Haiku of the Day

A wish

are people clueless
or do they like to play dumb?
Either way, I'm in

How I wish I could be one of those people who post things on messageboards like:

"I'm 20 weeks pregnant and this liquid has been dripping out of me for three days. Can't I just wait to see my doctor next week after my Cozumel vacation?"

or

"My belly keeps doing this off and on tightening thing. It is so weird. Sometimes it hurts. Is this from eating expired potato salad?"

But I am the kind of person who posts: "Yes, it is from the expired potato salad. But only if the potato salad made you drunk and got you pregnant first."

Life could be so much simpler.

the news, it is not awesome

The fern was positive for amniotic fluid. However, the fluid levels around the baby were higher today than yesterday. And the nitrizine at the doc was negative. But the nitrizine on the sample from 2:30am was positive.

So WTF?

There are a variety of exhausting explanations. The one I like is that the sample from 2:30 is contaminated with old blood, causing false positives and there is no leak. The one I don't like is that there is a high leak and that might be why I'm getting gushes with a big contraction and not a constant trickle. The one I think is most likely true? Door number 2. I just feel like that's what's happening.

We're treating it like there's a leak. ABX, strict bed rest, regular temp taking to monitor for infection. If I can make it to 24 weeks without anything terrible happening I will probably be admitted to the hospital for the duration of the pregnancy.

I am so fucking scared. I am rapidly losing all ability to be brave or funny. But crying in bed until whatever is going to happen happens doesn't seem like a great idea.

How do I not panic? How will it be OK?

excellent plan

bath laundry combo
plus the grass gets a big drink
it's a win-win-win!

After a day of lasagna, mac and cheese, a variety of yummy ADD-inducing-colored candy, guacamole and some mango juice, the wee-er one's new shirt is looking mighty fine. The wee-one's shirt is not faring much better and he didn't even "eat" the lasagna.

So what's a tired mommy to do?

I'll tell you what.

Put some goggles on the kids, turn on the backyard sprinkler, fill their water guns with Spray n' Wash, and sit back with a cold drink - watching from the safety of the kitchen window, of course.

Did I actually do this? Nah. Did I seriously contemplate it? You bet. Instead, my loving spouse has been coerced into laundry duty. It might not be as fun as watching the kids shoot corrosive detergent onto each other, but it's still pretty satisfying.

Ah, Sunday. The surprises you bring are always highly anticipated.

jinx

paranoid person
should have faith and think good thoughts
but panic's easy

For some reason I have gotten myself in a tizzy about my water breaking early. I don't know why this suddenly feels like an imminent danger to me. In my other two pregnancies my water didn't break until the doctor did it for me, but now I am completely paranoid and almost convinced it's going to happen any second now. At 19 weeks, that would not be a good thing to happen.

So I thought I'd blog about it, and by calling out my fears publicly, and looking irrational and crazy, I will somehow be able to jinx it from happening.

I am just disturbed by this feeling of Imminent Doom that I have. The single artery umbilical cord only worries me a little bit, the clot is no fun and keeps me worried, but right now I'm not thinking about it. I am all-consumed with worry about finding myself in a puddle of amniotic fluid at any moment. Why is this worry hitting me like this? Why does it feel like more of a prediction than a stupid worrywart thing? Can I blame hormones for making me crazy?

Is it November yet?

more than you wanted to know part II

All is well - or as well as it gets these days. Turns out the placenta has moved a bit (yay!), but the clot is now over my cervix (boo!). So the baby moves or I move and trouble ensues. Hopefully the clot will reabsorb soon and all will be well. Maybe I will name the clot.

Annoying McPainintheass seems like a good one.

All this means is that I am back on the couch. After 8 days of nothing, I ventured out last weekend, did the car thing, did a Target run and I guess that was all too much. Maybe I will just drive around all day in the new minivan, listening to the free XM radio and testing out the cruise control. It feels like driving around on a couch, so that has to count for something. Right?

17 weeks and 2 days. Almost half-way done.

way more than you want to know

the doctor/artist
should sell frames in his office
or maybe xanax

OK. So here's the trouble, courtesy of my doctor:

Note the placenta on the left, the clot on the right, and my poor cervix getting clobbered in the middle by both of them. The arrows shooting out of the baby's head indicate fetal movement whacking into everything and causing bleeding. The outside arrows indicate my movement whacking into everything and causing bleeding. The whole thing indicates me, on the couch, brooding to the new She & Him album (fantastically awesome, by the way. I am now in love with Zooey Deschanel) for ever and ever.

So there you have it. Everything's all jacked up in my lady parts. The marginal previa will hopefully fix itself within the next four weeks or so and the clot will hopefully reabsorb. My doctor said - and I quote - "I think everything will be fine. There's a strong heartbeat." This is not the 100% glowing, confidant statement I would like to hear, but I guess I'll take it.

We saw lots of baby ribs in the ultrasound today. Ribs!

No, spot, no. Stop, spot, stop.

"taking it easy"
much easier to do this
before The Google

Still trapped on couch. Spotting started back up this morning. I'm not sure how I can say this eloquently, but:

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

So I am coping with worry by going into debt. I just bought an iPhone. Hahahaha. For real. I did it. On the AT&T site. It's a refurb, so I did save a little bit. And my current contract is up in 4 days, and I need to be able to blog from the next inevitable hospital visit. Right? Of course right! Minute-by-minute. Blow-by-blow. Liveblogging the chaos. Twittering the panic. Taking pictures of the ER docs who are Extremely Well Groomed. I see this all happening in my future - in your future. All thanks to bedrest and the insanity it produces.

Also, I bought three shirts on the Anthropologie site (on sale!).

Someone should probably take this computer away from me. But at least buying things prevents me from googling "bleeding 14 weeks" which is, if you didn't already know, very inadvisable.

Hmmm. What else can I do? Work? Download TV shows? Buy a fetal heart monitor for $443? The choices are endless.

101!

haven't been outside
trapped on couch, hands on belly
I guess that's good thing

It figures that this summer would be the summer we'd hit triple digits super early. But seeing as how I am still trapped on the couch, I can't complain. Well, I can complain about being trapped on the couch, but not about the weather.

Tomorrow I am leaving the house. It will be officially 48 hours since the bleeding stopped and I will be officially allowed to move around. Nothing crazy, of course. I feel like I did when I was a kid and we were going to Disneyworld the next day. I cannot wait to get out of this house. Having some distractions so that I'm not just laying here, feeling my belly, and trying to imagine what chaos is going in there will be a good thing.

I just hope my bank account is ready, because I feel like I might go shopping and just freak out.

It's ba-ack...

don't let your guard down
but stop blaming yourself, too
it's hard to gestate

The short story is: the bleeding is back. But the doc says everything is a-OK and Mystery Baby is doing just fine.

