facebooking and admiring my pedicure.

and then, about 4:45, after a final inspection of my lady parts, i was pronounced fully dilated and ready to push. the nurses started converting my room from a labor suite to a delivery room and summoned the doctor. it was really, really exciting. i had an amazing delivery the first time and i was so, so excited to experience it again -- and to meet my son!

it started like just like it had the first time: nurse holding one leg, joe holding the other, me pushing like mad during contractions and taking a break afterward. pushing a baby out is the oddest sensation: you feel like you're doing nothing in comparison to what you're trying to do. how could what feels like such little effort push a baby out of there? and that's not to say it feels like you're just lounging around or something -- what i mean is, it seriously feels like you're trying to get a stubborn turd out of there, but really, the force is extracting a human.

i pushed and pushed (and didn't vomit this time! well, i sort of did, but not having eaten anything in almost 24 hours really helped matters) and then, after a tidal wave of amniotic fluid that hit joe, hunter emerged at 5:29 pm, about 30 minutes after i started pushing.  the OB put him on my chest and i cried and swooned over him, and the nurse whisked him to the warming table.

i mooned over it all while the doctor did whatever else it is he does down there, and i watched joe and the nurses over by the warming table. something was off, though; he wasn't crying, and the activity level of the nurses seemed to increase by the minute. i kept checking joe's face for signs, and he kept looking back at me with what i think he hoped were reassuring looks. but something was definitely wrong. this wasn't at all like it was with lulu's birth.

more doctors and more nurses came in to see him. and then, suddenly, they took him out of my room, not to my bedside like they were supposed to do. "he's going to the NICU," they explained calmly. "we're just going to check on him a little further. he'll be back as soon as possible."

huh? no one could really tell us anything about what was going on or why he was headed to the NICU. something about being his legs being kind of rigid and not "pinking up" right away and not breathing as well as he should have been. beyond that, there was no more information, just "we'll get back to you."

i guess i was so drugged that i just accepted it without much thought or worry, because before long, dinner was served to me, and i was so hungry, i poked at it and even ate some of it, even though it was allegedly a pork chop. under normal circumstances, i'd have thrown up with worry. (and under those circumstances, i should have thrown up from being served a fucking leathery hunk of meat, after having been starved all day and having just pushed a baby out of my vagina.)

i kept sending joe out into the hallway to try to flag down a nurse, or anyone who had any idea what was wrong with my baby, but he kept coming back with the same report: "no news yet." and i started to get pissed, because, i'm sorry, no news is good news when you're waiting to hear about, i don't know, the results of a urinary tract infection, but when you're waiting to hear about your newborn baby... i mean, seriously?

finally, after almost an hour and a half, the head of neonatology came by to talk to us. this was the most disturbing part of the whole episode, and why it was so hard to revisit. anyway, this woman comes by, and her bedside manner is all weird. she's middle-aged, matronly, earth-mama-like, and talks to us like she's addressing a class of special-needs kindergarten students. she told us her name, and even offered her name tag for inspection to joe, as though we might not believe she was a doctor (which, at this point, i was beginning to doubt myself, so maybe she gets that a lot). she told us that the good news was that hunter was breathing, which, holy shit, is not a good way to start a conversation. to describe someone's fortune as "at least they're breathing" is appropriate after they've been hit by an 18-wheeler on the highway and ejected from their car through their windshield, landing in a ditch and miraculously surviving. and she started telling us that she didn't know how long hunter would be in the NICU, that even though i would most likely be discharged in two days, on sunday, she didn't know if he'd be able to come home with me. and it was at this point that i started to finally cry, because, finally, someone had given me a reason to get scared -- which, even though i will never see this woman again, is something i will probably never forgive her for.

she started grilling me about my drug history, even though everything they needed to know was right there on my paperwork: prenatal vitamins, iron supplements, and 40 mg of prozac daily. nothing spicy there, but she asked if perhaps there was anything i was overlooking, insinuating that, yes indeedy, i was hiding something.

"any other drugs?" she asked.

"no, nothing," i told her, truthfully.

"are you farmers?" she continued. FARMERS? seriously? what gave it away? my pedicure and my coach bag?

"um, no, we're not farmers," i told her.

"i didn't think so," she answered. "usually, we can tell, because people who farm will have bags of feed and things like that with them. i was just wondering if maybe you're around fertilizer and pesticides a lot."

at this point, i was totally, completely, utterly confounded. what fucking alternate universe had i stepped into? did this woman get many farmers in her maternity ward, here in washington, dc?

"what about street drugs?" she asked. joe must have been feeling the same way, because he lashed out at her. one of us had to.  "she doesn't do drugs, ok?!" he shouted.  "what is going on with our baby?"

she explained that hunter was breathing, but it was labored. he was stiff, and not reacting the way newborns normally would. she described it as "slow to transition," a phrase i would hear over and over again for the next 24 hours. they weren't sure what it was or what was causing it, but one strong hunch they had was that it was something i had ingested. and that something was prozac. the drug that i had been on for almost ten years to control my anxiety; the drug that my OB, my reproductive endocrinologist, and my psychiatrist all agreed i should continue throughout my pregnancy; the drug that i was on all throughout my first pregnancy; the drug that has shown in numerous studies to be safely used during pregnancy. now it was the drug that landed my newborn in the NICU for reasons i couldn't completely understand. i was already hormonal from having just delivered a baby; now, knowing that I DID THIS TO HIM... i wanted to slit my wrists.

i recalled that when i first got to L&D when i was in labor with lulu, a surly nurse chastised me that my prozac usage could cause my baby to "come out, like, slow and stuff." i dismissed this information, and lulu was fine. but apparently, this was a common side effect, but luckily, not a long-term one: after his body metabolized the prozac already in his system, he'd likely be fine. but, still...

the neonatologist took joe to the NICU to see hunter. i couldn't go, because i wasn't allowed to get out of bed yet, so i stayed behind. and suddenly, i was very, very alone. i lost it, and i started crying hysterically.

a nurse came in just then, and though sweet, wasn't all that reassuring, mainly, i came to realize later, because she'd just come on shift and really didn't know what was going on. she hugged me while i resumed my hysteria. and just then, my parents walked in, with lulu, and they also didn't know what was going on, but to see me in that state -- not beaming with joy and holding my baby -- was confusing, to say the least. what a clusterfuck.

my dad went to the NICU to meet up with joe, and my mom stayed with me. i think maybe a nurse entertained lulu for a few minutes.  joe and my dad came back after a few minutes, and reported that hunter, despite the initial fear and uncertainty, was actually doing really well. he was being given oxygen to help with his breathing, although his breathing had improved a great deal, and he was being given an IV of a sugar solution for sustenence, since i hadn't been able to nurse him yet. but otherwise, he was good.

not much longer after that, i was able to hop into a wheelchair and taken to see hunter. i wasn't sure what to expect, and i was both excited to meet him, and nauseous over what i might see.

but it wasn't that bad. it wasn't great to see my newborn hooked up to a bunch of scary, beeping equipment, but i was finally - FINALLY - able to see my baby. and he was beautiful. blue eyes, strawberry-blond hair, and 7 pounds, 13 ounces of perfection. i sat down next to his bed, and a nurse handed him to me. i nuzzled him close and began to nurse him -- he latched on immediately, like a pro -- and silently wept. and i prayed that he'd be ok, and thanked god that he wasn't worse off, like some of the other poor babies in the NICU that night.

the rest isn't all that dramatic. hunter stayed in the NICU for almost exactly 24 hours, and was eventually released to me. we both came home as planned on the 23rd. (while in the NICU, doctors detected a heart murmur -- further inspection revealed two minor defects, and that added to our worry -- but a follow-up a week later with a pediatric cardiologist at georgetown showed that one defect resolved itself, and the other would likely do the same. read: absolutely no cause for concern. whew.)

the whole experience was nightmarish, and wasn't the happy unfolding of events that i'd expected. my first labor and delivery was uneventful, healthy, textbook... i came out of it riotously happy, overwhelmed and giddy with joy, and that's what i envisioned would happen the second time around. i remember talking to joe on the phone much later that night -- he had gone home with lulu, and since hunter was in the NICU, i was alone, again. "ugh, this was one of the worst days of our lives," he told me. and it was, but of course, it was also one of the greatest. it was just hard to wrap our brains around it all.

it's been almost six months since that crazy week, and right now, hunter's getting over a nasty case of bronchiolotis, but that's been his first illness in all this time. he is robustly healthy (aside from the same reflux his sister also suffered as an infant), and almost constantly happy (especially when he sees lulu; no one can make him laugh quite the way she can). he's 20 pounds (!!!!) and has yet to meet a food he didn't like. he can't sit up by himself yet, but he's going to be crawling any day now. he's absolutely amazing, and we are so lucky to have him.

of course, there's more... so much more... but i wanted to make sure i chronicled his beginning.

hunter, i love you right up to the moon and back, and that is very far.

snowpocalpyse 2010

2010-02-06T21:18:00.000-05:00

or you could call it SNOWMAGEDDON. or SNOMG. or any other number of cutesy titles we've been assigning this blizzard. personally, i still like CLASS-THREE KILL STORM.

we survived. it stopped snowing a few hours ago, and i guess we probably got about 30 inches. it's absolutely insane, and to view it from your front window doesn't do it justice. you have to actually walk in it to appreciate the magnitude of the insanity.

this is my car. joe dug out the visible portions. i also own the car behind that one. allegedly, since i can't actually see it.

based on that photo, i can't imagine when i'll actually be driving again.

it was a tough day, one that centered mostly on food and cartoons. i made pancakes and bacon for breakfast, a feat made even more impressive by the fact that i held hunter the entire time, since he didn't want to watch from the comfort and safety of his bumbo or his high chair. no sir, that baby needed to get up close and personal with splattering bacon grease.

we lurched along. cartoons, puzzles, snacks, baking cookies. hunter napped three times. lulu, who doesn't nap anymore, finaly conked out during an episode of "super why,"

and finally, somehow, we all made it to bedtime.

tomorrow, we will leave this block if it kills us. which, from the looks of it out there, it might.

in sickness and in snow

2010-02-05T20:22:00.003-05:00

we are in the midst of a blizzard, a winter wonderland that has been upgraded to a class-three kill storm. because getting 22 inches of snow in a day 6 weeks ago clearly wasn't enough for us meek mid-atlantic folks, we're now expected to get up to 30 inches by this time tomorrow night.

i can't go through this again. i just can't. all four of us, plus two cats, stranded inside our teeny house for over 24 hours. we made it through today, somehow, but that means tomorrow is going to be a bitch, i think.

on top of that, we're all in varying states of sickness. i'm over my stomach bug, thank god (more on that later), but lulu has a minor cold, joe has a bad cold, and the poor h-man has "bronciolitis," an illness i thought i'd misheard (our pediatrician has a korean accent), but turns out to be real. he's coughing and wheezing and vomiting and running a fever on and off. there's nothing quite so heartbreaking as an infant with a cough that makes his whole body shake and causes him to lose his lunch all over your nursing tank top.

correction: there is one thing more heartbreaking than that, and THAT is a rectal exam.

i woke up tuesday morning feeling nauseated and just weird. (and for those of you who like to shout, "maybe you're pregnant?!!" at the first sign of nausea, let me remind you: $25,000 worth of IVF, ok?) two cokes later and i was back in business, but wednesday morning, i woke up feeling the same way again. i coked most of it away, but after splitting a cosi cheese pizza with lulu for lunch, i knew i was on a downhill slide. we got home just in time for me to pray to the porcelain goddess, and then, um, some other intestinal stuff. by this time, i was also achy and hot, and then i happened to see that the, um, other intestinal stuff had BLOOD in it. which is not supposed to happen, you know? so i freaked, sure that the only diagnosis could be cancer, and begged joe to come home to watch the anklebiters so i could hightail it to a medical professional.

i was too late to get an appointment at my internist's, so i went to an urgent care center, where they were actually pretty urgent about the whole thing, testing me for everything from flu to anemia to, um, porn-star worthiness. and not that i had much curiosity on the matter, but the experience has cemented my original feelings about that area, which is: EXIT ONLY.

