Remember how I said a few short days ago that I was going to do the Honest Scrap game. I planned to tell you one honest thing about me every day, say a lot of long overdo thank yous and launch the 2009 trivia competition in ten easy posts. I made it to four. That is sadly exemplary of my life in the last few years. My commitment skills sorely lack. Funny, because once upon a time, I could really follow a project through to completion. All on my own. Multitask even. Some people considered me a reliable legal professional.
Ms. Pletcher at Mixed Nuts gave me a kick in the butt by tagging me with the honest scrap game a second time. I can't ignore fate. Apparently, there are some things I must confess. I owe six.
5) I hated Eat, Pray, Love. I know, sacrilege. I'm not sure I can explain it without sounding whiny. Maybe I am whiny. Here it is: At the exact same moment in her life that she decided she couldn't possibly tie herself down with a husband and kids and survive the horror, I gave up my world traveling ways and dreamlike overseas existence and decided to have kids with my husband in a nice, quiet, mid-sized town. Granted, I adore my husband and I wasn't caught in a vicious, suicidal depression. That doesn't quell my bitterness. While the book is well written and the author is charming, the bottom line is that us ordinary people is boring whereas she is spiritually enlightened, has a sexy Venezuelan lover and gained fifteen pounds eating her way across Italy, not to mention a book deal and a movie starring Julia Roberts as her. Hello, in my twenties, every once in a while, someone who thought I was drunk enough to sleep with them would tell me I looked like Julia Roberts. Meanwhile, I shall work my way up the scale at least twenty-five pounds carefully watching what I eat and walking regularly on the enlightened path to my fourth child. I'm happy. She's happy. There's no judgment here. Still. Bitch. (Petty, but honest.) (Hey, jealousy! Name that band for five points.)
6) Two years ago, around Valentine's Day, Matt wanted a new road bike and I wanted to pay an expensive Hollywood Expert guy to read this (whispering, shhhhh) screenplay I've written and help me make it, I don't know, more screen-play-like. We made a deal and both spent more than we should have. My 'screenplay' (aha, I can't write it with a straight face) had gotten the equivalent of an honorable mention in a competition (along with a lot of other people) and I knew I needed serious help if I was ever going to do any better than that. Hollywood Expert was really knowledgeable and his comments made sense. I truly understood how I could make the writing and plot better after our first conversation. Because the play needed a lot of structural, formatting work, he offered to let me do one rewrite before he did his final, in-depth analysis. That was two years ago. Two years. Even if I weren't too humiliated to approach Hollywood Expert now, he won't remember me. Did I mention it was expensive? Why do I do these things?
7) Matt and I love Vh1 'best of' specials. Top 50 Teen Idols, Top 100 Songs from the 80s. It's good TV. Really hard trivia question. For ten points, fill in this awesome quote taken from Vh1's Best Songs of the 80s Special. "___________________ (80s Bangles' song) had perhaps the industry standard in whistle solos." Matt and I laughed really hard. We're easily amused. Anyone else watch this drivel? The snarky commentary by 80s artists is priceless.
8) I abhor the way the quadruple screen test makes me crazy, but I can't resist taking it. The entire two week wait for the results, I wonder why I did it. What will I do if it's positive. More extensive testing? Nothing? Something? I have absolutely no idea. I'm sorry anyone anywhere faces positive results ever. I cried last week when my doctor called to tell me, for the third and final time, that our baby has negligible risk for the screened chromosomal deficiencies.
9) Matt just admitted to liking Prince. I love Vh1.
10) It took me fifteen minutes in the car today to convince Ess and Gee that the baby in my belly is not Baby Jesus. Unless they know something I don't. I considered accepting my role as the Madonna, but it seemed a bit wrong, considering that I am not a Christian. I admit that I'm really glad that today was their last day of faith-based schooling for a long, long time, if not forever. I don't mind what faith, if any, they choose, and I hope to educate them as much as I can on a lot of different belief systems, but indoctrination at three is wearing on me a bit. And, let me tell you, 'mommy doesn't pray to Jesus, she has a different view of the concept of God,' doesn't fly with three-year-olds. Ms. Jamie prays to Jesus, you see, and Ms. Jamie lets them play playdough. End of discussion. No, no mommy, like this, on your knees, bend your head, fold your hands, close your eyes. Finally, news flash, Jonah didn't like it in the whale. It smelled bad. It's ocean month at SDA preschool.