The long story is: WTF? I was minding my own business, getting the wee-er one to take a nap when WHUSH, a tsunami of blood ushers forth instant panic and a really big mess. The really Twilight Zone part of it all is that I was wearing the same outfit I had on the first time this happened. Not only that, but the morning had been eerily similar. Nothing, of course, that I can really attribute to the bleeding. I mean, I didn't spend both days lifting cars and pulling semi-trucks with a harness. But still. A little creepy.

So there's the WHUSH. And this time was not like last time. This time was like a horror show murder scene. Like Holy Shit I'm hemorrhaging All Over My Bathroom Floor While My Baby Cries In Her Room, What Is This, A Fucking Lifetime Movie? kind of scene. At one point, the nurse I was talking to on the phone was conferring with a passel of other nurses about whether or not I could wait the 30 minutes for my husband to rush home and take me to the ER, or if I should call an ambulance. They were leaning towards ambulance, but I waited.

He got home, we took the wee-er one to a friend's house (my friend also ended up picking the wee one up from school - his reaction? "This is not an ordinary day!") and then we went to the ER. In a very serendipitous event, one of the triage nurses, also named Kari (but spelled differently) was 16 weeks pregnant and had just gone through this exact same thing two weeks earlier. So she sped us back there and gave me a room really fast.

Then, IV, tests, doppler, ultrasound... everything looked and sounded perfect. There was absolutely no evidence of any reason for the bleeding. Complete mystery why my bathroom floor looks like someone was shot in there.

So I was sent home, with instructions to come back if it got worse. That's when the cramps started. Big, mean, wraparound contraction-y cramps. So I took some albuterol (which helped, even if it was a placebo thing), and sweated out the night.

This morning I went in to see my regular OB and, again, everything is hunky dory, other than the fact that I still haven't stopped bleeding. His theory, confirmed by the ultrasound, is that the placenta is covering just a bit of my cervix. So he says any "moderate movement" jostles the shit out of that ornery thing and causes bleeding. Seriously, though, the only moderate movement I do is walking upstairs and carrying the wee-er one. Ugh. But that's the best anyone can guess as to what's the what with this stupid, terrifying, awful bleeding mess.

So my mom is here. And I am in my chair. And I am reading Un Lun Dun (by China Meiville - very excellent). And I am trying not to panic or otherwise freak out. It seems like whenever I am ready to shop for minivans or dig out my maternity clothes something like this happens to remind me that maybe I shouldn't plan too far ahead. It's scary and I don't like it.

This was the longest post ever, but it makes me feel better to throw it out to the interwebs, let the Universe gobble it up, and greedily covet the warm wishes of others. It really is strangely comforting to do those things. And it also takes up time so that I am not tempted to watch Dr. Phil.

Elephants. They are sitting on my face.

pressure release valve
not behind ear or up my nose
implosion begins

I am sitting here possibly dying of a one-two sucker punch made up of bronchitis and a sinus thing. It's only been since Wednesday night that I've felt like crap, but it seems to be getting worse. So I am on the couch, deliriously watching NASCAR for the first time and indiscriminately cursing under my breath every time I cough. For every hack I have, new parts of me hurt. How does coughing make the backs of your knees hurt? I don't know, but it does.

Also, I am not taking my medicine, so I should probably stop complaining. But here is what the doctor said when she prescribed the Amoxicillan: This probably won't work. You might need something stronger, but because you're pregnant, let's not upset your stomach anymore than it is already.

I appreciate her honesty. However, I wonder if any drugs would help. I mean, there weren't any tests done to see if this is viral or bacterial - and the handout she gave me said bronchitis can be either one. And since I'm not spewing anything green, I'm figuring this is something I'm just going to have to wait out, as fun as that sounds.

When I was pregnant with the wee-er one I had some similar ailment and I took the abx like a good girl. You know what I got in return? A yeast infection ON MY TONGUE. Yes. It's just as horrible as it sounds.

So I am sick and complain-y and blogging about gross things and I am sorry. There are lots of crashes in the NASCAR race, though, and that makes me kind of happy.

11w 5d

am hunkering down
first trimester onslaught done?
a girl can hope, right?

Worst haiku ever. But I need some slack because I'm tired and sicky feeling. You know what, though? My second trimester starts on Sunday! And though this may not sound exciting to anyone, and may actually seem like the most boring post ever, I just wanted to say it out loud.

Reasonably, I know not to expect bright shining happiness and no more nausea and no more starvation and no more exhaustion all on Sunday morning. But at least I know it will end soon. Hopefully.

Now I am off to Target. To buy things. Things that I "need." Like an ice pack for my throbbing head and some trail mix for my evil stomach.

Also interesting news? The due date has been pushed up to 11/15. So no more Thanksgiving baby. My dates were all jacked up, I guess. In fact, they still could be jacked up. It is very fitting for the Mystery Baby to have a Mystery Due Date, though. I kind of like the suspense.

let's be creative

why sit and panic
make that big brain work for you
it owes us big time

OK. We need a better word for "spotting." Something more positive and less scary. Maybe a japanese-esque phrase would work.

Happy Life-Affirming Uterine Flecks

Super Fun Drops of Promise

Underwear Speck-tacular

Flitting

Coloring

Exciting Display of Womanly Prowess

rouge a la panties

Who else has a good idea? You guys are smart. Show me what you got.

ugh and whew and ugh

Take one 10-week pregnant mama + a giant scary horror show gush of blood + intense cramping + a panicked trip to the OB and what does that equal?

A sonogram of a healthy looking baby and a diagnosis of "sometimes this happens."

WTF? Sometimes "this" does happen to me, and it always ends up with me having outpatient surgery and a sad story.

I am mystified at what happened this morning. If I didn't have video of the sonogram I wouldn't believe it. I'm still having a hard time believing everything is OK. It doesn't seem OK.

But I will be positive. I will think happy thoughts. I will embrace the morning sickness. I don't know what else to do.

!!!!!!!??????!!!!

this year's Thanksgiving
take-out with panic dressing
holy shit you guys

 

not in the now

must enjoy them now
drama just makes good stories
for when they are old

I find that lately I've been getting really caught up in being irritated by my children. It's not really something I'm proud to admit, but it's true. I spend all day feeling like they are purposely trying to turn me into Crazy McNutbar, and so I spend all day hollering at them to stop doing whatever they're doing, which makes me seem like Crazy McNutbar, and then by the end of the day they've ramped up the irritating things they're doing just to get a rise out of me and so by the transitive property I have BECOME CRAZY MCNUTBAR, the nemesis of Supermom and also the causer of binge eating caramel-infused Drumstick ice cream cones.

Of course, by the time they are both asleep I feel cascading waves of guilt for my behavior. I feel like I need to crawl into bed with the wee one and whisper apologies as he sleeps. "Mommy is sorry she doesn't know what kind of ship Darth Maul has and that she rudely dismissed your question while she checked her email. Mommy is also sorry she got so mad at your sister she slammed the door with such force that the doorjamb cracked."