(turns out i didn't have cancer, or flu, or anemia, or any hope at all of becoming a porn star. what i had, at least momentarily, was a finger up my ass. as well as garden-variety stomach flu. the blood was most likely from a mysterious hemmorhoid. i won't revisit my now-legendary war story about previous 'rhoids, but let's just say that they and i? we got a history. yee-haw.)

so, here we are, stuck inside until at least sunday (and it's, uh, friday night as i write this). we have plenty of food (doritos, oreos, pop-tarts, coke, frozen pizza, several types of alcohol. and i think we might also have a banana and/or an apple.), lots of diversions (videos, toys, crafts, and a couple of new sticker books that will be unveiled tomorrow), and, for now, electricity, which is vitally important to keeping us alive and entertained by endless hours of fine disney channel programming.

oh, and prozac. lots and lots of prozac.

you might remember me from such blogs as "caffeinated"

2010-02-01T20:37:00.003-05:00

howdy!

and holy shit, it has been almost three months since i've rapped at ya. yeah. sorry 'bout that. i think to myself every single damn day, "hey, that would be a good thing to blog about," and then, i don't know, i get puked on by my baby, or my insane three-year-old starts demanding cookies or gets mad at me because i looked in her direction or something along those lines, and then one of the cats pukes on the floor, and then it's time to cobble something together for dinner, and then i'm passed out on the sofa, and then i wake up and repeat the whole process, only this time lulu is mad at me because i can't figure out which episode of "special agent oso" she's asking for, because she's asking for "the one with the doggy bone," which is just super-helpful, because, believe me, i've seen every single effing episode at least fifty times and as far as i can discern, there is not one containing a dog or a bone, and so i just turn an episode on at random, and then she flings herself on the floor and shrieks, "NO, NOT THAT ONE! WHY'D YOU DO THAT, MOMMY? I SO SAAAAAAD!!!"

and this is why i haven't been blogging much lately. and by "much," of course, you know i mean, "at all."

wait... not entirely true. i keep up with my DCMM posts because i don't want to get kicked out of there. i'd link to them, but i'm too lazy. if you're that curious, go to dcmetromoms.com and click on "diana." or not.

so, what's new?

hunter is five months and is absolutely gorgeous and a dream. he's a butterball at 17 pounds, wearing 12-18 month sized clothing. he has chubby cheeks that are nearly chapping from all the smooches i plant on them. he has chubby thighs and wrists and i can't believe i haven't devoured him yet. he has the most beautiful blue eyes that wrinkle up when he smiles, which is damn near constantly, and he has a giggle that makes me almost cry from sheer giddiness. as i got him ready for bed tonight, i buried my face in his belly while he laughed, and i just wanted to inhale him. joe tells me i'm smitten with him, and you know what? i am smitten with him. lulu was an adorable baby, but she was a tough customer. she was moody and hard to make laugh, and though i loved her to the ends of the earth and back, and still do, she just wasn't easy. i wasn't prepared for how absolutely delightful hunter would be. and yes, now i want another baby. (i want a mercedes, too, also unlikely to happen.)

lulu is a crazy lulu. she is silly and sweet, and also (still) moody and damn complicated. she's irrational and emotional and affectionate and really freaking smart. she's bold and stubborn, and nurturing and protective. she's hard to be with sometimes, and i miss her terribly when i'm not with her. she asks a million questions and makes up the cutest songs about cats living in cat cities. she's beautiful, even with the scar on her chin from a fall last december that required six stitches. she's... a lot like i was in my younger days. and that's hard to swallow, but i'm trying to recognize that she's her own person. but she's also three, so she logs a lot of time in the time-out chair.

i love my two kids. they are amazing, precious gifts. and i've also rediscovered my love for wine.

i'll try to keep up more better, ok?

in which your heroine seeks to unravel deep, dark mysteries

2009-11-05T13:31:00.002-05:00

Dudes.

What is up with the box of tissues in the back window of the car? You're driving. and everything seems normal, but then suddenly you're smack-dab behind brake lights and a kleenex box. Sometimes it's even in an ornate metal box, and sometimes it's accompanied by a windowful of stuffed animals, but not always.

Why? Are the tissues for the driver? Because if so, that's a hell of a distance from the steering wheel. Are they for the backseat passengers? Who is driving so many carfuls of cold-infested and/or weepy people that they feel compelled to drive around with Kleenex at all times for them? I can think of several items stored back there that would be more useful to me than tissues, such as snacks, magazines, and alcohol, not necessarily in that order.

Are you a Kleenex driver? Or do you know someone who is? I'm not maligning them (ok, yes I am, but just a little). I just really want to understand. 'Splain, please.

deep thoughts about nothing

2009-11-04T20:08:00.003-05:00

Howdy-do!

Look, it has just been, like REALLY hard to blog with this whole toddler-and-a-newborn-thing. Like, rilly rilly rilly. I'll stop making excuses now. You'll hear from me, you know, sometimes. And then, other times? You won't.

Things I've been meaning to blog about:

Toddlers/preschoolers are weird. And hilarious. The other day, Lulu put a dishtowel on her head and announced to me, "I'm a vegetable." And I was impressed, because given her strong track record for not eating foods in which "high fructose corn syrup" is the first ingredient, the girl is likely not to recognize a really-for-true vegetable. I was like, "Oh, yeah? What kind of vegetable are you?" And she answered, "I'm a cat watermelon."

(Actually, last week at a birthday party, just after birthday cake had been cut and served, Lulu wandered into the kitchen and asked the hostess for... green beans. I'm assuming green beans had figured prominently in a recent episode of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, because I can assure you my kid hasn't actually eaten one. But, yeah, it was impressive, and for a brief, shining moment, I was THAT parent.)

Babies are adorable. And wide awake. Hunter is almost 11 weeks old, and at his 2 month checkup two weeks ago, he weighed in at a whopping 14 pounds, 7 ounces. Which is, um, A LOT for a 10-week-old baby. He blew past all his newborn and 0-3 month clothes and is now primarily in 6 month sizes. And it's all me, baby -- the kid is 99% breastfed. I have no magic to ascribe this to, unless you count all the fun size Hershey's cookies and cream bars I've been snarfing down lately.

He's a chunk and he's absolutely adorable. He screams a lot, it's true, but that's because he suffers from reflux, just like his older sister did, and though he's on Zantac to ease the pain, it still hurts the little bugger. But when he's not screaming, he's smiling, and cooing, and laughing, especially when he sees Lulu, and it is just amazing. He's sleeping fairly well at night, thanks for asking, but during the day he's awake. A lot. It's hard to sleep through the shrill cries of "MAMA, THE BABY'S AWAKE NOW!" Hey, thanks for letting me know, Lulu.

God, what else did I want to talk about? I'm obsessed with swine flu, and have become absolutely militant about hand-washing, Purelling, coughing into your elbow, not licking doorknobs, publicly humiliating the flu-infested and refraining from nose-picking. You want to walk into my house, Grandma? Not until you've bathed yourself in this here hand sanitizer. Shake my hand? You're better off sticking that hand up your own ass. Two hours of working at the neighborhood playgroup finds me immersed in a Lysol bath later. Germs. Germs!

Lulu's Mickey Mouse obsession isn't waning, but her Mickey Mouse costume obsession is. From October 28 - November 2, my darling daughter donned mouse ears, white gloves, a tail, and a puffy MM costume every day. Grocery store, library, playground, school... you name it, we rocked the Mickey everywhere. By yesterday, I feared it was no longer a costume, it was now a lifestyle. But today, I put my foot down, and she wore a t-shirt and jeans. It was pretty damn cute, actually, but I was getting tired of undoing the velcro every time I needed to change her diaper...

... which reminds me that potty training? It's not going well. I have more to say about it, but, oh god, not now.

Anywho, I haven't typed this much in a long time, and goddamn, my fingers are seriously cramping. More later. Ciao.

oink, again

2009-10-22T12:16:00.002-04:00

Am loving this article I found courtesy of my bud KC. Who is a DOCTOR. And who just got her own H1N1 vax today.

I wish more parents would read this.

oink

2009-10-21T17:28:00.000-04:00

My deep thoughts about the swine flu vax are up today at DCMM.

for shannon, who is easily amused

2009-10-20T19:44:00.002-04:00

Holla! to my girlfriend, Shannon, who recently relocated to Vienna (like, the real one, in Europe, not the fake one here in Virginia, near the mall) and who just had her second bebe, a sweet lil' girl to go with her sweet lil' boy, and who periodically gently reminds me to keep blogging, because, for some reason, she likes to read the drivel I write about nothing.

(Here's some stupid nothing: the other day at Lulu's kiddie gymnastics class, I noticed that one of the other moms was wearing a crystal necklace. Not crystal, like "elegant," but crystal, like "pseudo-goth" -- like the ones we (we = 30-somethings) used to wear in high school with our crosses and Doc Martens. And by "we," I mean "you," because, hell no, I never bought into that pseudo-goth shit (i.e., I was afraid of it). But like, seriously? Are you that hurting for accessories that you'd delve into the recesses of your adolescent tchotchke collection and actually wear something that heinous? If I'd known her better, I'd have offered up my sage advice ("Girl, no."), but I don't know her, so I did the next best thing, which was to snicker behind her back. And share with you.)

And that's all I got for today.

(Bye, Shan. We miss youse guys!!)

giveaway number 1: boo at the zoo!

2009-10-19T14:21:00.003-04:00

Hey. You. Yeah, you. You like animals, right? And candy? Well, why waste time enjoying them separately when you can enjoy both at the same time?

The 11th annual Boo at the Zoo will take place October 23-25, from 5:30-8:30 p.m. With enhanced eerie lighting and 47 stations serving up a variety of candy, healthy, and organic goodies, this popular family Halloween party feature talks about tarantulas, cockroaches, and scorpions, and playful demonstrations of lions and tigers using their predatory skills. Boo at the Zoo is sold out for Saturday night, but Friday and Sunday night tickets are still available. Tickets are $15 for Friends of the National Zoo (FONZ) members and $25 for nonmembers. Proceeds support animal care, conservation science, education, and sustainability at the Zoo. For more information and tickets, visit www.fonz.org/boo.htm.

I'm giving away 4 tickets to Sunday night's Boo! Just comment here by noon EST Wednesday for your chance to win!

giveaway number 0.5: disney!

2009-10-14T20:38:00.006-04:00

(Um. Let me clarify. This isn't exactly a giveaway anymore, because, um, I, uh, missed the deadline to get the goods to give away. Yeah. You're welcome.)

Disney on Ice presents Celebrations! is coming to Northern Virginia! And very timely for the Funk household, as we currently have an outbreak of Mickey Mouse fever running rampant in the house. I'm thinking the cure would be to cool off with an ice show.

Ugh, I totally suck at all things PR-related.

From the professionally-written copy:

Damn. I can't paste it. And I'm too lazy to type it out. I'll paraphrase. It's Disney on ice, doing holidays and celebrations and traditions, etc, etc, yada, yada, yada. I'm sure it's totally awesome, and I'm even planning to bring Lulu, who's never actually been to a performance that she didn't witness from the comfort of her living room sofa, but given her current obsession with all things Mickey, I'm going to give it a go.

I had hoped to give away actual tickets to opening night, but I didn't get back to the PR rep in time, so instead, I present to you: a coupon code! For buying four tickets to a weekday matinee showing for the low low price of $44! YAY! All you have to do is enter the word MOM as the coupon code when purchasing off ticketmaster.com. (You can also use the code for $4 off for a weekend show.)

Seriously, go if you have the chance. All kids need some Disney in their lives. Studies show that kids who have no Disney exposure suffer higher rates of teenage acne and adult-onset kleptomania than their Disney-addled counterparts. Don't let your kid become a statistic.

giveaway week!

2009-10-14T20:23:00.002-04:00

I'm back, y'all!

Holy jebus, I haven't posted since August 30. My second-born got here almost eight weeks ago. My first-born turned 3 today. THREE!

It's been hard, owing to the lack of sleep (I can't complain all that much, though, because even on his worst day, Hunter's still ridiculously better than Lulu ever was), and the fact that Hunter doesn't like to be anywhere but strapped to my chest, so getting to the laptop to write has been almost impossible. (He's sleeping on his dad's lap right now, but he doesn't know it. Sucka.)

Anywho. Things are good. Lulu loves her baby brother so much, and it's truly heartwarming to witness (less heartwarming: her propensity for manhandling him when he's asleep and then announcing, after he lets go with a justified ear-piercing scream, yelling out "Baby woke up!"). Hunter's becoming less of a sleeping blob and more of a baby, what with his sweet coos and his adorable toothless grin.

And Lulu. What a little girl she's morphed into. She talks a blue streak, about anything and everything, to anyone who might be listening or is just remotely within earshot, strangers included. Her current obsessions include the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse cartoon (I dare you to ask her about her Mickey Mouse birthday party, or what she's going to be for Halloween. Go on, I dare you), as well as our cat Anthony, aka Catboy.

Catboy figures prominently in Lulu's life. Most of her waking time is spent talking about Catboy, or chasing Catboy, or chastising Catboy for any number of transgressions, including walking too closely to her toys or her snacks. This morning, she had a meltdown in the kitchen because Anthony came in and meowed at her. "No, Catboy! Don't eat me," she wailed. She's fond of making jokes about what Catboy will and will not eat (cat food, yes; airplanes, Mickey Mouse, and little girls, no), and she even dreams about him. More than once, we've heard "No, Catboy!" yelled out in her high-pitched but extremely loud voice in the middle of the night. I love the fact that Catboy torments her even in her sleep, even if it doesn't make up for all the tail-pulling she's inflicted on him.

So, yeah, things are good.

And they're about to get better, as I have a few good giveaways this week! Read early, read often, tell your friends. And don't let Catboy know.

the new guy

2009-08-30T13:02:00.003-04:00

Hunter James Funk was born Friday, August 21, 2009, at 5:29 pm, weighing in at 7 lbs, 13 oz., and measuring 20 inches long. He is beautiful and perfect and the apple of my (other) eye. I love him to pieces.

More about his birth, my labor, my false labor, his NICU stay and all the rest, are coming, just as soon as I have a free hand not covered in poop or breast milk.

8 more days. or maybe 10.