Ta Da. Right on time. Vh1's Best 80s songs just ended. Anyone know number 1? It's Bon Jovi. Five points for the title of the song.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Is Playing With a Hairball a Sign?
That we should think about taking our kids home to their basement playroom full of toys?
Or that we should think about getting a pet?*
The kids have far exceeded my expectations for three months in a very small apartment with only a few borrowed toys. No one has died, although I have locked myself in the bathroom a couple of times, and not just with my cakester stash. They make up imaginary games with cups, they play birthday party with empty bottles, they play with each other, they jump on the mattress and make sheet forts in the closet. My grumpiness over the level of my participation that is sometimes required to keep things running smoothly (which really isn't any different than in the basement full of toys) aside, I have been astounded by the power of their imaginative play and how few toys they actually need.
It pays to check frequently though, when three children are quiet for an hour in a nearly empty apartment.
I shed hair like a molting alpaca. I have long, dark hair and at the rate it falls out you'd think I would be bald. Like tomorrow. The back bedroom where the kids sleep has a ceiling fan that somehow creates a floor current in the apartment. It's a floor riptide. Cue can get caught in this thing and I'm like don't fight the current, swim to the sides, little man.
All my hair and other assorted dusty ball things collect in this one corner of the back bedroom in a ceiling fan air eddy. I usually beat the little furry beast into submission and throw it away each morning, but I guess yesterday I forgot because after almost an hour of quiet play, it occurred to me to be suspicious and I went in to see what was keeping them so busy.
My three babies were gathered around the hamster-sized hairball in the corner. There was deep discussion and possibly some petting and cooing. They informed me that the hair hamster wanted to have snack and watch a movie. I give them top marks for creativity, but if they start coughing up baby hamster hair balls, I'm taking them all to the pound. Along the same lines, if they even tell me they are bored in the first three weeks that they are reunited with their basement-o-toys, I'm giving everything to goodwill and bringing them my hairbrush to play with.
*No, Matt, that is not an indication of weakness. I am not getting a puppy this year. We don't need one. They shed. I'm the shedder in this house. They pee and poop on the hardwoods. We have only just, miraculously, convinced our three-year-olds not to do this. (Seriously, Gee has been completely accident free for WEEKS. He gets up at night on his own and pees in the toilet, it's fabulous. If anyone knows how to teach him that he cannot pee straight up into the air like a freaking little marble cherub in an Italian piazza anytime he has to sit down and poop, please, please enlighten me.) If you miss it, don't despair, we're adding another little hardwood destroyer to the clan in July.
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Trivia tribulations. So, last time around, I took answers by email, because, some people have to work in this world, doing wonderful things like educating our children and they can't open blogs during the work day. But, last time around it was just a silly game and this time I really do have something incredible to give the trivia champion. Regretfully, I'm going to say that all answers have to be in the comments...that way everyone will know I'm not cheating...especially when the emails come from bloggers I would cheat for in a heartbeat. If I were the cheating type. Which I am not. Temptation removed! Now could someone please come and confiscate my cakesters.
Or that we should think about getting a pet?*
The kids have far exceeded my expectations for three months in a very small apartment with only a few borrowed toys. No one has died, although I have locked myself in the bathroom a couple of times, and not just with my cakester stash. They make up imaginary games with cups, they play birthday party with empty bottles, they play with each other, they jump on the mattress and make sheet forts in the closet. My grumpiness over the level of my participation that is sometimes required to keep things running smoothly (which really isn't any different than in the basement full of toys) aside, I have been astounded by the power of their imaginative play and how few toys they actually need.
It pays to check frequently though, when three children are quiet for an hour in a nearly empty apartment.