I try to tell him these things when he's awake, but I am inevitably interrupted by a falling glass of orange juice or a dog being fed handfuls of sand, or a poopy diaper, or a toddler trying to rip out my jugular.

Why is it so hard to remove myself from the daily trials and just enjoy the kids for who they are? Why can't I shake off the screaming and whining and be the kind of mom who distracts them with homemade volcanoes and from-scratch sugar cookies?

There is this nagging feeling that I am not spending enough time with either of the kids, even though I spend ALL of my time with them. I feel like I am not present. And to make it worse, I have this gut-feeling psychic intuition thing that not only am I not spending enough time with the wee one, I need to start doing it RIGHT NOW before he is lost to me forever. Or something. The gut feeling doesn't tell me what the consequences will be. It just tells me that if I don't start reading more to him and spending time with him in the evenings, something not excellent is going to be the result. And so I am wracked with worry about what this gut feeling really means and what it is all about.

I don't know what the answers are to any of these questions. I don't know how to fix any of it. Because when it's happening - when I'm in the middle of the moment where the wee-er one is jumping on my stomach and pulling my hair and the wee one is asking what-if questions about the house turning into a rocket and blasting into space and hitting the sun - I can't think to calm down and enjoy it. I just want everyone off of me and away from me and to quiet down and leave me alone.

I know other mothers feel this way, but it's still kind of isolating to be driven crazy by your spawn. You know what I mean?

Also, Crazy McNutbar sounds like a candy bar I must have right. now.

I'm afraid to say this out loud, but....

what a gorgeous day
early springtime makes me smile
also, kids are gone

I'm home alone right now. For at least an hour, probably more. My husband has taken the kids to the grocery store, in the middle of the afternoon on a Sunday. He loves me very much.

I have on a shirt that's kind of hot (in a sexy way, not a sweaty way). My hair looks good. I've spent at least an hour in the sun, reading a great book (The City of Ember, by Jeanne DuPrau - awesome). I'm listening to New Soul by Yael Naïm, and pretending that one day I can afford a Macbook Air.

My stomach does not hurt. I do not want to strangle anyone in my family. In short, I feel good. It's been a long time since I felt a simple happiness like I feel today.

To be honest, it scares me. Feeling good seems to always portend bad shit - like Nature or God or the tiny baby Jesus or whomever, is trying to butter you up before the inevitable disaster. But maybe, Nature, or God, or the tiny baby Jesus is saying sorry for such an incredibly fucking shitty week last week. Maybe they are making amends.

For that I say thank-you.

For that I say whatever the vocal equivalent is of falling prostrate onto a blanket out in the yard and feeling the sun ravage my face as I smile and think that wrinkles are definitely worth it.

trying out housewifey-ness

me and Donna Reed
baking, swearing and laundry
two peas in a pod

Today I am being a housewife. This, I think, will get the kids back on the road to recovery. I am baking banana bread, folding clothes, and planning to make a very scaled down vinegar and baking soda volcano for the pleasure of the wee one. I am wearing a necklace.

This day is so shocking to everyone, you would think that instead of organizing the pantry and wearing a clean shirt, I set my hair on fire and then grew seventeen-inch rainbow-colored horns.

Whatever. As long as they are shocked into getting better, it's all good. If I have to, I'll dig up some old black pumps and prance around with the vacuum cleaner. I'm going to scare the germs right out of those rascals. Why not?

I would also like to say that so far, things might actually be looking up. No one has a fever, the wee-er one ate lunch for the first time in a week, and I have yet to throw anything or scream an obscenity out of frustration and/or exhaustion.

Is it the Donna Reed impression that's doing it, or the introduction of penicillin into the fray?

Maybe it's a heady cocktail of pearls and pills. That sounds like the name of a new blog, doesn't it?

no time

never any time
and yet I sit on my butt
awaiting trouble

I have so much to do. Work, laundry, all of the things everyone always has to do. But instead I'm blogging and worrying, two of my most treasured past times.

For your enjoyment...

Worry Number 1:
Does the wee-er one have the flu, or just a weird, random, fever-y virus? She's had her flu shots, but I've heard the strain that some people are getting this year is different from the one in the shots. I hate to take her to the doctor if she doesn't have the flu, because she'll just pick it up when we're there. On the other hand, if she does have it, then I want to get going with the anti-virals.

Worry Number 2:
That I am an asshole. And that by wanting to transfer my son out of his neighborhood school into a different school with more opportunities and smaller classes that I am turning my back on a school that needs community involvement, and that I am implicitly racist. But can I shoulder the burden of a neighborhood school all on my own? Can I deny my son extra opportunities that he wouldn't get where he's at now just because I'm taking a stand politically and socially? Or can I be confident that transferring him really is the best option for us, and that the decision is not a personal attack on anyone's socio-economic status?

I've been thinking about both of these things way too much. Mama needs a xanax and a vacation.

infused with Vitamin Ego

mostly I don't care
some days fall off deep end, though
feel like hunchbacked hag

I realized this morning that my toes look like wrinkled, dried up, albino snub-nosed carrots. They are not so cute right now. I blame winter. I also blame my sudden and spontaneous coveting of peekaboo heels. I can't wear heels without, at minimum, twisting my ankle, and yet, all of a sudden I feel an absolute 100% need to but some black patent pumps with a little peekaboo for my toes. Except that my toes look like roots and tubers and I can't wear heels without programming an orthopedist's number into my phone.

What is happening to me?

Also, this morning I noticed spots on my hand. I think the scientific term is "liver spot." Can I blame winter for that, too? Probably I need to blame too many years in the sun.

How can I be shriveling up already? I'm barely into my 30s. Things are not looking up for my 40s are they? Maybe it's time to start being a girl and paying other people to take care of these things for me.

What happened to my hard-line age gracefully stance? It went out the window the first time I dyed my hair and the next day a door-to-door salesman asked to speak to my mom when I answered the door. Stupid, lame, see-through sales tactic, I know. And never answer the door when it's a stranger, I know. But I still fell for it, even as I yelled at him for knocking on my door.

I'm over the gray. I'm over the tuber-toes. I'm over the liver spots. I'm turning into a pile of food only Soviet-era Russians would stand in line for.

This, my peeps, is completely unacceptable.

the miracle

able to see floor
who knew we had beige carpet?
four days in a row

The true miracle of having someone come clean my house? It's four days later and the place is still relatively clean!

I know!

It makes me want to buy more furniture or something, all this clean space everywhere. It also makes me feel - what is it? - lighter, I guess. Not having piles of crap of everywhere is really nice. How do I keep forgetting that?

Now if I could just find someone to wash and fold all the laundry.... mmmmmm.

yum! yum!

food? overrated.
plastic is where it is at
flavor is tres good

Things the wee-er one has tried to eat today:
my computer
a storm trooper
the wiimote and nunchuck
sand
a wrapping paper roll
the string on the window blinds
a tiny canteen from a tiny pirate
the dog's foot

Things the wee-er one has refused to eat today:
milk in a sippy cup
toast
oatmeal
a banana

I hope they start fortifying plastic with vitamins and minerals, otherwise we may never be able to wean.