2009-08-18T19:44:00.003-04:00

Due date's in 8 days, 1 week from tomorrow. At this morning's OB appointment, it was discovered that my lazy cervix has made some progress, going from 1 cm to 2. Yee-haw. Best of all, I now have an eviction, er, induction date set, in case Grand Master Funk isn't up to crawling out of his hole early. Eviction hearing is set for 8:00 am Friday, August 28. In the meantime, I'll be creatively trying to entice him out, possibly with cupcakes.

let's get it started

2009-08-17T17:21:00.003-04:00

Funk v. 2.0 is due in 9 days, one week from this Wednesday. I went into labor 6 days early with Lulu, and delivered her 5 days early, so by that timing, I'd be going into labor this Thursday and delivering the boy on Friday.

Except that I'm feeling seriously fine, with absolutely no signs of impending labor. Oh, except for the pesky contractions that are apparently doing nothing to speed up the process. And the fact that some 7-pound human being is trying to claw his way out of my body. But yeah, other than that, nada. I'm becoming strangely... comfortable... with this whole situation. It's like, after 38 and a half weeks of physical abnormalities, my body has finally succumbed and accepted the whole thing.

I'm officially on maternity leave from my business, which is so nice, but also leaves me itchy and restless. Don't get me wrong... it's been sweet to have a break from scooping cat shit, but it also frees up a lot of time. I would normally spend that time running errands, but in forethought and planning unprecedented for me, I've done everything I needed to do before Master Funk gets here. (OMG, how awesome a name is "Grand Master Funk?") That means that Lulu and I can just hit the pool and relax, which we've done the past few days, and has been lovely, but also weird, because I'm usually frantically checking the clock to make sure we're on time for the next activity in our overscheduled daily lineup.

God, even when there's nothing to complain about, I can find something. Wah! I have too much free time!

For now, I'm focusing on enjoying the last remaining time in which I'm a mother to only one child. Lulu has a sense of what's to come, I think: she knows there's a baby in Mommy's belly, and that her future baby brother has his own teeny diapers and little clothes all ready for him. She loves babies -- adores them, actually -- but has never had one come to house and not leave. I think she'll do really well, actually -- she's almost 3, after all, which blows my mind. But you never know. And to be honest, though I love this future baby to pieces, I still can't imagine how I could possibly love him as much as I love Lulu. I know that must sound horrible, and I know I'll change my tune the instant he's born, but for now... the uncertainty and the magnitude of it all is a little overwhelming.

And with that, time to go suck it. A popsicle, that is.

insert clever title here

2009-08-08T18:28:00.005-04:00

Ok. Enough. I think about updating my blog EVERY DAMN DAY, but I just don't have the energy most days to actually do it. And then I think, well, what would I write about, anyway? The popsicles I just ate? How unfunny my pregnancy-induced incontinence has become? How freaked am I about delivering this baby, not because of the childbirth part, but because of the permanently changing my existing child's life in ways she never asked for part?

Huh. Those are all not bad, actually.

I have become addicted to popsicles, this much is true. Since real estate in my middle has grown increasingly scarce lately, cupcakes, like most other solid food, isn't a smart choice these days. And a Minute Maid frozen lemonade seems to go down nice and easy. And when one goes down and stays down, usually, three more follow it. Scurvy? Not in this lifetime.

Um, yeah. So, anyway, this post will be largely made up of thoughts that have nothing to do with each other. Which is how I operate most of the time anyway, at least since motherhood ate my brain.

************************

I've been meaning to get this off my chest for months now, but I want to apologize, publicly, to all my bloggy friends about just what a suck-shit blog citizen I've devolved into. I have so many awesome blogging cohorts, people who are so good about updating their own worlds and even having time left over to read their friends' blogs, including my own. I'm so bad about keeping up with my own blog, as um, you may have noticed, and keeping up with others'? Just not in the cards these days. If you have a blog, please don't take this personally, but please continue to love me. Ok?

************************

In gestational news, I'm 38 weeks pregnant today. This means: I'm full-term. I'm huge. And goddamn, I am ready to go. If you asked me two weeks ago, I would have told you how terrified I was to deliver, how I was nowhere near ready, but today? Dude. Unless you've been pregnant, you have no idea just how bizarre it is to have a LIVING HUMAN BEING inside of you. One that kicks, and takes hold of your internal organs and strangles them, and gives you heartburn by eating the most innocuous foods, like Pop-Tarts.

We're ready for him. We have diapers, we have clothes, and I have alcohol at the ready. We even have a name, which, I'm happy to report, is neither Plaxico nor D'Brickashaw. My hospital bag is packed (including two small cans of sumthin' special, either for celebrating the new arrival or getting through labor).

If we were on Lulu time, I'd go into labor next Thursday, the 20th (my mama's birthday) and deliver him on the 21st. But according to Professionals Who Stick Gloved Fingers Up My Hoo-Hah, I'm still only 1 cm dilated, despite the zillions of contractions I've had over the past two weeks. So, you know, like, who knows? Each passing day is one more in which to wonder why anyone in their right mind would spend $138 on this hideous maxi-dress, and to hope that Nicole and I don't have our spawn on the same day. Damn that hobo-heroin-chic tramp and her trying to steal my birthing thunder.

fantasies and delusions

2009-07-31T22:03:00.003-04:00

One day, I will blog again.

It's been over a month since I've blogged, and for that, I'm ashamed, so much so that I've eaten three 100-calorie Skinny Cow chocolate truffle bars tonight to deal with the guilt.

I'll write more later (I SWEAR), but 'til then, know that I'm still pregnant (36.5 weeks), Lulu's talking in complete sentences but still wearing the cat jammies, and my cupcake obsession has morphed into some sort of perverted popsicle fascination.

Word.

(And that word is "hungry.")

300

2009-06-29T22:13:00.003-04:00

This here's my 300th post to caffeinated. DAY-um.

I've been sorely neglecting my blog these past few months. Sorry 'bout that. I have no excuse, other than the fact that an alien fetus has taken up residence inside my body and has managed to suck every ounce of life out of me, leaving me precious little time for keeping the child I already have alive, as well as eating cupcakes and watching edu-tainment gems such as "The Exploding Whale."

Forty minutes later...

Now I'm watching "Cake Boss," a sorry excuse for a reality show, TLC, but in any case, I've totally lost my blogging mojo for the night, and y'all are just going to have to wait 'til tomorrow to read the rest of my celebratory 300th posting post. And besides, this laptop is burning the fuck out of my legs. Ciao, peeps.

like, cultcha!

2009-06-29T20:47:00.005-04:00

Are you looking for a way to add some culture to your life? Would you like to add an element of low-browness to your world at the same time? I can totally help!

I have FOUR FREE TICKETS for "Bugs Bunny on Broadway" at Merriweather Post Pavilion, Saturday, July 11, at 8:30 pm.

Cartoons and the symphony? Yeah, baby! From the press release:

Well, shit. I can't seem to execute the uber-complicated task of cutting and pasting, and I'm not going to retype it. Damn.

Ok, in a nutshell, you got the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra, you got a big screen overhead projecting such classic Looney Toons as "Corny Concerto" and "What's Opera, Doc?" and because I like you, you got it for free. And if my eloquent description doesn't satisfy your oh-so-curious mind, you can read more about it here.

The catch? You need to leave a comment on this post, and you need to leave it by Wednesday, July 2, 10 pm EST. Be sure to leave your email address in your comment, and be sure to only comment once, because commenting more than once will not help your chances of winning, but it will help your chances of making me pissed off. Oh, also, it would help if you actually live in an area that's close enough to be able to attend the performance. I'm just saying.

metro crash

2009-06-22T22:37:00.001-04:00

I just wrote a piece for DCMM about today's horrific crash.

all points south

2009-06-19T18:36:00.002-04:00

After a kooky technical glitch, my latest DCMM posting is up today. It's right above an eloquently-written post by one of my cohorts, a piece about standardized testing. My piece? It's about vaginas.

Enjoy.

gettin' their read on

2009-06-17T21:45:00.003-04:00

I haven't yet blogged about the fantastic visit we had with the Muir-Adcock clan, mostly because I've been too busy kvetching about THIS ALIEN FETUS who kicks me every goddamn ten seconds and waddling to the kitchen to fetch Lulu yet another packet of Wonder Pets fruit snacks, because I'm too tired to argue about why they're not perhaps the greatest snack to eat by the pound when you're small and you probably already have tooth decay from all the cookies your wayward mother lets you eat.

However. It was such a fun visit, and I can't wait to tell you about it, and though Alexis and Dave so creatively and beautifully captured many, many moments on film, I have exactly THIS ONE photo to show you. (I took two; the other photo is of the floor, highlighting some feet.)

Cute, hunh? And Alexis is like this all the time, reading and entertaining and amusing and engaging, and I so relished every second of it, allowing me time to file my nails and think of cocktails I wasn't drinking.

wide load

2009-06-17T19:23:00.003-04:00

30 weeks down. 10 more to go.

Are humans really supposed to look like this?

the best friend i've never met

2009-06-05T22:41:00.003-04:00

My friend Alexis is coming to town next week!

I "met" Alexis over three years ago, when she and I were both pregnant for the first time, on the "What to Expect" bulletin board for moms expecting in October 2006. She lived in Raleigh, and I lived in DC, so we never got to meet, but we hit it off almost immediately, and from the very start, I always considered her a close friend. We had so many similarities: our love of "The Simpsons;" our careers in human resources; our potty mouths; our, um, offbeat senses of humor. I loved this girl, and I knew that if we lived close to each other, we'd be great friends.

We emailed all the time, and have continued to keep track of each other via our blogs, but after three years, another pregnancy, and her move to Atlanta, we STILL have yet to meet.

Until now! She, her husband, and her adorable son (born the same day as Lulu) are staying with us next week when they come to visit Washington, and I am unbelievably, ridiculously excited. I'm even having the house professionaly cleaned before they get here, so they'll won't know what a horrible slob I am. I'm also vowing not to pick my nose or fart in front of them, because these people? They're special guests.

futher proof that this writing business is just dying to chew me up and spit me out

2009-06-04T22:38:00.005-04:00

I got this email from one of the founders of Silicon Valley Moms Blog today (the parent site of DCMM, where I blog every couple of weeks):

FYI, your post was selected for the MCT syndication! This will go through the MCT syndicate feed on Monday, June 8.

Followed by this email, exactly one minute later:

Diana,

Sorry about that... I sent you this email by mistake...

Do I at least get a consolation prize for having my self-esteem, my writing hopes and dreams, my very identity raised in pure elation for 60 seconds? Can I get a cupcake?

nobody loves me and i'm going to eat some worms

2009-06-03T18:11:00.002-04:00

My latest post at DCMM is up today. I have NO comments, a first for me, and it sucks donkey balls.

Um, I mean the fact I don't have comments sucks donkey balls. I think the piece is pretty good (feh, it's ok, but it's not horrible).

see london, see france

2009-06-02T21:39:00.006-04:00

Lulu told me today, as she told me once a few weeks ago, that "Mommy's big and tired." You think you can slip something like a little pregnancy past a toddler, but it just goes to show you, they're totally on to us. Which is why you're not supposed to fucking curse in front of them, either, lest they tell their preschool classmates the next day not to fuck up the Play-Doh.

I'm taking iron supplements for the anemia, which I'm guessing is the root cause of my exhaustion (correction: the root cause is the tenant in my uterus, but the fact that he's sucking up all my valuable nutrients, the ones I painstakingly ingest via Pop-Tarts and lemonade, is the sub-root cause). But I can't do much about getting bigger. And oh baby, am I getting big. In the tummy, yeah, but also in the hips. Each morning, as I grab a fresh pair of undies from the drawer, I swear I can hear them squealing, something to the effect of "Oh sweet Jesus, please, not us!" And then when I try to shove my ass into the lucky chosen pair, I'm positive I hear them groaning and uttering silent prayers to die rather than be stretched around my hot, sweaty girth for yet another day.

So, I broke down and bought new undies yesterday. I'm not happy to report that they're a size larger than what I normally wear, but to up the cuteness factor, I bought them at Victoria's Secret (in the "sexy co-ed" PINK section, where, I swear, a saleswoman glared at me for daring to think I could rock the cute undies in my state. You can totally suck it, saleswoman.)

I so looked forward to wearing my first big-girl pair today, and I have to tell you, the right underwear -- i.e., ones that don't suck the life out of your ass cheeks -- can make a big and tired woman's day. Vive la difference!

fuck you, toddler

2009-06-01T21:04:00.004-04:00

In a rare moment this past weekend when I wasn't asleep, thinking about being asleep, or trying desperately to get some sleep, we went out for a family dinner at Noodles and Company.

I've loved this place since it opened, long before we became parents, but have come to appreciate it all the more for its family-friendliness. Not ones to take advantage of a situation, though, we always try to make it as easy on everyone as possible on the rare occasions when we go out to eat. This includes you, if you happen to be there, so appreciate it, dammit.

We got there early, 5:30-ish, and took a booth near the back as far away from as many people as possible. We came armed with juice boxes, a dinner we knew Lulu would eat, and our best intentions to make the whole experience pleasant for everyone in our vicinity.