I shed hair like a molting alpaca. I have long, dark hair and at the rate it falls out you'd think I would be bald. Like tomorrow. The back bedroom where the kids sleep has a ceiling fan that somehow creates a floor current in the apartment. It's a floor riptide. Cue can get caught in this thing and I'm like don't fight the current, swim to the sides, little man.
All my hair and other assorted dusty ball things collect in this one corner of the back bedroom in a ceiling fan air eddy. I usually beat the little furry beast into submission and throw it away each morning, but I guess yesterday I forgot because after almost an hour of quiet play, it occurred to me to be suspicious and I went in to see what was keeping them so busy.
My three babies were gathered around the hamster-sized hairball in the corner. There was deep discussion and possibly some petting and cooing. They informed me that the hair hamster wanted to have snack and watch a movie. I give them top marks for creativity, but if they start coughing up baby hamster hair balls, I'm taking them all to the pound. Along the same lines, if they even tell me they are bored in the first three weeks that they are reunited with their basement-o-toys, I'm giving everything to goodwill and bringing them my hairbrush to play with.
*No, Matt, that is not an indication of weakness. I am not getting a puppy this year. We don't need one. They shed. I'm the shedder in this house. They pee and poop on the hardwoods. We have only just, miraculously, convinced our three-year-olds not to do this. (Seriously, Gee has been completely accident free for WEEKS. He gets up at night on his own and pees in the toilet, it's fabulous. If anyone knows how to teach him that he cannot pee straight up into the air like a freaking little marble cherub in an Italian piazza anytime he has to sit down and poop, please, please enlighten me.) If you miss it, don't despair, we're adding another little hardwood destroyer to the clan in July.
***********************************************************
Trivia tribulations. So, last time around, I took answers by email, because, some people have to work in this world, doing wonderful things like educating our children and they can't open blogs during the work day. But, last time around it was just a silly game and this time I really do have something incredible to give the trivia champion. Regretfully, I'm going to say that all answers have to be in the comments...that way everyone will know I'm not cheating...especially when the emails come from bloggers I would cheat for in a heartbeat. If I were the cheating type. Which I am not. Temptation removed! Now could someone please come and confiscate my cakesters.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Stop Thief
Our three months in the tropics are nearly over, gone so fast. The full suitcases we hauled 5000 miles across the Pacific will be considerably lighter on the way home because the well-used 3T summer clothes barely cover their plump baby bellies and will be left behind. We'll need a whole new (warmer!) 4T collection when we arrive home and from there (sniffle) my first step out of the baby section and into little kid clothes territory. Not for a year. I still have a year with three "toddlers."
I've been obsessed with time lately and how it passes. What a trickster time is, the way he seems to hand me moment after moment of joy and love and life in slow, lazy procession until I pause to look back and I'm cut down by how far I've traveled. All the tiny incidents add up to the whole year that my oldest children were three and my youngest was one and my last baby was thought of and conceived. I want to yell at him for the subterfuge, but he's handing me new moments so fast that I can't take the time, I'll miss something important. I'm dropping the present and it's shattering on the floor, gem by gem as I gaze backwards. I refocus on the moment in my hands and it all slows down again, to that disconcerting, tricky lull.
I tell time I know his game, I'm onto him, but it's inevitable that I'll forget until I look back once more. It makes me mad. I wish he'd leave me alone, stop stealing my moments and let me have them for mine. Maybe I'll keep them in a carved wooden box on my dresser, magpie-like, the way I kept little bits of life in high school, a note, a charm, a worn braided bracelet.
I want to keep the way Quinn walks, steady but unsteady, on his toes, his fat little belly proceeding him. I want to keep the way Garrett laughs, mouth wide open, head back, his round baby face lit from within. I want to keep the way Saige runs to me at preschool pickup, the way it feels when she wraps her little body around my middle and wraps her arms around my neck. I want to keep this baby's first tiny kicks, barely felt today, miniature popcorn popping inside my uterus.