The wee-er one strikes again

hard to write haik
withot se of fll keyboard
milk, compter: bad

They say there's no se crying over spilled milk. Bt they did not have milk spilled into the keyboard of their iBook. As yo can see, I am withot the se of a certain key. More than one, actally. There are three keys that don't work, all total, bt only one of them is sed a lot.

My blog posts are now a fn word mble game! See if yo can figre ot which letters are broken. I st don't know what I'm going to do.

Fck.

musings from the road

short holiday trip
many sweets, imodium
we should be home soon

We're eating our way through north Dallas right now, finishing up the holidays with a punctuation mark made of chocolate and stomach aches. It's been a swift, fun trip, and I'm looking forward to heading home sometime tomorrow to start getting things back to "normal."

There are definitely things I'm going to miss when I get back home, though, namely nice toilet paper and fabric softener. You never know just how scratchy your towels are (ditto for your toilet paper) until you stay over at someone's house.

Also, I will miss staying up late with people who are willing to play Scrabble with me even when I shout things like, "SUCK IT, WORDY MCTINYBRAIN YOU'RE GOING DOWN!"

One more thing I'll miss? The 46 inch LCD flat screen HD TV, glowing with the glory of Verizon Fiber.

Oh, and people who say, "Would you like me to make you breakfast?" after allowing you to sleep until 10 am.

Hell, what am I talking about? I don't want to go home.

Well, yes I do. Because scenes like this take 5 years off my life (note the Christmas tree covered in antique GLASS ornaments, and the uncontrollable RC car underneath it. eeee):

intervene! intervene!

can't.

stop.

shopping.

I know this is going to sound crazy, but...

people can be nice
even when they don't have to
how crazy is that?   

I just got back from the Tax Assessor's office. Now, you'd think this might require a Letter to Someone I Hate, but it doesn't! I'm am very, extremely, happily pleased to announce that the people at the tax assessor's office are quite nice. They're nice on the phone, they're nice in person, and then they're nice in person again when you have to go back because you lost the receipt they gave you when you went the first time.

The lady today thought about not being nice. I could see the battle of good vs evil going on behind her eyes. But I smiled a lot, made fun of myself, totally played the frazzled mama card, and even batted my eyes a little, and it worked. She was nice!

Thanks to her willingness to be friendly and helpful, I will avoid having to pay extra fines and/or have a warrant issued for my arrest. Whew.

Have I mentioned lately how much of a pain in the ass traffic tickets are? It's not the money, it's the hullabaloo involved in taking care of the thing.

But anyway, hooray for the tax assessor's office. I never thought I'd say it, but there you go.

this is a test of the emergency vacuuming system

they are a small gang
baby and furry cohort
conspire against me

This morning the wee-er one and the dog were giggling furiously in the living room (yes, I swear this dog laughs at me). I went in there to investigate and they had somehow snatched a tea bag, destroyed it, and were busy grinding the tiny tiny tea leaves into the carpet.

"Ahh!" I said. "No!"

I was rewarded with a laugh from the wee-er one, and a few calories burned from the pursuit of the dog, who began running around like crazy, refusing to drop the mangled mess of the bag.

Finally, I got the bag away from him. I turned my back for maybe 3 seconds to throw it away and when I turned around again, he had snatched the tree skirt from under the Christmas tree and was doing his best to disembowel it.

"Ahh!" I said. "No!"

It was easier to wrest the tree skirt from him, because it's about four times his size and slowed his escape by tripping him several times.

So, on the floor? A million gazillion tiny, tiny tea leaves ground into the carpet, topped with a spray of pine needles from the abused Christmas tree, and seasoned with a sprinkling of sequins from the filleted tree skirt.

Out comes the Dyson! We've had it for a few month now, but it hasn't had a real test, yet. Nothing of this magnitude. I flip that sucker on and the wee-er one and the dog run for cover.

As quickly as one can strangle a beloved pet, the mess was sucked comfortably into the vacuum canister. I was very impressed with the sucking power. It's like the vacuum version of, uh, something that sucks a really lot. The vacuum version of Celine Dion. The vacuum version of Aveda Be Curly (why doesn't that shit work on my hair? WHY?). It was amazing.

In other, non-impressive and non-related news, I'm having a bit of a problem with a growing addiction to Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton Christmas song duets. There's this one where she talks about "a fast-talking lover and slow-burning wood" and I chortle hopelessly every single time I hear it. I am Beavis. My immaturity is staggering.

But at least I'm Beavis with a nifty vacuum. Huzzah!

and now let's hear about your parting gifts

where's my skinny mic?
could also use a Vanna
to fold my laundry

You know the game show on NPR, Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me? I play a similar game everyday. it's called "Wait, Wait, I'm Not Done Yet." Only my version doesn't involve answering questions about funny news stories, or trying to best a panel of whip-smart people. It involves answering questions about my own sanity, and trying to best whip-smart children.

During this morning's episode of "Wait, Wait, I'm Not Done Yet" I found my face being sat on by a very full diaper. The owner of said diaper was balancing precariously on my nose and squealing "baby! baby! baby! baby! shoes! shoes! shoes! shoes!"

"Wait, wait," I said groggily, struggling against freeing myself from a wonderful dream of pie and the beach, "I'm not done yet."

Once awake, dressed and downstairs, I found myself accosted by the wee-er one once again. "Shoes!" she demanded accusingly, as if it is my goal in life to keep her from wearing shoes every moment of every day. She thrust a pair of tiny sneakers at me and proceeded to scream when I tried to get her to sit down to put them on. She wanted to stand and point her little toes at me while I struggled to act as her farrier. So she hollered when I grabbed her, sat her in my lap and tried to get her shoes on as quickly as I could.

One shoe on, the other off, she scampered away, still squealing about the injustices of not only NOT having on both shoes, but in having her plan to get the shoes on thwarted.

"Wait, wait!" I shouted after her, grasping at a dangling velcro strap. "I'm not done yet!"

Have I mentioned there are no cash prizes for this game?

Eating has the same outcome, as does napping. Though a lot of times the game switches and becomes "Wait, wait, you're not done yet." It's a wily charade.

I can see her right now, twisting and turning, trying to wake up from her nap. The games have collided: "Wait, wait, you're not done yet!" I whisper to her, hoping she'l get a few more minutes of sleep. Then I look at my cup of still warm tea and think, "Wait, Wait, I'm not done yet!" Boy it would nice to finish a whole cup of tea while it's still warm.

You know, it's fun and everything, but I don't think anyone wins this game. The NPR one is WAY better.

pardon me for this

WHY WON'T THE WEE-ER ONE SLEEP?

NO NIGHT TIME SLEEPING!