And we had a great time! Lulu was so well-behaved, picking at some of the chicken nuggets and carrots we brought her, but more interested in what we were eating. She stayed seated the whole time, chatting with us about cats and dogs and pasta and other random throughts that came to her little brain. She asked for, and used, a napkin.

She was a darling, if a little loud. Maybe a lot loud. Not in an annoying, screeching, tantrum-y way, but in an exuberant, charming way. She sang, she gave a running commentary on what we were all doing. She was delightful, and the three of us were really having a nice time. Did I mention she was pretty loud? But, seriously, we were at a chain restaurant, not eating foie gras on white tablecloths. Don't you expect that at a place like this?

Toward the end of the meal, I looked a few tables over and noticed a single guy waiting for his dinner at his table. He was hunched over the table, with his fingers plugging up his ears, as though he was painfully drowning out the noise from a Whitesnake concert immediately across from him. Oh, and he wasn't using his index fingers to plug up his ears. He was using his middle fingers. And then he unplugged his ears, but kept the middle finger on the hand that faced us close to his face.

I thought maybe I was imagining it, but just then, Joe looked over, too, and looked back at me and gave me THAT LOOK, the one that couples share when they're fleshing out a situation, and wordlessly, we agreed that yep, holy shit, THIS GUY WAS GIVING US THE FINGER!

We finished our dinner, but kept cracking up. We both happen to think that we're pretty fucking considerate of people when it comes to inflicting our child on them, so to have someone think otherwise is absolutely hilarious to us. Before long, we looked back over and saw that Mr. Sensitive Ears had vacated his table in search of a more peaceful location.

As we were leaving, we noticed him in a far-off corner of the restaurant. "Lulu, do you want to say bye-bye to your new friend?" Joe asked. I laughed again, pretending to scratch the side of my face, the side visible to our friend, with my middle finger.

canoodling with the snoogle

2009-05-31T20:07:00.006-04:00

Have I mentioned how freaking tired I am?

God, I am so, so, tired. This past week, it got even more exciting, when I woke up Thursday morning dizzy and disoriented, as though I had knocked back eighteen cosmopolitans. I opened my eyes and the room was spinning and everytime I picked my head up from the pillow, I was sure I'd puke all over the place. Luckily, Joe was able to stay home from work for a few hours until my mom was able to get here to watch Lulu.

Utterly freaked out, I called my OB's office and spoke with a midwife, who suggested the problem was not certain death, as I had surmised, but a blood sugar imbalance. A few sips of orange juice and some peanut butter on toast later, I was less dizzy, but still exhausted. I spent the rest of the day shaking my fist at this fetus for spewing his wacky hormones all over my body.

Later that day, the office called with the results of my gestational diabetes test that I had taken the day before (the one where you swill 12 ounces of sugar-laden Tang-esque vileness in five minutes, will yourself not to puke it back up, and then have your blood drawn an hour later). No GD, as I had predicted, but a nice showing of anemia, which helps explain the exhaustion, as well as my thirst for the blood of humans.

The third possible cause for the dizziness came courtesy of Joe's thorough internet research (no doubt googled under the term "hysterical hormonal pregnant woman dizziness"), in which he discovered that pregnant women shouldn't sleep on their backs, because this can disrupt blood flow to a major artery, the vena cava. And bingo, that's exactly what I've been doing, even though I knew this tidbit. I'm six months pregnant, huge as a house, and sleeping, though lovely, isn't comfortable these days, flopping and heaving around as I do to try to find a position that doesn't make the fetus dance all wildly or make my bladder scream in agony.

That's how the Snoogle came to live with us, and though it looks ridiculous, it has become my constant companion. I tried a full-length body pillow in my first pregnancy, but couldn't quite figure out what to do with it, and in the end, it became a lot like having a third adult in the bed with us, one that our cats loved to snuggle with, and so I just chucked it. But the Snoogle, it is comforting, snuggly cuddle-ness, cradling my back and my enormous tummy with its quiet softness. The Snoogle, it is love.

american travesty

2009-05-25T20:11:00.006-04:00

It's been bugging me for almost a week now. I'm finally over it, I think, but I just wanted to tell you, for the record (because you're keeping such close tabs on me), that what happened with American Idol last week annoyed the ever-living shit out of me.

It's no secret: I loved Adam. I thought he was amazing. No, he wasn't perfect, but he was awesome, and he brought some much-needed life to a show fond of showcasing beige talent. I've never watched AI for a whole season: usually, I'd just watch the train wreck auditions for amusement, and then if the buzz seemed to indicate a better-than-average crop of contestants, I'd tune in halfway through the season and then get semi-wrapped up into it then.

But this is the first year I watched from start to finish, because I was in such complete awe of this guy. He made it all worthwhile: the awful group numbers, the painful Whitney Houston renditions (yeah, I'm talking to you, Tatiana), the uncomfortably embarrassing Ford commercials. And, despite how mortifying this is to admit, I actually voted this year.

After excitedly watching him make it to the finals, I came to the realization that Adam wouldn't win about a day before the results show. I just knew it. It didn't really matter who Adam was up against -- if that contestant had "normal" hair and didn't wear cosmetics, he'd be a shoo-in. Because America? America lives for beige. We're a little different, I think, on the coasts, but by and large, most of America wants their pop stars... and politicians, and actors, and everyone else... to be normal, mainstream... "all-American." A guy who wears eyeliner? No, thank you.

So, I was pissed off by this simple truth for starters. But beyond that, what really pissed me off was what Adam's loss represented. (And I'll be the first one to admit that I am a complete asshole who has nothing better to do for likening the outcome of a reality television show to a sociological study of the nation. Stay with me, though.)

Though he's not officially out, word on the street is that Adam's gay. Surprise! He loves makeup and he sings show tunes. Um, yeah, it's a pretty good bet that he's not straight. But who gives a flying fuck? I don't want to sleep with him, I just want to be entertained by him, which apparently, makes me a bad person, according to the conservative right, which brings up point #2, which is that...

...more word on the street is that Kris won because he's Christian. And Adam, he must be a drug-addled satan-worshipping puppy-killer, because clearly, a guy that wears nail polish is no sunbeam of Christ. But holy shit, that's what matters to people? That the AI winner is a freaking Christian? Seriously?

I didn't want to believe it, but then one of my Facebook "friends," a girl I haven't talked to since 8th grade, posted a video of what I presume was Kris singing a Jesus ditty, proving his faithfulness and ergo, I guess, his unparalled entertainment prowess -- with a note saying something to the effect of "Now we all know the right person won!" And all her bible study friends were like, "Yeah! He's a good Christian! I'm so glad he won!" And I was seriously sick to my stomach, because I know that this is how lots of people navigate the world, but to see it in print from someone I sort-of know was just too discumbobulating.

I try not to judge -- even though I'm way judgmental (and I feel like I've come a pretty long way in that particular category) -- but it pains me to remember just how narrowly many, MANY people view the little world they live in. How our country ever got it together enough to elect a black president is beyond me. And believe me, I'm no rainbow flag-waving civil rights activist or anything. But unless someone is actively engaged in trying to kill me or someone else, there's really very little that people could believe or do that would inspire me to such hatred.

Except public spitting, of course. That should be punishable by death, and preferably by stoning. I mean, what the hell is wrong with those people?

So, I've been super-irritated by it all this week, and on top of that, I've been nuclear-level irritated that I've let myself become irritated by all of it. I mean, for fuck's sake, it's goddamn American Idol we're talking about. What the fuck, right?

I now officially end my reality television-watching career and resume a meaningful life.

learnin' her right

2009-05-20T20:45:00.003-04:00

For about the past year, it's been nearly impossible to take a car trip with Lulu without having the portable DVD player loaded with Wonder Pets videos in the backseat with her. And by "car trip," I'm not talking hours-long treks up and down the Jersey Turnpike. A car trip includes forays to Target, which is approximately eight-tenths of a mile from our house.

But for the past month or so, Lulu hasn't asked to bring it along, and hasn't seemed to miss it. Instead, she seems to enjoy listening to whatever is blaring away on my iPod. (I made an early decision not to succumb to the likes of the Doodlebops, or Laurie Berkner, or those creepy Australian guys. Sue me. I also let her stick her tongue in electrical outlets.)

She likes my taste, mostly. She lets me know when to change the song by yelling from the backseat, "ALL DONE THIS SONG." And when a song she particularly likes is over, and wants me to replay it, she yells, "MORE MUSIC."

We've been listening to this song a lot lately. Lulu asks for it by yelling, "AH AH AH SONG?" Like I said, she's got good taste. It's a great song. But it loses its luster around the fiftieth time you hear it. And by the two hundred and fiftieth time, it does incite a desire to poke your own eardrums out with a sharp stick.

harshing on my mellow

2009-05-18T22:21:00.004-04:00

I had a birthday last month. Maybe I didn't find it significant enough to tell the world, or perhaps I slept right through it, but either way, I officially hit my mid-30's. It's not all that different from 34, except that I've got the flattering notation of ADVANCED MATERNAL AGE in my OB's file, and that according to Stacy and Clinton, I can no longer wear miniskirts. And damn, because there is NOTHING hotter than an elderly knocked-up chick in a mini.

My darlin' hubs gave me a quite sizeable gift card to my favorite salon for my birthday, and I turned part of that card into a pedicure this past weekend. As if the regular pedi wasn't expensive enough ($50), I opted for the "customized aromatic pedicure" for $60-$68.

(Who decides how much? And what is it based on? The crustiness of your heels? The length of your toenails? The overall putridness of your foot as a whole? Questions to file under "Life's Little Mysteries," clearly.)

Anyway, I definitely wouldn't pay more than about $25 for a pedicure on my best day, and I don't even do that often, but now that I'm approaching the point at which I can barely see my feet, much less get close enough to paint my toenails, I'm relying more and more on paid professionals to take care of that business. (Next up: bikini wax. It's almost summer, and as I learned last pregnancy, my "if I can't see it, it doesn't exist" approach to body hair removal doesn't extend to pubes. You needed to know this.) So, I sprang for the aromatherapy pedi, because the prospect of soaking my feet in delightfully-scented lavender water with rose petals or something like that seemed like a really good way to spend the afternoon.

It was a nice pedicure. The pedicurist spent a good chunk of time scraping away at my feet, rendering them smoother than they've been in a long while, and it was so relaxing that I kept nodding off in the chair. But it wasn't any different than any other pedicure I've ever had, other than the fact that it was so fucking expensive. Whatever. My feet were no longer crusty and my toenails were painted. I don't ask for much these days. I paid for my service with my gift card, tipped the pedicurist, and rolled on my merry way.

This morning, I got a call from the salon, which went something like this:

Perky Idiot at Salon: Hi, we're calling from the salon to see how your pedicure was!

Me: (Thinking about how many times in the past this salon has called for a post-visit follow-up, and realizing the answer was zero.) Um, it was nice. I booked the "aromatic" pedicure, but I didn't notice anything particularly aromatherapeutic about it. But it was good.

PIS: Oh, um, well, ok. Yeah. The reason I'm calling is that our records show that you didn't pay for the visit.

Me: Well, I did pay for it. I used a gift card. I was charged $66. And I have a receipt.

PIS: (Becomes perkier.) You do? That's, like, awesome! Maybe you could come back and we can see it? Do you live close to here?

Me: Uhhhh... um, yeah, I live close by, but that's not really the point. (Refrains from informing perky idiot that she is pregnant with insane toddler on the loose and does not lead luxurious, carefree life that allows travel to salons. Also avoids suggesting that perky idiot should figure this out some other some other way without involving her, since it is not her fault.

Anyway, PIS confers with her boss and decides that I can just give her my gift card number over the phone, which she will use to verify whether or not my card has been charged in a series of complicated maneuvers involving math, which leaves me feeling not very confident in her assuring me that she will make sure my gift card registers "whatever 200 minus 66 is." Giggle! I asked that she please call me afterward to verify that it's been taken care of, and that I haven't been inadvertently charged twice for one lame, distinctly un-aromatic pedicure. And ps, I'm still waiting for that call, eleven hours later.

The upside to all this is that after relaying this anecdote to Joe, he got all annoyed, proclaimed the situation "bullshit" and told me he'd take care of it, because, goddamn, this was supposed to be a relaxing gift for me. (Um, I did fall asleep in the pedicure chair.) But yay for me, because, though rarely a complainer, Joe can make situations pretty effing uncomfortable if you're in the wrong.

YEAH. That's MY man you're talking to, bitch.

I'm ready for this whole incident to be fragrant now.

our lady of perpetual exhaustion

2009-05-17T20:19:00.003-04:00

In a rare moment of wakefulness and coherence, two qualities that almost never seem to coincide in my life lately, I say, hello to you, my bloggy peeps!

Sorry I haven't been around much. You're not missing anything... a few cupcakes, maybe, but that's about it. I've just been so... damn... tired. This pregnancy is totally kicking my ass. All day long, I run into semi-interesting situations and develop not-entirely-unamusing anecdotes about Lulu telling me that "Mommy's big and tired," and about barfing up my rice krispies in a bout of morning sickness that still... STILL... has not abated in my 26th week of pregnancy, and about my ever-growing obsession with Adam Lambert ("where fag-hag meets cougar, I'm there with Adam," qouth a good friend who's in solidarity with me on Guyliner Fixation).