Determined to stop his constant theft of my moments, I set a trap for time. I know if I turn and pounce quickly enough I can catch the decrepit old man. I wait for a slow, easy moment, a little lull in time's flow and I spin faster than the earth, outside of time, grasping with both hands.
Then I falter in disbelief, caught off guard that I actually hold him in my hands and that the arm I hold is strong and young. He is timeless, handsome and confident with twinkling eyes and a devilish smile. "You got me," he raises his hands in mock surrender. "There's not much time. When should we go?" He leans forward, feverishly eager, "what should we change?"
Go? Change? I don't really understand, not yet, I want a glimpse, that's all, to steal some moments back and save them forever to visit at will. But I have this chance and time is staring at me, waiting. I don't want to blow it. "What if I'd taken the other job out of law school?" I blurt at him quickly. "Would I have loved it? Maybe stayed an attorney? Maybe I'd have a big career now?"
"Maybe," he fixes me with his too willing gaze and holds out his hand, falsely casual.
"Wait." I'm suspicious. "What about Matt? He might not move to Houston. Would we still get married before graduation? What if we wait to see and grow apart?"
Time rubs his hands gleefully. "Let's see."
"No," I stop him. "Not then. Some other time."
"What about your first baby," he entices, leaning towards me. "The first one you lost. We could go back to when his heart beat inside you. You could feel him again, maybe we could change things. You could know him."
I am momentarily breathless. In an instant, I know. Games. Consequences.
"But then I couldn't have Garrett."
"True," says time, "true. It's up to you."
"Maybe something smaller," I plead, "a moment to hold him as a newborn again."
Time stifles a yawn and curls his lip. "Bor-ring. You're wasting my time." He snaps his carefully manicured fingers. "I know. We could revisit the time when you decided to adopt. You could make different choices. You could have a different little boy, he might stay with you. You could adopt two babies instead, or just your daughter. You could miss so much pain," he tempts.
I picture it. A lot of grief avoided, but I am onto his tricks. "What happens to him?"
"Who?" he asks, all innocence.
"Our son. Does he get adopted? It's a terrible life for the children that don't find forever families. They have to leave the orphanage when they're sixteen. Does he find a family that loves him?"
"I don't know," says time impatiently, "we have to see."
"His family is so right for him, he's happy. They never would have found him if we hadn't adopted him, there's no other way he ends up with them."
"Yes I know," time rolls his eyes, "that's how it works."
Take a deep breath, I tell myself, be smart, you can beat him at this game.
"My twins then. My other baby. That's only two months back. A tiny change and they both live. They'll still be inside of me right now. It doesn't affect anyone but me."
Time smiles slyly and stands up straighter. "Ready?"
I hesitate.
"What now?"
"I don't know. I sort of believe, I mean, I like to think that his soul went to another baby. Another mother. Maybe she'd been waiting a long time." He stares at me, uncomprehending, and I know it's futile, but I try again. "I pretend sometimes that...the universe...thought, there is so much joy here, they can handle this pain, and so it gave the little spark to someone else."
Time says nothing and I raise my voice angry and frustrated. "Is that how it works?"
He shrugs, "I don't know." His eyes narrow and he scans my face. "Is that how you believe it works?"
"I don't know."
"If it was, would you take it away?"
"No," I whisper, "no, I couldn't."
He holds out his hand to me, palm up, fingers spread. "When do we go then?" My arms stay at my side and his arm slowly drops, his smile fades to a crestfallen look.
A tear slides down my cheek, but it is happiness, not grief that fills me. Or, maybe it is sadness, but it's the good kind. Sadness because I've lived the way I want to live, most of the time, fully, optimistically, without hitting the brakes in caution, without wavering or ducking life to avoid potential pain.
"No," I tell him, "steal what you will, I wouldn't change a thing."
He winces with disappointment. "Yes," he murmurs as he fades away, "that's how it almost always works."