NO NAPPING!

I'M GOING CRAAAAAAAZZZZYYYYYYYYYYY!!!

I've taken to just puttering around the house in a mindless, exhausted funk, muttering obscenities under my breath while the wee-er screams and refuses to sleep.

[background noise] AHHHHHH! WAAAHHHHH! Shoes! Water! Baby! Shoes! AHHHHHH! WAAAHHH!
[me, in kitchen, talking to myself under my breath, like Gollum] Tea. Tea is what I need. 
[in quieter voice] Fucking tea cup, why are you so high up in the cabinet?
[regular muttering] Tea bag. Find tea bag.
[background noise] AHHHHHH! WAAAHHHHH! Shoes! Water! Baby! Shoes! AHHHHHH! WAAAHHH!
[in quieter voice] Cocksucker floor mat always tripping me.
[regular voice] How can we be out of honey? I just bought honey. Oh, here it is.
[in quieter voice] Stupid asshole honey making my fingers sticky.
[background noise] AHHHHHH! WAAAHHHHH! Shoes! Water! Baby! Shoes! AHHHHHH! WAAAHHH!
[regular voice] A clean spoon. Must stir tea.
[in quieter voice] Fucking dirty dishes.
[regular voice] Maybe some chocolate would be nice.
[background noise] AHHHHHH! WAAAHHHHH! Shoes! Water! Baby! Shoes! AHHHHHH! WAAAHHH!
[in quieter voice] Goddamned asshole wrappers so hard to open. So fucking noisy.
[regular voice] What was I doing again?
[background noise] AHHHHHH! WAAAHHHHH! Shoes! Water! Baby! Shoes! AHHHHHH! WAAAHHH!
[in quieter voice] Fucking cheap chocolate.

etc. and so forth.

Babies kind of suck sometimes.

breaking copyright laws

lots of pussy talk
even though it's about cats
it's still way too much

In order to study up for the BookFest this weekend, I went out and bought some George Saunders books today. While I was at the store I picked up a board book for the wee-er one.

It's called The Owl and the Pussy Cat. Verse is by Edward Lear. When I bought it, the title seemed giggle-worthy, but innocent enough. Right? Well, just wait...

Oh, and before I show you what I mean, I would also like to note that the address of the publishing company is 950 Stud Road.

OK. Here is what I just read to my daughter:

"The owl and the pussy cat went to sea. In a beautiful pea green boat. They took some honey, and plenty of money, wrapped up in a five-pound note. The owl looked up at the stars above, and sang to a small guitar, Oh, lovely pussy, oh pussy my love, what a beautiful pussy you are."

Not many things make me blush, you guys, but dude.

Dude.

fame whore

she's sick and sassy
no, not me in third person
Kathy Griffin, bitch

I'm beginning to wonder if, in my Days of Horror, I have pooped out a little bit of my brains. And not just because when I blow my nose I first try to throw the Kleenex away in the refrigerator and THEN the trash can. I'm worried about my brain because I'm spending my whiny sick time on the couch watching Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D List. I am not doing this because someone has tied me to a chair. I am not doing this because someone has my eyes taped open and is torturing me for information on Dick Cheney's whereabouts.

I'm watching it because I like it.

I know.

But y'all? Kathy Griffin is a sassy bitch. She does shows at places like maximum security prisons. And when she has to wear a stab vest to visit the prisoners and someone shouts out "I want to kill you!" she just tosses her head and says, "Oh, honey, get in line." Which, if you think of the circumstances and all, is pretty hilarious. If I was wearing a stab vest and someone yelled out that they were going to kill me, I'd be all "heh heh" and try to be cool about it and then I would get diarrhea. But I am not Kathy Griffin.

Her meek staff of minions are enjoyable, too, especially hapless Tom the Tour Guy who is constantly ridiculed and abused. Also something I like about the show? The captions are pretty funny. I would give you an example that has to do with Suzanne Somers, but I can't remember the name of the other person in the story. Trust me, though: funny.

In conclusion, if you ever have a few Days of Horror and you need to lay on the sofa and cry a little bit and then laugh a little bit and then wonder if you can poop out your brains, check out Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D List. You will most likely thank me. And if not? You better go get yourself a stab vest.

the end.

monday

"daddy, I threw up"
with that, the choice had been made
oh, lucky daddy

Normally, I love Mondays. I know that sounds weird, but Mondays are the days when I have the most energy. I have a bright outlook on the week ahead, and I very much enjoy the quiet house when the wee one is off at school, my husband is off at work, and the wee-er one is napping. Mondays are nice.

Usually.

When Monday begins at 1:44am with the wee one bursting into my bedroom saying, "Daddy, I threw up in the bed," however, all bets are off.

Hooray for daddy, though. He cleaned up the mess, washed the sheets, cleaned up the next two messes, washed the sheets again, Lysol-ed everything (including light switches and door knobs), and got the wee one tucked back in. I stayed with the wee-er one, playing our nightly game of Titty-Twister Head Butting Shazam, and listened to the grim goings-on through the monitor.

This morning, the wee-er one is a crazy grouch. Her nose is snotty and she's warm to the touch. The wee one is extraordinarily pissed off at me because I won't let him go to school and I won't let him eat a bowl of maple and brown sugar oatmeal. Sigh.

Who ever heard of a stomach virus starting off with a runny nose? That's what happened. One runny nose + 12 hours = regurgitated lasagna all over the bed. And now the wee-er one is snotty and she's refusing to eat.

Usually Mondays are great. This one? Not so much.

mundane monday? nah.

I'm poop's cute chauffeur
ferrying feces to, fro
all in a day's work

There's a small chance the wee one may have a parasite. Awesome. So to test for said parasite the wee one must poo into a layer of saran wrap plastered across the toilet. Then I (or my spouse) have the enviable task of digging around in the poo and scooping chunks of it into two vials given to us by the friendly neighborhood pediatrician.

We have to do this for three days.

So far we have two poos down and one to go (so to speak), but now that the week has begun I'm not so sure we're going to catch that third, wily poo. School is a long day and the wee one has no qualms pooping anywhere at anytime. Ordinarily this is a good thing. But now that I am the Supreme Poop Spelunker I don't really want to stretch this drama out any longer than necessary.

Now the question is: do I ferry the feces to the lab, incomplete, thus forcing myself to make two consecutive days of poop runs (again, so to speak), or do I wait for the last, taunting poo and just deliver it all together? If I go today, maybe they can test the two days worth of poo and we'll get lucky and not have to wait around for day three. There's a lot of ifs and buts hanging on that wish, though.

And by the way? The wee one loves this drama. He is so excited to watch me (or his daddy - we draw straws) dig around in his poo and fill up the "science-y tubes" with it. He thinks that we are all now scientists.

Also, because my husband and I were so shocked by the size of the wee one's poo, the wee one has now learned to say "man-turd." As in, "Mommy says I make man-turds. I'm so grown up now." I'm sure this is going over very well at school right now.