But then my eyelids get droopy, and there's a damn purring cat on my legs, and it's just so cozy and warm under the blankets on the sofa, and I can't will myself to walk the five feet to the laptop and tell you about it.

Know that I'm here, big as a whale and wide as a house, knocking back cupcakes and decaf iced tea and voting for Adam just as fast as my fingers will let me redial. And you're on my mind. Yes, you.

smooth talker

2009-05-14T23:04:00.002-04:00

I think I got hit on at the playground today.

I also think he was four years old. Maybe five.

Lulu and I had just arrived. She ran to climb the stairs to the slide, and I settled my wide load on a nearby bench.

He wore mirrored sunglasses and rode a tricycle. He darted in my direction as soon as he saw me. He drove by, pushed his sunglasses onto his head, and said hi to Lulu. He got off his trike and gave me a big smile. Reaching into his pocket to show me something, he told me, "My mom got me this." He proudly displayed a box of watermelon Trident.

"Wow, that is really cool! You're so lucky your mom lets you have gum!"

"Yeah, I know," he answered, putting it back in his pocket.

And then he was off, ready to break some other unsuspecting girl's heart.

for anyone with a uterus, really

2009-05-10T18:30:00.000-04:00

I have a post up at DCMM today... hope you enjoy it.

this post had me singing that B-52's song*** in my head the whole time i wrote

2009-05-05T20:47:00.003-04:00

In a rare night out sans toddler, I hung out here last night with my cohorts from DCMM. And, dude, it was like, so fun!

First off, the place: I'd never heard of Good Stuff Eatery, and that is because 1) I live in the 'burbs now, 2) I'm not so much a burger gal, and 3) it has nothing to do with the Wonder Pets. I'd also never heard of the owner, and that's because I don't watch a lot of reality television.

(Heh heh heh. I write this as I watch American Idol. You guys, seriously, vote for Adam. Is he not amazing?)

But once Chef Spike was pointed out to me, I noticed that he's pretty damn cute, and all of about 25 years old. And though I'm not so much a burger gal, I bit (especially since Quaker was picking up the tab for us), and had me a bacon cheeseburger and some awesome fries seasoned with rosemary and thyme. The fetus likes meat, what can I say? Later, I couldn't resist going back for a chocolate milkshake, since, again, I wasn't buying, and since my current gestational state dictates alcoholic abstinence (yeah, I saw all you mom bloggers with your beers. I spit in one of them. So there.) (ha ha, not really).

Another highlight, because I am SUCH a dork, was getting to meet this chica. I lurve this woman, having read her for years now, and was all stupidly ga-ga when I realized she was there (turns out she's good friends with one of my cohorts). She is totally adorable, and as hilarious in person as she is in cyberspace, and it was so fun to meet her and regale her with my moronic stupidity and boring tales of nothingness and general tendency to overshare. (Because I know you'll ask: sadly, I didn't get a chance to tell her about my emergency hemmorhoidectomy.)

(OMG, speaking of my oversharing... here's an excerpt of an email from Lisa today: "I've never heard anyone else use this term but you, but I'm listening to a bipolar memoir writer on the radio right now, and according to her 'oversharing is a very clear indicator of bipolar disorder'." Excellent.)

Of course, THE highlight was getting to spend a few hours with these amazing writers. Are you reading them? Because you should be. I mean, if you only have a little time, then OBVIOUSLY you should be reading me first, but then you should check out Sue. And KC (ok, this woman would totally intimidate me with her supreme fabulous-ness... she's this unbelievable writer who's also a mom and a physician, AND she has the most amazing fashion sense... AND AND she appreciates a good fart joke... but I'm not (that) intimidated by her, because she's so lovely and down to earth). And Claire Jess, who inspires the holistic side of me (my Xanax is organic, really, Jess!) And Justice Fergie. And Delora. And Nicole. And, of course, Jessica (who had a piece in the Washington Post recently, and who, for reasons I can't fathom, always has the most blush-worthy compliments for me)! And Devra, who is wickedly funny and such a sweetheart for putting this whole clambake together. And plenty of others I didn't get to talk to because we were so damn loud and I was so stuffed from food and milkshakes that I was on the verge of lapsing into a sugar coma.

(So I would not miss out on exciting activities on the homefront, Joe sent me this helpful text: "House fucked Cuddy. I ate your ice cream." I'm still not sure which of these developments disturbed me more.)

Duuuude. I haven't posted in a while because of the whole fucking pregnancy perpetual exhaustion thing, and goddamn, I've been at this an hour now, and by God, it's time for ice cream.

Anyway, get thee to Good Stuff, read them bloggers, and eat some Quaker oatmeal.

***Good Stuff

useless information

2009-04-25T11:58:00.002-04:00

I have two recent posts at DCMM that I forgot to talk about here. This one is from last week, and this one was up yesterday. Enjoy. Or not. You know, whatever.

yum

2009-04-15T22:17:00.002-04:00

Just checking my bloggy stats (yep, I can track every single one of you: hi, Minnesota! hi, Denton, Texas!) and a google search that led one hungry soul to my blog today was:

"recipe bearshit cookies"

Sigh... just like mom used to make.

today can totally suck it

2009-04-15T21:23:00.004-04:00

You hear that, today? SUCK IT. There are only 2 1/2 hours left of you, anyway, but you can take your sorry-ass self back to the hell from which you came. Go on, get out of here, mofo.

The day started as it usually does: at 6 am, with Lulu demanding to get out of her crib and be taken downstairs to watch "Wonder Pets" and be given apple juice, a doggy vitamin (aka chewable Scooby-Doo kids' vitamin), a cookie and other random things that eventually come to her little brain. We usually spend the first couple of hours of the day on the sofa, she on my fast-disappearing lap, with my head leaning against the sofa arms, dozing in and out of consciousness while Linny, Tuck and Ming-Ming, too, invade my dreams.

At some point, though, we have to get dressed, and though a novacaine-free root canal usually sounds like the better option, I bravely suggest to Lulu that maybe, just maybe, we might want to get put some clothes on. This never goes over well, mostly because of her undying loyalty to her cat jammies, but also because she's an irrational toddler, and any oufit we pick out isn't the right one. And not only is it not the right one, it's NOT THE RIGHT ONE, as demonstrated by the kicking and screaming and flailing of clothing and limbs that ensues.

After wrestling her to the ground and getting some relatively coordinated, vaguely seasonally-appropriate togs on her, I thought we were set to go, but, turns out, Lulu misplaced her kitty cat paci somewhere in the house, and this prospect was tearing her very soul apart. I looked everywhere -- everywhere -- but it wasn't making itself known. I could feel myself coming apart at the seams -- already tired from the clothing debacle, and, I don't know, having a human being forming inside of me and sucking every nutrient and ounce of energy out of me -- I felt the sense of rage welling up inside that comes from being pushed too far.

"Kitty cat paci! KIIIITTTTYYYY CAAAAAAT PAAAAAACIIIIIIII!" Lulu wailed, trailing me around the house.

"Well, where the hell did you put it, Lulu?"

"Kitty cat paci!!!!" Sob, sob. "Kitty cat paci!!"

I searched toilets, wastebaskets, tubs, under beds. Nothing. And even though we have about sixty other non-kitty cat pacis in the house, none of them were good enough. For fuck's sake. FIRST of all, this child is two and a half, about two years too old for a paci, anyway. And secondly, HOLY SHIT, IT'S NOT LIKE SHE CAN EVEN SEE WHAT THE FUCK SHE'S GOT IN HER MOUTH WHEN IT'S IN HER MOUTH.

Downstairs, Lulu alternated between watching the Wonder Pets and remembering that she was supposed to be upset about the loss of the beloved cat paci. But upstairs, I lost my shit. I tossed shit around, kicked the laundry basket, punched my pillow and screamed at the top of my lungs. I tore up the wad of toilet paper that Lulu had pulled off the roll and ripped it into a million pieces. I was way uncool, and fit for the psychiatric ward.

I came back downstairs and flopped on the sofa and cried some more, utterly unable to cope with child-rearing. I used to have this darling daughter -- I still do -- but why does this beast sometimes take over? And why oh why for the love of God am I getting ready to do this all over again? I came close to strapping myself in the time-out chair with a bottle of tequila, but it turns out that 1) we didn't have any tequila and 2) I've got this fetus inside me.

I eventually pulled myself together and we were able to leave the house and get some shit done, but turns out that having a tantrum really takes its toll on you. I was exhausted the rest of the day, buoyed only briefly by a box of Trader Joe's frozen mac and cheese (the box serves two, but I also learned it serves one pregnant, psychotic woman) and a Georgetown Cupcake that my friend Melissa surprised me with last night (thanks, mamacita; you have no idea how badly I needed that today).

This afternoon was considerably better, due to a retail therapy adventure with Michaeleen, but I'll save that story for tomorrow. In the meantime, I'm going to sit here and root for Lil to be booted off American Idol, while I finish up this plate of gorgonzola gnocchi (serves 4).

fab and faraway

2009-04-14T21:50:00.003-04:00

I'm lucky enough to have this amazing group of mom friends here in my 'hood. Truth be told, and not to be all braggy or anything, but I have a LOT of friends. I like people, despite the terrible ways I talk about them here on this blog. I think I'm a lot like my friend Julie in this respect (the having friends part, not the talking shit about them part; Julie is the nicest person I've ever met). At her annual holiday party last year, as I marveled out loud to her about how many friends she had (I think all those guests were her friends; perhaps she was also operating a soup kitchen that day, too), she told me, "I'm a collector. Some people collect coins; I collect friends."

So, yeah, Miss Popularity here has lots of friends. I love them all dearly, for different reasons, but since the day I pushed a baby out of my now-haggard, withered vagina, I've come to rely on one group of friends more than ever. And that's my Mothers Anonymous group, so named due to one member's husband, commenting on our, ahem, frequent cocktail-knocking-back at playdates.

I love these girls for many reasons: we're all on equal footing, what with our our firstborn kids all within several months of each other, so we have many similar war stories to share. But more than that, they let me be *me*: the snarky, self-doubting, self-effacing, potty-mouthed, inept mother that I am. They don't mind when I tell stories about people who can "eat shit and die," and, in fact, I think they actually like that side of me. They're good babysitters; they're good adult conversationalists; they're rational, like-minded people... much like myself, I might add. These are women who see nothing wrong with my feeding my kid an M&M cookie and a packet of Wonder Pets fruit snacks for breakfast, and if they do, they keep their mouths shut. I like that in a person.

I love the five of us. Truly, we rock. But if I could change one thing, it would be to add the most fabulous yenta I know to our numbers. Are you reading this woman? Because she is amazing. She's one my of DC Metro Moms cohorts, and I was lucky enough to really hit it off with her when I first met her last fall. She's hilarious, wicked-smaht, mom extraordinaire to the most deliciously adorable little boy, and best of all, curses like a motherfucker. Unfortunately, she is geographically undesirable for our group, living nearly 30 miles from our stomping grounds. Yet, she is desirable in many other ways, far too many to enumerate here.

I just... really, really lurve her. And miss her. And wish she lived close enough to hang out more often and let me sneak sips of whatever adult beverage she's drinking, 'cause Stacy? She's also a lush. Just like me. I love that girl.

in praise of me

2009-04-11T21:37:00.001-04:00

Lulu, "helping" me make cupcakes, after I just cracked an egg into the mixing bowl: "Good job, Mommy! Very helpful."

when an alluring smile is not enough...

2009-04-08T22:30:00.001-04:00

... perhaps your cat need this.

But, dude, fitty bucks? That's about 1/3 of what I spend on getting my *real* hair did.

i can stop anytime i want. no, i can't. yes i can. no, really, i can't.

2009-04-07T19:31:00.003-04:00

I need to come clean about my addiction.

If we're friends on Facebook, then you're aware of my cupcake habit. I post about it all the time. Because honestly, aside from making sure I don't puke in the shower, cupcakes are pretty much all I can think about.

I think Michaeleen is to blame. A few weeks ago, she suggested we start taste-testing the wares at some of DC's most awesomest cupcake bakeries. First we went here, which was good. But then we went here, and holy fuck in a cupcake wrapper, I've been hooked ever since.

We went to Georgetown Cupcake on a Friday, and I bought half a dozen. By Saturday afternoon, they were all gone. And by Monday, I was badly in need of a fix. Lulu was in preschool, and though I had plenty of things I needed to do on my precious five hour break, I gave up my beloved nap in favor of braving the DC traffic to head to Georgetown and get my fix. I got a great parking spot and headed to the bakery, only to discover... they're closed on Mondays.

Royally pissed, I drove back to Arlington, and headed to this bakery, one I used to adore, but have now come to realize is sadly inferior to GC. But holy shit, they were closed on Mondays, too.

Do people not need cupcake goodness on Mondays? Are we to settle for sub-par treats? Does a bear shit in the woods? Wait, that's wrong.

I called Michaeleen, and in true addict style, left her a barely coherent message that went something like: "Michaeleen, I need cupcakes, bad, and Georgetown Cupcake is closed today. So is Cakelove. This is all your fault. I just need A MOTHERFUCKING CUPCAKE."

I ended up with a sad 6-pack of cupcakes from Safeway. They sufficed, barely.