I've been obsessed with time lately and how it passes. What a trickster time is, the way he seems to hand me moment after moment of joy and love and life in slow, lazy procession until I pause to look back and I'm cut down by how far I've traveled. All the tiny incidents add up to the whole year that my oldest children were three and my youngest was one and my last baby was thought of and conceived. I want to yell at him for the subterfuge, but he's handing me new moments so fast that I can't take the time, I'll miss something important. I'm dropping the present and it's shattering on the floor, gem by gem as I gaze backwards. I refocus on the moment in my hands and it all slows down again, to that disconcerting, tricky lull.
I tell time I know his game, I'm onto him, but it's inevitable that I'll forget until I look back once more. It makes me mad. I wish he'd leave me alone, stop stealing my moments and let me have them for mine. Maybe I'll keep them in a carved wooden box on my dresser, magpie-like, the way I kept little bits of life in high school, a note, a charm, a worn braided bracelet.
I want to keep the way Quinn walks, steady but unsteady, on his toes, his fat little belly proceeding him. I want to keep the way Garrett laughs, mouth wide open, head back, his round baby face lit from within. I want to keep the way Saige runs to me at preschool pickup, the way it feels when she wraps her little body around my middle and wraps her arms around my neck. I want to keep this baby's first tiny kicks, barely felt today, miniature popcorn popping inside my uterus.
Determined to stop his constant theft of my moments, I set a trap for time. I know if I turn and pounce quickly enough I can catch the decrepit old man. I wait for a slow, easy moment, a little lull in time's flow and I spin faster than the earth, outside of time, grasping with both hands.
Then I falter in disbelief, caught off guard that I actually hold him in my hands and that the arm I hold is strong and young. He is timeless, handsome and confident with twinkling eyes and a devilish smile. "You got me," he raises his hands in mock surrender. "There's not much time. When should we go?" He leans forward, feverishly eager, "what should we change?"
Go? Change? I don't really understand, not yet, I want a glimpse, that's all, to steal some moments back and save them forever to visit at will. But I have this chance and time is staring at me, waiting. I don't want to blow it. "What if I'd taken the other job out of law school?" I blurt at him quickly. "Would I have loved it? Maybe stayed an attorney? Maybe I'd have a big career now?"
"Maybe," he fixes me with his too willing gaze and holds out his hand, falsely casual.
"Wait." I'm suspicious. "What about Matt? He might not move to Houston. Would we still get married before graduation? What if we wait to see and grow apart?"
Time rubs his hands gleefully. "Let's see."
"No," I stop him. "Not then. Some other time."
"What about your first baby," he entices, leaning towards me. "The first one you lost. We could go back to when his heart beat inside you. You could feel him again, maybe we could change things. You could know him."
I am momentarily breathless. In an instant, I know. Games. Consequences.
"But then I couldn't have Garrett."
"True," says time, "true. It's up to you."
"Maybe something smaller," I plead, "a moment to hold him as a newborn again."
Time stifles a yawn and curls his lip. "Bor-ring. You're wasting my time." He snaps his carefully manicured fingers. "I know. We could revisit the time when you decided to adopt. You could make different choices. You could have a different little boy, he might stay with you. You could adopt two babies instead, or just your daughter. You could miss so much pain," he tempts.
I picture it. A lot of grief avoided, but I am onto his tricks. "What happens to him?"
"Who?" he asks, all innocence.
"Our son. Does he get adopted? It's a terrible life for the children that don't find forever families. They have to leave the orphanage when they're sixteen. Does he find a family that loves him?"
"I don't know," says time impatiently, "we have to see."
"His family is so right for him, he's happy. They never would have found him if we hadn't adopted him, there's no other way he ends up with them."
"Yes I know," time rolls his eyes, "that's how it works."
Take a deep breath, I tell myself, be smart, you can beat him at this game.
"My twins then. My other baby. That's only two months back. A tiny change and they both live. They'll still be inside of me right now. It doesn't affect anyone but me."
Time smiles slyly and stands up straighter. "Ready?"
I hesitate.
"What now?"
"I don't know. I sort of believe, I mean, I like to think that his soul went to another baby. Another mother. Maybe she'd been waiting a long time." He stares at me, uncomprehending, and I know it's futile, but I try again. "I pretend sometimes that...the universe...thought, there is so much joy here, they can handle this pain, and so it gave the little spark to someone else."