Where's that Dirty Job's guy when you need him?

a crisis of confidence

do too many things
"half-assed" begins to mean "best"
"best" has no meaning

When I was a kid I briefly had trouble learning to swim. I remember overhearing the swimming teacher tell my mom that if I could just increase my confidence I'd be great - maybe I could even learn to dive. But lack of confidence kept me doggie paddling in the shallow end.

There were days when I could banish the thoughts of being sucked down by the drain, or running out of energy while swimming half-way through the deep end. On those days I was a great swimmer - long arms, steady kicks, faster than a lot of the other kids.

But on the days when I worried about the drain, or when I didn't want to swim over the piles of leaves on the bottom of the pool - that was when I swallowed gallons of water and worried about making it out of swim class alive.

What made my attitude so different? Why was I more confident on some days and so unsure on others? I don't know. But I still have these crises of confidence. Only now it isn't about swimming. It's about parenting and writing. But I still have that fear of drowning, you know?

I've spent a lot of this morning worrying that I'm not doing anything particularly well. I worry that I have a kind of combo style of half-assed parenting and half-assed writing. I do a good enough of a job with both so that I'm not a complete failure, but I don't do nearly as good of a job as I can or as I should.

Part of this is a perfectionist thing that I've been able to sort of ignore for a while. It seems to be coming after me again, though - a little devil sitting on my shoulder saying "you should rewrite that paragraph because it's not as good as it can be" or "why are you watching TV when you should be upstairs cuddling with your son." (Perfectionist devils do not respect the fact that people need some downtime and that sometimes writing a crappy paragraph is the impetus you need to just keep the story going.)

So I feel vexed today. Vexed and befuddled and muddled and tired. I feel the water splashing at about the level of my nose and it's either swim or flail. I'm not afraid of sinking. I won't let myself do that. But flailing is not swimming confidently.

This is why I shouldn't read interviews with famous Hollywood writers, talking about how their careers got started. This is why it's unhealthy to second guess the choices I've made in my life. This is when someone should stop me from "what-if-ing." What if, after college, I'd gone out to LA to find an internship or become a PA. What if, instead of selling my soul to advertising for low pay and no respect, I'd sold my soul to ghost writing script treatments for low pay and no respect? What if I'd written a couple of spec scripts like I'd planned? How would things be different? Would I now be sitting in my fancy condo on the beach in California wishing I'd already started a family? Or would I be living in poverty, toiling away as a writer for some crap reality show on an off brand cable network?

I know that what I have here is very good. And I'm very, very fortunate to have what I have. But sometimes I feel like I'm not doing a very good job. I could do so much more. And I could do it better.

Then I remind myself to just shut up and stop whining already. There's lunch to be fixed and an email to send and a book to finish. It's not cool to paralyze yourself with what-ifs and you-can-do-that-betters. The sheer fact that you're accomplishing anything at all is impressive.

On some days it doesn't matter that you're swimming across the deep end. It just matters that you're swimming.

early to bed, early to rise

alarm clock: suck it
your screeching howls anger me
not a morning gal

I went to bed at 8:45 last night. I haven't been to bed at 8:45 since the first trimester of my last pregnancy. But I just could not keep my eyes open. This whole, wake up a 6 am, go to bed at 10:30pm, wake up again at 1, then 2:30, then 3:30, then 5 and then 6, is not working for me.

1) Molars suck
2) stuffy noses suck
3) sudden extreme, screaming "babybabybabybaby!" attachments to baby dolls the same size as the actual baby are not very cool, either. Especially when the baby doll has to be sandwiched between mama and baby while nursing at all hours of the day. Mama's nips only stretch so far.

I'm not the only tired one, though. The wee one is finally starting to understand that school is everyday and that this requires waking up "while it's still night time" everyday.

Yesterday, at the kitchen table, eyes squinted against the harsh light, shirt buttoned crooked, hair sticking up in bedhead horns, he began protesting the fact that his bagel didn't have very many raisins in it. His protest sounded something like this:

[say out of your nose, multiply your normal pitch about six times higher than normal] "Buh whuh bagel noooo mommy! Raaayyyy! Unh, guh, buhbuhbuh!" It was simultaneously ef. fing. hilarious and also disturbing that he could be so tired his little nervous system wouldn't allow his mouth and his brain to work as a team.

But, dude. As I told him, "I know, man. I know."

And HE gets like 10 and half hours of sleep!

Though, as a natural night person, I think I could go to bed at 4pm and if I had to wake up at 6am I'd still need a nap at some point in the the day. If I could swing staying up until 2 or 3 am and sleeping until 11, that would be pure bliss. Of course, just sleeping a consecutive 8 hours at any point of any day would be pure bliss at this point, so I shouldn't try to get greedy.

OK. The wee-er one is down for her nap. Can mama catch a couple of zzzs as well?

Let's find out!

nononononononono

the heebie jeebies
while quite fun to say outloud
not much to have

maggots! maggots! on the trashcan outside! maggots!

gross
gross
gross
gross
gross
gross

I have nowhere to throw away poopy diapers now, because while I may clean up poop and puke and snot and chewed up snails, squished scorpions, etc, I WILL NEVER touch anything with maggots on it. Never ever ever never ever. So there are poppy diapers on the porch. And they will stay there until someone braver than me takes care of our wiggly, horrifying problem.

That noise you hear? What I like to call the ShiverGag.

mad props to insomniac daddies

a big time snooze fest
this is what night time should be
though it rarely is

So last night, yet again, the wee-er one was awake and it was just before 4 am. She sat in the bed and I could see her sparkling eyes staring at me. I tried to play possum, hoping that if she saw I was sleeping she'd go back to sleep herself. No luck. I knew that in a mere two hours we'd have to be up for the day, so I was resigned to having one helluva grouchy, sleepy Friday.

But then... at about 4:20 my husband woke up. Just awake - like for real, for the rest of the day awake. He rolled over and said the most romantic words I've ever heard:

"I'll take the dog out and then come back for the wee-er one."

ooh la la.

And sure enough, he did come back and he did take the wee-er one. I was able to sleep - alone - from 4:30 to 6. Then, at 6, my husband brought a sleeping wee-er one back to me and he whispered more romantic poetry:

"I'll get the wee one ready for school. I can just drop him off on my way to work."

ooh la la!

So I quickly hopped downstairs to wish the wee one a good day at school and then back upstairs I went, cuddled with a snoozing wee-er one, and didn't wake up until 7:30!

I know this must sound ridiculously horrible to those of you who are used to things like hours of consecutive sleep, and sleeping past 8am. But for those of us whose fragile little minds can just barely remember a time of uninterrupted, languorous sleep... well... this morning was like something from a fairy tale.

Hear this, husbands and partners of the world: do not seek pheromones or sexy underwear or boudoir photos or lavish gifts. Just give your gal a few extra hours of sleep.