Since then, I've been in a bad way. I haven't made it back to GC yet, but I've stooped to Cakelove levels, and also Harris Teeter levels, and even back to Safeway levels. Today, I made my own, and as I sit here typing, chocolate crumbs dotting my keyboard, I can assure you: they are fuckin' awesome.

call me ralph

2009-04-04T19:16:00.002-04:00

In an unexpected display of my pregnancy morning sickness being decidely NOT over yet, I barfed in the shower this morning. One minute, I was conditioning softness and manageability into my hair, and the next, I was hurling cinnamon pecan Special K all over the tub. Breakfast of champions indeed.

I'm almost 20 weeks -- almost exactly halfway there -- and this shit's not over yet. Which brings up a good point: at least I didn't shit all over the shower.

Boy, you are killing your mama. You better be some damn cute.

disclaimer, but not really

2009-04-01T22:23:00.003-04:00

I met Megan for breakfast last week (and as we're both gestating, it was, ahem, our second breakfast of the day, put that in your pipe and smoke it), and she was all, "Your belly is NOT as big as those pictures make it seem. You need to put a disclaimer on your blog and make sure people know you're exaggerating."

So, per Megan's request, here you go.

Disclaimer: Megan's also legally blind, suffers from compulsive lying disorder, and is drunk most of the time.

let's talk about sex

2009-04-01T22:00:00.003-04:00

Or gender. Ever the English major, I always forget which is the right way to refer to what's between the legs of my unborn child, and which way is the most stoopidest.

I'm 19 weeks along today, almost halfway there, and yesterday was the ultrasound. We were thrilled to learn that our baby is developing just the way a baby is supposed to at this point, with all four chambers of the heart present, the stomach on the right side (which is the left side), two hands, two feet, a nice-looking brain, and everything else it was supposed to have.

Also? It has a penis. As Lisa reminded me, "You have a penis inside you. Heh heh."

OMG! We're having a boy!!!!

And boy, oh boy, am I intimidated.

I just don't get boys. I never have. The dirt, the fascination with fire and loud things, how they walk around with those hoses hanging off their bodies. The farting, I totally get. Everything else? Nope.

Girls, I know. My girl likes clothes and kittens and the color pink, things I can relate to. I know nothing about trains (except that you can order a gin and tonic on Amtrak, a fact that a toddler boy will likely not find useful), nothing about trucks and dinosaurs and dirt. I feel so inept.

What immediately frightens me is dealing with that teeny peeny. I know this is irrational, but I can't get past it. How do you take care of it, how do you clean it? Don't even little boys get little erections? Don't they pee on you when you change their diaper? Girl parts, I know. I own those parts, am intimately familiar with their inner workings and secret quirks. And as my friend Karla pointed out, the penis skills I do have are probably not transferable to a baby. So true.

On one issue, Joe and I completely agree, and that is that this little guy is going to get snipped. I'd always been fairly sure that I would anyway, but one day of working at Lulu's preschool last year -- a day in which I changed the most repulsive and foul poopy diaper on an uncircumcised toddler, and spent 15 minutes and close to a hundred baby wipes on cleaning out every little crevice, including underneath that skin turtleneck -- solidified that for me. Share with me what you will about your data, your opinions to the contrary, I don't care, that foreskin is coming off, even if it means I have to eat it for dinner, so help me Jebus, it's getting snipped.

Lulu doesn't seem all that broken up by confirmation of the fact that she's not getting a baby kitten for a sibling. Not that she understands the difference between "brother" and "sister," or "incompetent, psychotic mother," for that matter. I asked her what we should name her baby brother and her suggestion was "Catboy," which has a cute ring to it, actually.

Regardless, this little guy is sucking the life out of me, so I'm hitting the hay, along with the penis inside of me.

sugar and spice, if by "spice" you mean "total, hormonal surliness"

2009-03-29T09:39:00.003-04:00

My latest post is up at DC Metro Moms. I've gotten some great comments, too. Validation is a beautiful thing. I may be a monster, but so are others. Yay.

gestating wildly

2009-03-25T22:51:00.005-04:00

For your amusement, I present to you the 18-week belly:

If you've never been pregnant before, you should know that this IS NOT NORMAL. Seriously, this is like a 30-week belly. This is big. This is huge. This is also mostly cupcakes.

For further amusement, and greater gross-out, barf-a-little-in-your-mouth potential, here's the nekkid belly:

OMG, harpoon me.

adding incontinence to my incompetence

2009-03-25T18:48:00.004-04:00

Among the glorious side effects of pregnancy is not always being able to hold your urine, giving the pregnant woman the bladder capacity and function of a 94-year-old man. This morning, for the first time in my pregnancy, I pissed myself.

After a horrific 4 am awakening episode involving the lack of a kitty cat paci, we all slept in a little later than usual. When Lulu finally woke up at the late hour of 6:45, I stumbled to the bathroom to wash my face and stick in my contacts, because lately, among her other annoying quirks, is her complete lack of tolerance for my wearing eyeglasses. Joe can wear them just fine, but with me, she screeches, cries, tears them off my face and insists that I remove them from her sight, all perfectly normal behavior for a two-year-old.

So I washed my face and stuck in my contacts, and then blew my nose, and apparently, this was more than my bladder could handle, because the force of pushing air through my nose made me piss on myself. One second I was dry, like any normal, healthy adult should be, and the next, pee was running down my leg. I didn't totally empty on myself, but it was enough that I had to make a walk of shame back to my bedroom for clean undies and sweats.

"I just peed on myself," I explained to the husband. "I blew my nose, and I peed on myself."

"Speaking of blowing your nose, can you wipe off the booger you blew on the mirror yesterday?" he asked.

Only 22 more weeks. It should go by like THAT.

help me save babies: 2009

2009-03-12T21:02:00.002-04:00

Last year, I raised over $200 with the Fairlington MOMS Club for the March of Dimes March for Babies. We're doing the fundraiser again this year, and though I don't expect to meet that amount this year, what with the suck-shit economy and all, I'm still posting this in the hopes that you might consider donating a few bucks to the cause. You can click here to make a donation to MoD.

Gracias, muchachos!

and i will totally name it princess meowy von kitty-kat

2009-03-10T11:58:00.002-04:00

People ask all the time if Lulu knows that I'm pregnant, if she has any sense that her cozy little world will be rocked and permanently changed in five and a half months.

Me: Lulu, do you want a baby brother or a baby sister?
Lulu: Baby kitten?

So, yeah, I think we're off to a fine start. The thing is, I had in-vitro, I wasn't there when this baby was conceived, so for all I know, this thing really could have a tail. If so, I hope it's fluffy. But nursing's going to be a bitch, what with those claws and sharp, pointy teeth.

paula is totally high

2009-03-05T23:24:00.002-05:00

My latest post at DC Metro Moms just went up tonight. Normally, my pieces sit in queue for a few days, but this time I'm RELEVANT! TIMELY!, so I got up just hours after I submitted it. Take that, fetus-who-sucks-all-my-energy. (But I still love you, fetus, if you're reading this. Mom's sarcastic like that, a lot. You just have to get used to it. Or you can suck it. Your choice.)

flea market/pastry shop

2009-03-04T21:10:00.007-05:00

I'm not really a restaurant reviewer, but I feel compelled to give a shout-out to a local institution around here, so I'll give it a shot...

Are you craving delicious pastries, but worried about not getting enough crunchy, insect-derived protein in your diet? Foodies and entomologists alike can now rejoice, for Alexandria Pastry Shop can satisfy both needs... at the same time!

Mmmmm! Hungry?

Dude, this has been seriously grossing me out all day. We went to APS this morning, as we do most Wednesdays, for breakfast with our moms club friends, and I've been wigged out ever since. We meet at this place because it's kid-friendly and has some awesome toys for them to play with. Aside from those particular attributes, I've never been a huge fan of the place -- it always struck me as just a little bit off and even kind of dirty -- but most locals seem to love it, so I figured I was just an idiot. And I am an idiot, I assure you, but turns out it's not because I don't like this place.

For starters, they recently imposed a $5 minimum for credit card purchases. Aside from being highly obnoxious, this practice is also against the agreement merchants sign with Visa and MasterCard. (Read this article for a more eloquent explanation.) And also? It bugs the living bejesus out of me, because I never, ever carry cash. I use my check card for everything. If I wanted to buy a single stick of gum, I'd use my plastic. It's convenient. Is it annoying to the merchant? Well, I could give a shit about that. I'm a small business owner, too, and yeah, I have to pony up everytime a client pays by credit card, but this is a quaint little fact o' life known as the cost of doing business. Look it up. I'm sure I read that somewhere in my college business course. The one I got a D in.

Anyway, my Wednesday totals at APS usually come to somewhere in the neighborhood of $4.75 (tea, pastry, and M&M cookie for Lulu to mutilate), and I'm usually stuck buying something else I don't need just so I can push my total over the edge. Totally irritating, but I do it. I suck it up. I'm a big girl.

Today, we went in and got Lulu's usual cookie and my tea, and as I was perusing the pastry case, I noticed something with legs and wings navigating its way across the cherry muffins. I shuddered and tried to pretend I didn't see it, but oh, I did. I told the chick behind the counter, "Uhhh, I don't want to be a pain the ass, but you should know there's a bug crawling around inside the pastry case." The counter chick seemed mildly concerned, and poked around where I directed her ("On the cherry muffins! The one in front! Ew! Now it's on the back! Ew!"), but ultimately left them alone and, so bored, so put out, waited for me to give her my order.

Lulu was already slobbering on her cookie, and my tea was already brewing, so I had to pay for that stuff. Of course, I had to meet my $5 minimum, but I couldn't think of one single, solitary item from that pastry case that I would now allow to pass through my lips. I finally chose a pecan roll, the item that was the furthest away from the insect sighting, and handed over my check card.

"Your total is only $4.75. We have a $5 minimum for credit card purchases," surly counter chick informed me.

"Even with bugs on your food?" I asked.

"Yes," she told me, thoroughly unamused. "Otherwise I have to add a $1 labor fee." I pictured the labor involved with swiping a credit card, surly counter chick mopping the sweat from her brow, the most intensive work she'd done in all her life.

"Fine. Give me another cookie. You can hold the bugs."

Am I making a big deal out of all this? Maybe. But before you cast judgment, know that I later saw other bugs flying around at the front of the store. And then later, Lulu saw a bug that made her scream bloody murder and jump into my arms crying. So, yeah, judge me if you like, but you know that you can suck it if you do.

I haven't told anyone to suck it in a long time. It feels good and right and true.

I emailed a quick letter to the shop today, which made me feel like a total suburban soccer mom asshole, but welcome to my new life, I guess. (Seriously. Not only did this all transpire, but now I'm blogging about it, too. Imagine how amazing I'd be if I used my powers for good instead of stupid.)

public service announcement

2009-03-03T22:27:00.003-05:00

Ok. Stop what you're doing right now, and get yourself to Trader Joe's. Once there, pick up a box of vanilla cake and baking mix, flavored with "Madagascar Bourbon Vanilla," and then please get me some ginger snaps, because I'm nauseous, and the ginger is supposed to alleviate that. Then get your ass home and make a batch of these cupcakes, because, OMG, they are so fucking good. Once they're done, bring me the gingersnaps, and also include a cupcake or two. (Just leave them on the porch, because I'm probably napping.)

You are WELCOME.

snow me

2009-03-02T19:10:00.006-05:00

It was a snow day here, again, in the DC area. Have I mentioned how much I hate snow days? They were great when it meant it a day off from school, and then later, work. But now? They're no day off -- in fact, they're even *more* work than usual, because all normal activities are cancelled, leaving me struggling to come up with activities to fill the day and ward off boredom, and doing it in death-defying road conditions. I know, wah, poor me. Thankfully, Lulu has learned not only how to change DVD's in the DVD player, but also how to fast forward and rewind, significantly reducing my workload. Once she can bring me back a ginger ale from the fridge, we'll be all set.

So, of course, school was cancelled today, which meant I had to bring Lulu with me to my OB appointment this morning. It's always a gamble to bring her to a doctor's appointment -- will she be interested in her toys and books? or will she go mental, spending the time screaming and trying to take apart the ultrasound machine? -- but she was obsessed today with some toy in the office, and I was able to keep my feet in the stirrups in peace, leaving the doctor plenty of time to check my haggard, withered vagina.

(Side note: my 20-week ultrasound is scheduled for March 31. We'll find out the flavor of this fetus in four weeks!)

Later, I had to bring Lulu to an appointment of her own, to the pediatrician, to make sure her gurgling, hacking cough and her gunky, green snot-ridden nose weren't infected. This meant she had to miss her nap, which never bodes well for anyone living in our house. We waited almost an hour to see the doctor on call, who didn't look a day over a hundred and twenty, and who pronounced her healthy, so we didn't even get a prescription for our trouble. We were home by mid-afternoon, leaving us many more hours to fill before bedtime, with Lulu the Insane descending rapidly into a no-nap-inspired manic frenzy, and then, ultimately, a meltdown.