Time says nothing and I raise my voice angry and frustrated. "Is that how it works?"
He shrugs, "I don't know." His eyes narrow and he scans my face. "Is that how you believe it works?"
"I don't know."
"If it was, would you take it away?"
"No," I whisper, "no, I couldn't."
He holds out his hand to me, palm up, fingers spread. "When do we go then?" My arms stay at my side and his arm slowly drops, his smile fades to a crestfallen look.
A tear slides down my cheek, but it is happiness, not grief that fills me. Or, maybe it is sadness, but it's the good kind. Sadness because I've lived the way I want to live, most of the time, fully, optimistically, without hitting the brakes in caution, without wavering or ducking life to avoid potential pain.
"No," I tell him, "steal what you will, I wouldn't change a thing."
He winces with disappointment. "Yes," he murmurs as he fades away, "that's how it almost always works."
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Up, Up and Away!
Matt got the kids little gifts yesterday for Martin Luther King Day. Not because the day has anything to do with gifts, because they like gifts and they signify some kind of occasion for them. While we worked on the new puzzle today, I reminded them that Daddy got the puzzle for MLK day.
Me: He was a civil rights leader and the movement he led created a lot of changes in America. They got people to see that treating black people differently from other people was wrong.
Ess: Did he like puzzles?
Me: Maybe. He worked for equality for all people, no matter their color. That means treating everyone the same, giving all people the same rights.
Gee: I didn't get a puzzle. Ess got a puzzle.
Me: You got cards and she's letting you play.
Gee: Did Santa bring these presents?
Me: No, Daddy got them for you. Do you know what Martin Luther King said? He said he had a dream that all little children would stand together.
Gee: Santa says, 'ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas.'
Ess: No, he says, 'up, up and away.'
I give up. This year. I apologize Dr. King, but I have a feeling you are watching other events today. I am proud just to be alive in America on January 20, 2009. Up, up and away!
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Honest scrap tag number four. I am fairly strict about dessert with my kids, but I have a ridiculous sweet tooth. After lunch, I crave sweets. I admit that I hide in the bathroom and eat junk. I can't justifiably call it occasionally. I'm going to say somewhere between every day and often. I used to sneak sweets in the car by ordering milkshakes at drive thrus every few days. Now the kids are all older and smarty pantsish and they know what a milkshake is. Brats.
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Thank yous.
Making lemonade from lemons is one of my favorite expressions - because I like to say, nah, I'll just suck on the lemons. I love sour. Thanks Pam, for seeing me as one of those people that can turn things around. It's completely mutual. Pam lifts me up every week with her You're Gonna Miss This Moment carnival.
I am embarrassed because I forgot to thank Katy at Funny Girl yesterday. She sent the fabulous button my way as well. While I absolutely know that she wouldn't hold my carelessness against me, I'm mad I missed the opportunity to link to her. Her funny, heartfelt, honest posts on raising a daughter, adoption, ADHD, life and faith touch my heart deeply.
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Trivia. Maura swept the board yesterday and earned my devotion (as if she didn't already have it) by finding the lyrics to BOING BOING DAVID. Impressive research skills. A lot of you knew the book, The Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E Frankweiler. Children's literature is a good category.
Okay, here's a few favorites, title and author for five points. Frail boy rides around the time/space continuum on a Pegasus. After her father dies, a wealthy little girl befriends rats and stays true to her loving nature during her time at the mercy of a cruel boarding school mistress. Sweet tale of orphaned siblings that find an unusual home and survive on their own until a doctor takes them all in. I'm inspired to start collecting the next level of books for my kids!
Me: He was a civil rights leader and the movement he led created a lot of changes in America. They got people to see that treating black people differently from other people was wrong.
Ess: Did he like puzzles?
Me: Maybe. He worked for equality for all people, no matter their color. That means treating everyone the same, giving all people the same rights.
Gee: I didn't get a puzzle. Ess got a puzzle.