She'll be yours forever.

Top Five

twisting turning pain
time to invest in some BRAT
never trust the bus

The Top Five Reasons Why I Had Diarrhea Yesterday

5. I had to get all bitchy with the school bus people. Why does the bus never show up? The wee one shows up. I stand there with him. It's dark and early and he's all chattery about how fun the bus will be. But the bus never arrives. Maybe it's invisible. Maybe it's cloaked in moonbeams. I don't know. What I do know is that IT DOESN'T SHOW UP AND NO ONE IS HELPING ME FIGURE OUT WHY.

4. Vitamin water and pasta for lunch. I knew that was a bad idea.

3. Finding out that my babysitter didn't add us to her fall schedule. She can squeeze us in for some weird times, but those times really won't work, because I have to pick the wee one up from school everyday. Oh that bus is a pain in my ass.

2. The wee one's teacher called me, in the middle of the day. Instantaneous fears of illness, kidnapping, and misbehavior flooded my aching belly. She just wanted to know if he was to ride the bus home. I said No, if the bus can't find the stop in the morning, I imagine it won't show up in the afternoon either, and the wee one will be whisked away to a land of moonbeams and invisible orange behemoths which he might love, but I would not. So no, please keep the wee one off the bus. Stupid effing bus.

1. While I managed to write 13 pages (!), the wee-er one managed to eat almost an entire treasure chest full of tiny plastic coins (!!!). This is why I need a babysitter. After following the nurses directions (when I called in a panic) to feed the wee-er one some bread to cushion the plastic coins, the wee-er one yarfed up the bread. As I frantically searched for paper towels, the DOG ATE THE YARF and so who knows if any coins came up. I took the wee-er to the doc - amidst rush hour traffic - to be told she most likely puked because she choked on the bread and that plastic is invisible to x-rays (make a note for future superhero ideas). Then, after visiting the doctor, I had to pull off the highway and find the closest bathroom to be sick in, because I was coming down off the adrenalin from "oh my god, I'm killing my baby by trying to write during her waking hours." Sorry, fancy neighborhood's library bathroom.

I blame the school bus for everything. No bus = no babysitter. No babysitter = wee-er one gorging on plastic. So by the transitive property of PAIN IN MY ASS, No bus = $100 spent at the doctor having a pissed off belly palpated.

The good news? Someone in this family finally has money coming out the wazoo. She can break wind AND a five, if you're interested.

And that's why I'm eating toast and applesauce today.

The end.

this is unexpected

today it begins
such a momentous morning
in such subtle ways

The morning started off like they all do, just earlier. We ate oatmeal, chatted about the day to come, got dressed and ran out the door. There was some picture taking, and we happily didn't have to search for clean underwear and socks, but otherwise, it was just a morning like all the rest.

Except that it wasn't.

And now I'm home and I did not expect to stand in my living room not knowing what to do. The wee one is at school. I met with some friends for breakfast, came home, put the wee-er one down for a nap, and now... what?

My husband is off today so maybe we'll go shopping. The sitter whom I thought was coming is, in fact, not, so we won't be going to a movie. That's OK, though. I don't know that I could sit still for a movie today.

I feel... weird. Exhausted, excited, muddled. If you've read The Golden Compass, I feel like my daemon has been pulled away from me; the creature who shows the world my emotions, who's so tightly woven into my soul that my heart aches when we're not together - he's not here. And I don't know what to do with myself.

The wee-er one will keep me busy, sure enough. And I have plenty of writing to get done. Over the weeks, we'll go to storytimes and maybe catch a music class or something. Find a new sitter. Get into a routine. But it still feels weird.

I always thought I'd immediately get down to work as soon as the wee one was in school, not pace the living room. But there you go. I guess I'm kind of bogged down with opportunity as weird as that sounds. The wee-er one and I can do anything. Go to the park, watch a show, write a story, read a book. No one is commandeering our afternoon. And yet, it's so quiet. I haven't had to answer a question in three and half hours.

I don't know what to do with myself.

Maybe I should grab the vacuum and put this pacing to work.

barking mad

driving mostly sucks
too many people do it
and get in my way

I was driving home from puppy class last night and I realized that I exhibit old dog behavior everyday. The puppy class is a six week socialization "course" for Tucker. He learns how to be around things like other dogs and skateboards and fireworks without totally losing his mind. It's a cool class. And now that I've realized it's helping me socialize myself, too, I really feel like I'm getting my money's worth.

In class last night, a big 14-year-old dog was brought in to help correct the puppies as they played with each other. The pups would chase each other around and if their play got out of control, the big dog would run over to them and give a gruff growl as he separated them. Sometimes he would engage in play and when the pup got too rough he'd bark or show his teeth and the pup would run off all, "sorry, dude. see you later!"

It was amazing to watch. After about 20 minutes of play time, some of the more excitable pups had learned to control themselves not just around the grouchy old dog, but around the other puppies, too. Not only that, the puppies, including mine, were mimicking his behavior. When Tucker had had enough of one dog coming after him, Tuck showed his teeth, gave a bark, and the other dog trotted off.

"Look at that!" the teacher exclaimed proudly. "Tucker is correcting the other dogs now!" It was really cool.

So I was thinking about all of this as I drove home. This teenage-driven Mustang came right up on my ass even though I was already speeding more than I should have been. There was no way I could get over to let the Mustang pass, because traffic was pretty heavy. But the Mustang was insistent, coming closer and closer, then barely slowing, then coming closer again - classic aggressive asshole behavior.

Without even thinking, I slammed on my brakes, just totally stopped short. The Mustang had to swerve into the emergency lane to keep from hitting me. Then I calmly got into the next lane. As the Mustang recovered, it ultimately passed me, but the driver was not going 50 mph over the speed limit like he'd wanted to.

My limited, naive mind would like to think I corrected him, just like the grouchy old dog. But I realize what I did was stupid, could have resulted in an accident, and bordered dangerously close to road rage. And yet... there's a glimmer of hope that my "correction" rather than just pissing off an asshole, might have shown him to pay more attention while driving.

I know I shouldn't apply puppy class to driving, but I'm a grouchy old dog and I can't help it.

Much like Mothra, she is bent on my destruction

13-month-old girl
she loves: shoes and causing pain
my cute dictator

We're at the point now with the wee-er one where she doesn't really know her own strength. She'll attempt to pet the puppy and I can see his eyes bug out of his head in slow motion as she grabs tufts of fur, folds of skin, and internal organs while she gives him "sweet pats."

And now, when she nurses she wants to pull my hair, so I reach around and tuck my hair behind my neck. This does not fool her. But instead of hunting around for my hair, she grabs whatever is available, namely the skin under my chin. Up until a few days ago, I was proud of my slender, not-quite-old-lady neck. But now, her talon-like baby fingernails have created a waddle out of sheer force. A red-streaked, scratched and mottled waddle. One of these days I'm afraid she's just going to rip out my throat and that will be unpleasant for everyone.