I have cupcakes (Trader Joe's Madagascar Bourbon Vanilla, which I'm pretty sure is totally made up) in the oven, because this is the only way I can self-medicate these days. I fucking hate snow days.

shower fresh

2009-02-28T19:46:00.005-05:00

I've mentioned before that I'm not a huge fan of bridal and baby showers. I mentioned this rather ungratefully on the heels of my own baby shower a few years ago, a shower I ended up - surprise! - thoroughly enjoying, because, hey, it's really fun to get cupcakes and gifts.

So even though Karla is a great friend and someone I totally love, I wasn't sure I'd be all that psyched to go to her baby shower today. I'm thrilled to death for her - she's due with her first baby, a girl, in two weeks - but our circles of friends don't overlap at all, meaning she's the only person I'd know, presumably leaving me to nurse some non-alcoholic beverage while making small talk with her mother-in-law for several hours.

I think it's because I've had some bad experiences at showers in the past few years, especially ones where I didn't know anyone but the guest of honor. I think I'm pretty good at being social, regaling perfect strangers with tales of horrid yeast infections and other extremely intimate conversation-stopping details, but there were a few showers within the past few years where it was so damn clique-y - girls who have known each other for years and had their own private language, and far be it from them to just make some poor, awkward girl like me feel welcome for just an hour or two. It was seventh grade all over again, and in case I haven't let on what a wretched, hideous, gangly dumbass I was in seventh grade, let me assure you: it wasn't good.

(I also had a bad experience at a very good friend's bridal shower last summer, an episode I mention only because I want my friends who were there to know that I am specifically *not* referencing that shower. That day was a mess for me because I had horrible allergies and felt like shit, and was so loopy on medication that I was completely out of it, not to mention the fact that unrelated to allergies, I was wickedly hormonal, and I was a total disaster, and actually, embarassingly, left early, to the utter disbelief of my girlfriends, but trust me, it was for the best. I behaved at the wedding, though, and I think that friend still loves me, despite my psychosis.)

Anyway.

So it was with not a whole lot of enthusiasm that I drove to the shower today. Fully prepared to feel out of sorts again, I had my BlackBerry at the ready and full of old emails to check to make myself look busy while no one wanted to talk to me. But I was so pleasantly surprised to meet Karla's friends, who are all interesting and nice, and I'm not even saying that because apparently half of them read my blog. (Side note: how expedient! They all knew about my yeast infections and hemmorhoid woes without my even having to tell them over some spinach dip.) And despite what they knew about me, they were still nice to me!

The food was fabulous, and there were cupcakes, and my maternity dress highlighted my pregnancy sufficiently so that people knew I was pregnant, and not merely a donut addict. And also? It was fun. Everyone was a blast, and seriously, I had a great time. Such a departure. I'm growing up.

Happy baby, Karla! Here's to a fast and easy (and early, even) delivery. Your girl is going to be so lucky to have you as a mom.

pregger drama

2009-02-20T11:34:00.005-05:00

Had some drama with the ol' situation this week (as my friend's father likes to refer to my friend's pregnancy), but thankfully, it turned out to be only that: just drama and nothing more. You can read about it here.

There are additional details I didn't write into that piece. But read the piece first, ok? Go on, I'll wait.

Ok. Detail one is that although I'm only 13 weeks along, and it's really too early to tell the sex yet, the radiologist got several pretty good views of what was between the legs. As with our last pregnancy, we kind of badgered the poor technician into giving us their opinion, and though she demurred several times, she finally admitted that if she had to lean one way or another, she'd lean one way*. I'll have another ultrasound in a few weeks, and by then, we should get a decisive opinion (which could be totally different than the verdict rendered this week), but in the meantime, thanks to last night's episode of Private Practice, I'm now worried about a third option.

Detail two is that after the radiology appointment, I had to go into my OB's office to have an internal exam. I had to see a doctor I'd never met before, which is totally fine, since the person who ultimately delivers this baby is total luck of the draw, and anyway, I was so freaked out by all this that the janitor could have stuck the speculum up there and I wouldn't have cared, so long as he was wearing a white coat and seemed the tiniest bit professional. The doctor who examined me wasn't totally aware of my history, and while she was all up in the lady bits, she asked me, "Do you have other kids?" I told her yes, I had a two-year-old at home, and she answered, "I thought so. This vagina looks like it's had kids before." And all I could think was, "OMG, DID SHE REALLY JUST INSULT MY VAGINA?" I mean, seriously? After all I'd been through today? I mean, I know I'm not a teenager anymore, but is is necessary to highlight that particular bit of trivia?

Detail three is that amidst all of this, I have been dealing with the worst. cold. of. my. life. The WORST. I am a sneezy, runny-eyed, snot-nosed mess with a headache that convinces me that this is no mere cold, this is a brain tumor. It's been compounded by the fact that I *thought* I couldn't take anything but Tylenol, but I learned that I can also add Benadryl and Sudafed to my drug repertoire. I had nothing but children's Benadryl in the house when I learned this, but after guzzling several teaspoons, I was comatose for the night, so I can assure you it works in a pinch. Anyway, today's the first day all week that I feel better, and more importantly, I look better, judging from the lack of "OMG, you don't look so good" reactions I've gotten from friends today. I know, waahhh, I've got a cold, poor me. Suck it, ok?

Anyway, all's well in our world and in my uterus. (My withered, haggard vagina might tell you differently.)

* Oh, yeah. The way? Boy.

the cat pajamas

2009-02-11T22:03:00.005-05:00

That's not a typo. I want to tell you about THE CAT PAJAMAS, also known as, THE BANE OF MY EXISTENCE.

Last fall, I asked for girl's winter pj's in size 2T or thereabout, preferably animal-themed, on Freecycle. A generous soul gave me a huge bag of them, and somehow, somewhere along the way, Lulu decided on one outfit that was uniquely hers: a blue flannel cat-print shirt missing a button and a pair of pink (different) cat-print pants, size 5T, that are about twice as long as her legs. She added some cat socks and a cat print flannel robe that I bought for a dollar at a thrift shop, and voila, the look I call "feline finery" was born.

It was cute. She was really attached to it, though. Like, REALLY. Like, she had to wear the EXACT SAME ENSEMBLE every night to bed, and soon, she decided that she also had to wear the EXACT SAME ENSEMBLE for her midday nap, too. It got grody quickly, so I found myself doing laundry way more often than usual, and God help me if I didn't time it just perfectly, because if that cat bathrobe was sitting sopping wet in the dryer at 7:30 bedtime, all hell would break loose. I bit my tongue and repeated my new mantra, "It's just a phase."

This phase is entering its third month, though. And it's spreading to waking hours, too. When Miss Congeniality rises from her nap these days, it's in the grumpiest of moods, and the prospect of changing back into her regular clothes is too much for her to bear. And since I'm pregnant and moody and tired and just generally unable to deal with the tantrums, Lulu has been sporting the look around town more often than I'd prefer. It's kind of the same reason why she ate gummy bears for breakfast yesterday: it's not going to kill her, and I'm less likely to want to eat ground glass.

Yesterday, she wore the ensemble to the playground. Up and down the slide, across the monkey bars, in the sand box. I fielded lots of "Why is she wearing her pajamas?" type questions from the kindergarten set while Lulu dragged a toy shopping cart around the playground, oblivious to the stares.

We got home in time for me to run the filthy togs through the laundry before she went to bed. When I opened the dryer, rocks and sticks tumbled out. I'm an indulgent mother, but at least I have my sanity. You know, kind of.

cake wrecks

2009-02-07T19:49:00.002-05:00

OMG. This is my new favorite site. You also need to read the accompanying article. I've viewed the photos at least 18,000 timesthis past week, and every time, I nearly peed my pants laughing. Which isn't hard to do these days, what with the pregnancy-related incontinence and all. Oy.

its heart, my soul

2009-02-03T23:17:00.002-05:00

I heard my baby's heartbeat for the first time today.

I had gotten so used to hearing Lulu's heartbeat in-utero. I rented a fetal doppler monitor just so I could listen to it at home every day. No matter what my day had been like, being able to lift my shirt, smear that gel all over my belly, and listen to the heartbeat would make everything all better. And on the days when I couldn't feel her move much, hearing that heartbeat would provide immediate relief.

It's been a while since I've heard that sound. It's easy to mistake your own heartbeat for the baby's if you don't know what you're looking for. In fact, I impressed Ryan and Amy with what I believed to be Pumpkin's heartbeat -- moving Ryan almost to tears, I think -- when it turned out to be the sound of my own heart echoing in my uterus.

At my 11 week check-up today, the doctor smeared the gel on and moved the machine all around my belly. I could hear my own heart everywhere, but we couldn't seem to locate the familiar quick-quick wowowowowowow sound of the baby's. I had to lower my pants even further, and after another application of gel on my pubic bone (side note: is this sounding too porny?), we got it. Fast and steady, 160 beats per minute.

I cried. This is really-for-true-really happening again. My baby's heart beats inside of me. This miracle is on its way.

let others entertain you

2009-01-30T12:41:00.003-05:00

Two new blogs written by great friends of mine that you MUST read:

Kristen is now writing at Chai La la, which aside from having the most adorablest name ever, will provide you with much style inspiration. Because, sorry, look at you -- you totally need it. Kristen has been my style go-to chica for many years, because damn, the girl knows her stuff. Always polished, put together, and amazingly chic, she will help you pull yourself out of the black hole that is your current fashion sitch. Lest you think she's all style, no substance, I assure you: Kristen is a wonderful writer with a level of sensitivity and intelligence that will make you like (and hate, you know, in that green-eyed monster kind of way) her even more.

Michaeleen just started Blonde Hurricane Warning, and I'm totally thrilled, because to spend time with her in person is therapeutic and fulfilling, in a sit-back-with-a-glass-of-wine-and-laugh-your-head-off-about-the-absurdities-of-life kind of way, which, incidentally is what we do most of the time we're together, and being able to read her just gives me more of that time in a virtual way. Michaeleen is wicked smaht, hilariously hilarious, and if you're really nice to her (or if she's drunk enough), she might send you home with the leftover wine or a bag of fun clothes that she's not wearing anymore.

I will get my act together, I WILL, I swear, and I will pick up this sorely neglected blog and continue to regale you with sordid tales of my life and shameful secrets (current shameful secret: I am addicted to McDonald's dollar breakfast menu; I can't ingest enough breakfast burritos, hash browns and sweet tea). Soon. Swear to God.

pointless, insipid drivel, pt. deux

2009-01-30T11:39:00.002-05:00

Ok. Seriously. This is, without a doubt, the worst piece I have ever written for DCMM. Pointless, rambling, uninspired. I only did it because I'm obligated to post there every two weeks, regardless of whether or not I have something to write about, and lately, owing to the parasitical fetal creature currently residing in my nether regions, I have nothing interesting to talk about, nothing fascinating to think about, and no energy to put it down in words.

Someone should take me behind the barn and shoot me.

25 things

2009-01-26T23:29:00.004-05:00

I'll credit my girlfriend Kim with helping to re-start my blogging mojo, as I know I've been a major blogging mofo lately. Kim tagged me on Facebook to share 25 random things about myself, but since I think that means sharing 25 things with plenty of people who I'm "friends" with on FB but not in real life, it seems safer to do it this way, where I can believe it's anonymous. I believe in unicorns, too, just so you know.

1. I always disliked my name growing up. I never met another Diana until I hit college, so prior to that, it just seemed too unusual, but not in a good way, and not in a way I could make a nickname out of it, especially not one that ended in an "i" so I could dot the "i" with a heart. I tried to nickname myself Andy for a week or two in seventh grade, but I couldn't remember to respond when someone called me Andy. Ugh, and the constant comparisons to Lady Di and Michael Jackson's "Dirty Diana." Not to mention the people (including relatives) who couldn't even get it right, rationalizing that Diane was "close enough."

2. My birth middle name is Lynne. My dad insisted on the two "n" 's and the "e," because, in his words, "it cost the same amount on the birth certificate to have "Lynne" as it did to have "Lyn," so why not get more for our money?"

3. I took the name Madeleine as my confirmation name in high school. My senior yearbook photo lists me as "Diana Madeleine Onorio."

4. I don't know how to dive, and I'm terrified to try.

5. I am against the death penalty, but I believe public spitting should be punishable by death, and preferably by stoning.

6. I have a weakness for argyle socks.

7. I have never seen one episode of "Star Trek." I believe this explains a lot about me.

8. Overweight and already a heart attack survivor, my dad continues to neglect his health, and I'm convinced he will die within the next ten years. This will devastate me.

9. I believe a woman has the right to breastfeed wherever and whenever she chooses, and that to think otherwise shows astonishing lack of respect for the human race.

10. I was an advanced straight-A honor student through eighth grade. By 9th grade, I was hopelessly average.

11. The prospect of having another baby delights and scares the bejesus out of me.

12. When I was in third grade, my IQ was reported as 140. I know, it shocks me, too.

13. My first pets were a rabbit named Sunny who lived for a week in our kitchen under a laundry basket, and a sheep named Sheeba who lived for a week in our backyard. My dad told me he took Sunny to the zoo, and I believed him until my BFF Lisa told me in high school that that's not actually what happened. Sheeba went to live on a farm. At least, that's what they told me.

14. I like to think I'm athletic, but I suck at every sport I have ever tried. Including running, because I fall down a lot.