Me: You got cards and she's letting you play.
Gee: Did Santa bring these presents?
Me: No, Daddy got them for you. Do you know what Martin Luther King said? He said he had a dream that all little children would stand together.
Gee: Santa says, 'ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas.'
Ess: No, he says, 'up, up and away.'
I give up. This year. I apologize Dr. King, but I have a feeling you are watching other events today. I am proud just to be alive in America on January 20, 2009. Up, up and away!
****************************************************
Honest scrap tag number four. I am fairly strict about dessert with my kids, but I have a ridiculous sweet tooth. After lunch, I crave sweets. I admit that I hide in the bathroom and eat junk. I can't justifiably call it occasionally. I'm going to say somewhere between every day and often. I used to sneak sweets in the car by ordering milkshakes at drive thrus every few days. Now the kids are all older and smarty pantsish and they know what a milkshake is. Brats.
****************************************************
Thank yous.
Making lemonade from lemons is one of my favorite expressions - because I like to say, nah, I'll just suck on the lemons. I love sour. Thanks Pam, for seeing me as one of those people that can turn things around. It's completely mutual. Pam lifts me up every week with her You're Gonna Miss This Moment carnival.I am embarrassed because I forgot to thank Katy at Funny Girl yesterday. She sent the fabulous button my way as well. While I absolutely know that she wouldn't hold my carelessness against me, I'm mad I missed the opportunity to link to her. Her funny, heartfelt, honest posts on raising a daughter, adoption, ADHD, life and faith touch my heart deeply.
********************************************************
Trivia. Maura swept the board yesterday and earned my devotion (as if she didn't already have it) by finding the lyrics to BOING BOING DAVID. Impressive research skills. A lot of you knew the book, The Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E Frankweiler. Children's literature is a good category.
Okay, here's a few favorites, title and author for five points. Frail boy rides around the time/space continuum on a Pegasus. After her father dies, a wealthy little girl befriends rats and stays true to her loving nature during her time at the mercy of a cruel boarding school mistress. Sweet tale of orphaned siblings that find an unusual home and survive on their own until a doctor takes them all in. I'm inspired to start collecting the next level of books for my kids!
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Three Ts, Day Three
Tag & Thank you.Honest scrap number three. I'm combining number three with the Fabulous Award that Gayle at The White House sent my way. Thanks Gayle, I think you're fabulous too! The award asks you to confess to five addictions.
I've already written about my grande, nonfat, extra-hot, no water, chai tea latte addiction. Starbucks only please. Nobody does it better.
Chocolate. Preferably in cake form. Moist, but not soggy.
Shoulder and neck massages. If I'm ever a millionaire...no chef, no fancy house, don't care about cars. A personal masseuse is what I want.
Movie star jeans. I go on a pilgrimage for a pair every year. Totally worth it, it's all I wear. Well, with a top, but any top looks good with movie star jeans. I get my tops at Old Navy. If you don't believe me, set aside a few hours, go to Nordstroms (a big one) and try on some obscenely expensive denim. AGs or Citizens of Humanity or Joes. Try them all. Unless you just hate jeans, you'll love it. It's like a religious experience. Find the perfect jeans for you and then BUY them. Angels will sing. I have a pathetic wardrobe and I never do my hair, but most days, I feel okay because dammit if my ass doesn't look pretty good in my jeans.
Current kiddy addiction - blowing Bubble Yum bubbles while they watch. I love they way their little tongues follow my tongue's movements while they all stare in rapt attention like I'm the Super Readers or something.
I don't usually do this, but I'd like to hear some other fabulous bloggers' addictions. Insta-mom? Maura? Norwindians? For Myself? Anything to confess?
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Trivia.
Nice. Kym from I'm A Smart One (if you're not following Kym and her incredible family and her surrogate journey with Chance and Apollo, well, you are missing out on a heck of a story and this is the week to join them) started strong with ten points for Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Marbury v. Madison. Mommymae was the first of many with the correct movie - Chicken Little.