She's also mastered the evil laugh-cry of a mustachioed villain. It's a kind of "waaaaah ha ha ha wahhh" that, when coupled with a staggering drunk walk is a sure sign it's bed time. Or nap time. Or lunch time. Or time to call the doctor because my child is an evil dictator as portrayed by 1930s cartoons.

I can hardly stand how adorable she is as she hones her destructive machinations, though, so all is forgiven. Plus, I've realized that she's at a point in her cognitive abilities where she mimics a lot of what she sees - she plays with her hair as I lacquer my head with gel, she hands me a diaper when I sit on the toilet, she looks at a book upside down and babbles sing-song nonsense in the exact same intonations I have when I read to her.

So I'm thinking maybe I'm really the mustachioed villain. Perhaps I try to rip out people's throats and I don't realize it. Maybe I laugh-cry and stagger around. It's very possible.
Sometimes PMS hits hard and fast.

I never try to fondle the dog's internal organs, though. I do have some boundaries.

And so the bravado is wearing a little thin

bag as big as he
full future in empty pack
and the day is nigh

Three weeks from today the wee one will almost be finished with his first week of school.

For a while now, I've been brazenly talking of the sheer joy I will feel when letting him loose on some unsuspecting teacher. But, you know, that was all talk. Sure it will be nice to have a quiet-ish house while he's away filling his brain with new curse words and maybe the alphabet, but I'm kind of starting to dread it.

I know!

I'm as shocked as you are!

For months I've been thinking I should throw a party when school starts. A "call a babysitter for the younger siblings, mamas get together and drink margaritas in the morning SHEW school has finally started" blowout.

But now I don't know. I may be a little sad for a few days. I'm thrilled that I'll have some free time, and the wee one will have new friends, and all will be right with the world. But I'm still backing off on all that earlier bravado. I'm really going to miss the little bugger. There will be someone else hearing all of his hilarious chatter throughout the day - someone else to answer those brain-forming, personality-encouraging questions. There will be outside influences I can't control. There will be learning and growing and over-the-head-ding-ding-ding brainwave light bulbs that I won't get to see. I'm already jealous of his teacher and we haven't even met her yet.

It's school! Real school! With rules and forms and dress codes and tardy bells and mystery meat and bus stops and bullies and best friends and broken hearts and revelations. Real school. And it's here in about two weeks. I'm stunned. Shocked. Amazed. Embarrassed by the cliches I constantly spout about time moving fast.

Kindergarten. Her siren call is thrilling... and unavoidable.

Oh, I hope he loves it as much as I did.

something has come over me

it's that time of year
the annoying retail itch
am Target zombie

After so many decades of buying things for the beginning of school, August hits and I immediately begin spending money. It's a base, Pavlovian response to seeing all those "Aug"s on the calendar, I think.

With all of the wee one's school supplies purchased, and with his new school clothes and shoes taken care of, I'm having trouble staunching the flow of money. I just want to go out everyday and buy buy buy. Books, clothes, "useful" apparati for the walls (to hang things on, store keys, etc.), baby shoes... millions of things we don't really need.

The worst of this? I have this compulsion to buy a Nintendo Wii. I'm not even someone who enjoys video games. They frustrate me and prove that my hand-eye coordination isn't what it should be. I don't like to take time to learn directions and I hate when I try to play something and it's not intuitive, thus forcing me to spend hours reading instructions.

But the Wii wouldn't be for me. It would be for the family. I have Norman Rockwell images of all of us curled up in front of the 21st century version of the fireplace, whacking at virtual tennis balls, and swinging virtual cows, interacting with each other, having fun, and not just staring at the TV, comatose or irritable because of whatever hapless thing we're watching.

My Wii compulsion is born of a desire for something other than just spending way too much money on technology. What am I searching for? More quality time with my family? A way to turn the television into an activity center instead of a brain drain? I don't really know. It's very confusing. I love the TV. But I love it for myself and my husband. When it comes to the wee one, the TV inspires more worry and guilt than I'm comfortable with. I don't mind that he watches it. And I'm careful to make sure he watches appropriate shows (in this house, Foster's is OK, but Power Rangers is not). But lately I feel like the TV is just too central in his life.

With school starting I feel this tectonic shift happening to our lives. The wee one is officially a kid now. I'm officially the mama of a kid. We will have much less time together, so that time needs to be spent being together, not just being in the same room. Of course we could throw away the TV and spend all of our time reading aloud to one another, darning socks, playing Monopoly, etc. But I know me, and I know us, and though we do read a lot of books and play our fair share of Candyland, we also love the TV. I'm not ashamed of that, even though I do want to temper our shared infatuation of it.

Realistically, I know that the family wouldn't play the Wii all the time. The wee one would play it. And it would become the new version of the TV. But maybe then I could use it for leverage. Clean your room, get 30 minutes on the Wii. Try a new food, get 15 minutes on the Wii.

Oh, I don't know what I'm talking about. I'm just having a not unexpected retail reaction to the immense changes August brings.

Once the new TV season starts, I won't have time to worry about things like this.

I have Barney toes

purple sausage toes
flip-flops can help show them off
they are all the rage

So when your baby drops a Pepsi bottle on your toes at the grocery store, try not to scream out, "FUCKING SHIT" as you crumple into a question mark shape and struggle to remember the breathing exercises you've learned over the years.

Otherwise you might get some looks.

poison patrol!

red tights and a cape
skull and crossbones on their chests
Poison Patrol, Ho!

Had to call poison control this morning (the wee one calls it "poison patrol" which I think is a much better name for it).

Seems the wee-er one was digging around in the pockets of my jeans and came up with a lone Imodium AD caplet. I managed to fish it out of her mouth before she crunched it, but it was still kind of pitted and partially dissolving, so I figured I'd better give Poison Patrol a holler.

They were very nice, as always, and assured me that it didn't sound like she'd consumed much of the pill, if any at all. So, a full cleansing of her mouth and an extra glass of juice and we're good to go. But by "go" I don't mean poop. It's been three days since she pooped. I don't think the trace of loperamide is going to help with that. Alas.

This marks the second time in four months I've had to call the Poison Patrol. I need a bat signal spotlight on the roof - only instead of shining a bat into the the sky, it can shine the outline of a skull and crossbones.

We're averaging a call every 8 weeks, I guess. And that doesn't include eating rocks. Man. It's a good thing they sent me so many phone stickers last time. The number is plastered all over the house now. I should probably just tattoo it on the wee-er one's ass.

On a totally different note, I just got my Haiku bag today! It's so cool - the perfect place to keep all of my poisonous medications and caustic acids. It's a great transition between diaper bag and purse. I heart it very much. I just wish it had a little elastic thingy to hold a pen. But I guess pens aren't poisonous, so why would I need to carry one around with me?

Yay, haiku bags. Boo