15. I'm really lost about religion right now -- specifically, how I will incorporate it into my children's lives.

16. The worst day of my life was October 16, 1998, the day my aunt/godmother passed away from breast cancer.

17. Mayonnaise is the antichrist.

18. If I don't specifically place an order ahead of time, my mother will give me the worst gifts. I'm wearing the cat socks she gave me for Christmas right now.

19. Birthing a baby was the most amazing experience of my life, and, despite the pain, I am overjoyed by the prospect of going through it again.

20. There's no way in hell I could place each U.S. state on a map. Maybe if you put a gun to my head. Even then, odds are not good.

21. I'm claustrophobic.

22. I haven't been on an airplane in three years.

23. I've been happily married almost 12 years. I was a child bride, obviously.

24. I'm really not sure if I have a good singing voice or not. Chances are great that you'll never have the opportunity to judge for yourself.

25. This pregnancy has me craving Twinkies. Twinkies!

boobs of porn star magnitude

2009-01-24T11:41:00.002-05:00

I think that's how I described my heaving bosoms the last time I was pregnant, and that phrase keeps rattling around my head this time, because, again, I got me some rack. It's not as painful as it was last time, but they're back. If only my enormous gut wasn't also along for the ride.

I have been feeling so guilty about neglecting this blog. But in my defense, I haven't been neglecting it entirely, in that I think about it several times every day. I think, "I should write about Lulu's unbridled enthusiasm, and then subsequent total failure, with potty training. I should write about my newfound addiction to gummy bears. I should write about how I had $689 stolen from my checking account through an unauthorized PayPal transaction and that PayPal is a good-for-nothing corporate empire whose customer service has a ways to go. I should write about how utterly sick and tired I am of being sick and tired."

But then I start to feel sick and tired again and I just don't have the energy. So I curl up on the sofa and watch "What Not to Wear" or any other edu-tainment programming currently on TLC and lapse into a coma. Being 9 1/2 weeks pregnant will do this to a woman.

over yonder

2009-01-14T12:04:00.001-05:00

Can't get enough of my pointless, insipid drivel? Catch me over at DC Metro Moms today.

aka grace

2009-01-11T19:34:00.009-05:00

The good news: both the baby and I are fine.

Ever the epitome of grace and fluid, cat-like movements, I tripped and fell down a flight of stairs Saturday night. I was wearing THE MOST FABULOUS shoes at the time...

exhibit a, the most fabulous shoes ever

...and also, I was not drunk. These are the painful facts.

We were at a party Saturday night for Joe's company, in a hotel, in a lower-level ballroom, where an obsessive, non-drunk parent such as myself couldn't get phone reception, and wouldn't be able to receive calls from her mother regarding the state of her child. So, after becoming intimately acquainted with the various buffet stations, I hoofed upstairs to the lobby level to check my messages and about ten seconds after I did that, I missed the first step going back down. Before I knew it, the world was jumbled and I was at the bottom of the stairs.

My first feeling was humilation, which is the same feeling I get whenever I have a spectacular accident (see "tripping over curb while running in rush hour traffic;" "tripping on Connecticut Ave. and falling flat on face in front of oncoming bus;" and others). As it turns out, no one witnessed it other than a hotel waitstaff guy, who leaned over the railing and half-heartedly asked, "You ok?" Yeah, asshole. I totally meant to do that. Like, DUH.

I sat there for a second, contemplating my next move, when a couple walked past and asked if I was ok. "Um, yeah, I think so. No. I just fell down the stairs. And I'm pregnant." And I started to cry.

They helped me back up to a sofa, and the guy went to go find Joe, while the woman held my hand and reassured me that the baby was ok, and regaled me with tales of spectacular falls of her own. Joe came up within seconds and we all inspected my wounds (no broken bones or sprains, thankfully; just knots and rug burns), and though I hadn't yet hit the dessert buffet, we decided it was probably time to head home. We got home and explained our early arrival to my babysitting parents, after which my mother promptly took my FABULOUS SHOES away.

I spent the rest of the night utterly pissed off at myself for my stupidity and mentally beating myself up over and over for endangering my unborn child. I knew it wasn't rational, but, hi, have we met? I was shaking, I was so mad at myself. But Sunday morning, I hightailed it over to my doctor's office, where a quick encounter with Dick confirmed a live baby with a good heartbeat. Thank God thank God thank God.

It's back to flats for me, until August, anyway. And also, elevators are probably more my speed for now.

don't call it a comeback

2009-01-06T19:57:00.004-05:00

Hey y'all. Sorry to have been MIA. Things are fine. It's just that blogging doesn't involve sleeping of any kind, and unfortunately, "sleeping" has been the most popular activity in my repertoire as of late, way above "maintaining the bare minimum of socially acceptable hygiene" and "keeping my offspring alive."

This pregnancy thing, it's exhausting. You might think it's all eating cookies and buying cute maternity clothes, but it's more. For instance, what did you do today? Yeah? Well, I made kidneys.

I had another sonogram today, and we saw the heartbeat of Funk 2.0 (who is measuring in at a petite 7 mm, up from 2 mm last week), which was immensely reassuring. I'm exactly seven weeks along, and my due date is August 26. (I'm a genius! I figgered these things out on the internets already!) My awesome doctor has officially released me to my OB, and I have my first appointment next week. Like, this pregnancy thing is starting to look official and whatnot.

Everytime Lulu jumps on me, I have to remind her to be gentle because there's a baby in mommy's belly, a concept which has not yet made sense to her, I don't think, because as far as she can remember, she's never seen me eating any babies. She repeats "baby in mommy belly," then pulls up her shirt and points to her belly button, and then resumes asking for another cookie and demanding that I draw her pictures on her new AquaDoodle (specifically, "kitty cat on escalator," "doggy in shopping cart," and "mouse in birthday hat and birthday cake." Um, Lulu? I can barely color inside the lines.)

(She asked Joe recently to draw her a "kangawoo." Joe's artistic abilities are about on par with mine, which is to say, approximately a second-grade level, and we had to break it to her that her parents will be most unhelpful in this department.)

All this writing has, whew, worn me out, and I must head back to the kitchen to stir my rice pudding. (When not sleeping or thinking about how nauseous I am, I like to spend my time lately indulging my every sweet-tooth whim.)

how many?

2008-12-31T08:50:00.002-05:00

I know, you're dying to know. God, I was, too.

Sorry I didn't report back sooner yesterday. I had a wicked headache all day that's managed to extend its life into today, too. Add to that my first bout of morning sickness this morning, and, well, it's been Saltine City since then.

Oh, the sonogram...

Just one baby.

Joe and I had the same reaction: relief, mixed with some sadness. Logically, we know it's the best possible outcome, but still, two embryos were transferred to me, so we can't help but wonder about the one that didn't make it. And also, I had been entertaining fantasies of a minivan.

It's ok. We're still totally thrilled.

We weren't able to see the heartbeat yesterday. The doctor says it's still pretty early, and he didn't seem at all concerned, so we're going back next Tuesday to check again. Once he detects the heartbeat, he'll release me to my regular OB.

Off to get some ginger ale.

baby. baby?

2008-12-30T10:46:00.006-05:00

It's been a long week here at Funk Manor. The Christmas season is by far the busiest time for my pet sitting business, and though I hate to spend my holidays by endlessly scooping cat shit out of litter boxes, I can't say no to my clients, many of whom have been with me since I started my pet sitting empire almost six years ago. And also? The coin, baby. It's a seriously nice chunk of money for a relatively short amount of time. And also also? It makes my college degree that much more valuable.

So my days of late have been spent with dozens of cats and their hair, and mucho family and also Christmas cookies, under the premise that I'm now eating for two. At least, I think it's just Zygote and me. We had two embryos transferred to my uterus when we got our one Lulu, and this time around, we had two done as well, leading me to believe... I don't know what.

People who know our story keep asking us if we want there to be one baby or two. And I understand the inclination to ask, but really, is there a good answer? What if it were you? Joe and I have talked about it extensively, and have discussed it long before it ever happened, and our ultimate philosophy is that we will gratefully accept whatever is bestowed upon us, having once thought we might never even be so lucky to be in this position.

Anyway, we'll go for my first sonogram today at 12:15, in just about an hour and a half from know, and we should know our answer then. I'm hoping for... whatever is meant to be, because can I hope for anything else?

funked up

2008-12-22T15:07:00.001-05:00

We're having another baby!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you so much for all your prayers, good wishes and positive thoughts.

I'm going to take a nap now. But first, to puke.

tom petty had it right

2008-12-22T11:39:00.002-05:00

The waiting IS the hardest part.

I got my blood drawn at the lab at 7:30 this morning. Now I wait for the phone call, allegedly to come around 1:00 pm or so.

Anxious? Nervous? Heart pounding? Hands shaking? Feeling like I could puke at any second?

Nah, not me, dude.

you know he's all, "dude, like, stop rubbing my nose, k?"

2008-12-21T22:16:00.003-05:00

The LuluBug and I visited Testudo today to rub his nose for luck. Lulu loved the idea of a "giant turtle statue" in theory, but not as much in person.

turns out i kind of like having my head in the sand

2008-12-21T09:25:00.003-05:00

Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I love ya, tomorrow! You're only a day away!

Have I mentioned that this has been THE LONGEST TWO WEEKS OF MY LIFE, with the exception of January 29 - February 12, 2006, the previous LONGEST TWO WEEKS OF MY LIFE?

It's strange, though: as the moth becomes a butterfly, I have undergone a metamorphosis of my own these past few days. Seriously! These wings, are, like, way cool. But in addition to my twitching antennae and my newfound love of sipping nectar from flowers... what the eff, and where am I going with this?

Okay. What I mean to say is, I'm actually beginning to embrace this time. I've come to realize that there's a certain peacefulness that comes from being suspended in uncertainty. And I wish I would have realized this thirteen days ago, but there you go. Today, I can just be my dumb-ass elf and go about my life in a state of blissful ignorance, but come tomorrow, things will change. I will have to take some actions based on whatever the outcome is, but right now, I can continue to eat Ben & Jerry's out of the carton and pretend that life is no big deal.

Um. In that previous graph, I meant to refer to myself as "my dumb-ass SELF," not "my dumb-ass elf."

I won't lie: this whole experience has largely been a bitch. But you know what? Having the support of so many people who love me -- even people I've never met! -- has meant so much to me. The cheesecake truck reference? It comes from a song on a CD Alexis sent me last week -- this completely awesome mixtape which has been my soundtrack for the past week and a half. (No "Baracuda" on there, but she redeems herself in other ways.) And the unrelenting cheerleading from Mandy, and the sweet notes from Stacy and Aimee and Rebecca, and everyone else's good wishes and prayers and support... well, it's enough to make a girl kinda well up in tears a little bit, even if those tears are sort-of hormone-induced. The point is, I'm incredibly lucky to know the people I know. And the people I don't know, whom I wish I knew, especially since they know ALL ABOUT ME and my VAGINA and god only knows what else. You peeps? You rock, too.

Today's the winter solstice, and I'm hoping that bodes well for tomorrow. At the very least, it means the days will start getting longer again and that's a light at the end of my tunnel that I can really use right now.

I'll keep you posted...

unicorn dreams

2008-12-20T17:04:00.000-05:00

I would like this for Christmas.

trois jours

2008-12-19T13:43:00.002-05:00

So, three days left 'til the old pee stick test. Actually, it's a blood test. I have to go into the doctor's office between 7 and 9 am on Monday for the blood draw, and then spend the rest of the day in a state of nuclear-threat-level anxiety until the phone call comes.

The anxiety I felt last time was beyond compare. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep (remember, these were the days when leisure was mine; naps whenever the hell I wanted were my right), couldn't shower, for fear that I might miss the phone when it rang. And everytime the phone did ring, my heart pounded and my blood drained from my body, even though most of the calls were from well-meaning family members looking to see if I had heard anything yet. Note to any of those family members who may be reading this time around: NOT HELPFUL. I love you, but I'll tell you when I know, I promise. To make matters worse, my ring tone at the time was Heart's "Barracuda," and to this day, whenever I hear the frantic opening guitar riff, I throw up in my mouth a little.

I have quite a distraction today in that Lulu's sick, been running a temperature of between 99 and 103 since last night, and she's just as sad and pathetic as can be. We've been watching endless episodes of "Wonder Pets," which seems to have put Elmo on permanent hiatus. (It's pretty damn cute, actually, and if you're uninitiated, you should check them out, but do not blame me if you're singing "What's gonna work? Teamwork!" for the rest of the day.)

So, yeah, anyway, I'll know in three days, and I'm convinced I'm not pregnant, and that my extreme fatigue, occasional nausea and strange uterine cramping are instead all signs of impending doom that will come from either a dread disease or perhaps aliens living in my intestines.

But because I'm superstitious, I'll definitely be visiting my alma mater this weekend to rub Testudo's nose, because as I said before my last pregnancy test, I've never not failed a test before rubbing his nose.

Wish me luck, ok?

pray for my heathen soul

2008-12-17T08:04:00.002-05:00

And I really mean that.

According to the Catholic Church, I am no longer welcome. That's ok. I haven't felt welcome for years, for many reasons. Only now, I'm a big-time sinner, with a capital S. Read all about it in my post up today at DC Metro Moms.

See you in hell.