I have nothing today. We spent four hours at the pool this morning and I am t-i-r-e-d. How about I play the ultimate lazy card and get you to help me with two trivia questions that are driving me crazy? What? No? That's cheating? Well, it's my pointless trivia game and I'll be lazy if I want to, lazy if I want to, lazy if I want to, (you would be lazy too, if these kids happened to you - aha, there, who sings the original for five points. I don't even know, I have to look it up).
Two other things I don't know. There's a children's chapter book about a brother and sister that live in a museum for a few weeks. They hide from the guard in the bathroom. They discover that a new statue is an undiscovered Michelangelo. Anyone? Please. Five points and my undying gratitude.
I don't really expect anyone to know this, but my kids came home for the long weekend singing a new bible song and it's driving me batty. Not that they're singing, or that it's a bible song, but that this is the sum total of the lyrics they remember: "BOING, BOING DAVID, BOING, BOING DAVID, BOING, BOING DAVID and five little stones he took." Then the singing stops in favor of enthusiastic sling swinging reenactments.
I assume it's a song about David and Goliath and the first line of the song is not actually BOING BOING DAVID. Anyone heard this one at vacation bible school maybe? Please tell me the real lyrics because I don't see the SDA ladies until Wednesday and even then, I'm not sure how to delicately ask the nice church ladies if they are teaching my children lewd bible songs. (Sorry, when I was a preteen, to boing someone was to, well, you know, it wasn't to kiss them.)
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Crappy, inattentive parenting.
Gee: (incoherent screaming)
Me: (not turning from computer) What happened Gee?
Gee: (incoherent screaming)
Me: (still typing) I can't understand this. Use your words.
Gee: I fall. The FLOOR HIT ME!
Me: (didn't really listen, assuming it's his sister) Oh no! That's not nice. Tell her how you feel.
Gee: No thank you floor. I feel sad when you hit me.
Me: ?? Did I miss something?
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Thanks, Tags and Trivia Take Two
Honest Scrap Tag #2. During my very, very brief time as a real practicing lawyer for the CNMI Attorney General's Office, I had to argue an appeal before a panel of judges from the Ninth Circuit. I was beyond nervous. Until that day, my appellate experience consisted of law school practice arguments. I arrived at the Federal courthouse really early and the District Court judge was still holding hearings. It was absolutely freezing in the building and I was already shaking with nerves. I sat in the back of the courtroom and practiced my argument in my head.
Apparently, my lips were moving and I looked, um, insane to be blunt. At one point, the District Court judge stopped his proceedings and pulled the court marshal up to the bench. Thank G-O-D I knew the marshal. I didn't know it at the time, but the judge thought the crazy woman in the back looked like a potential threat and ought to be investigated and removed. That would be me. After my oral argument was over, the marshal told me the whole story. "Aw," he said to the judge, "that's just Stacey, she's harmless, she's just nervous." Way to inspire confidence in the government and its counsel. And then I died of embarrassment, the end.
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Trivia. Thanks for the huge laughs in yesterday's comments. I am thrilled to learn that I do not, technically, have a tramp stamp. I loved hearing about all of your tattoos. I'll be waiting for the promised blog posts...with pictures please. Maggie Dammit gets the prize for the best description of tattoo placement I've ever heard. Pictures Maggie!! Unless it involves blurring out and in that case, we understand.
No one had it exactly right, but Psychmamma had the closest guess on my tattoo. It is Celtic and it is a protection symbol. She is the reigning AnyTrivia champion. I'll give her five points for getting half way there. From my limited knowledge, it's a Celtic Druid bind rune that turns negative energy into positive energy.
I have a necklace charm with the symbol in silver set in lapis lazuli that I adore and I gave it to the tattoo artist to recreate. I wanted the tattoo for a while before I built up the nerve to have it done - I always thought the symbolism went nicely with the placement - and the phrase, oh yeah, well kiss my ass (and I'll just turn your negativity right into positive energy for me while you're at it, thank you very much).
That was a hard one. Should we go back to poetry? "Down drooped, the sails, the sails drooped down, twas sad as sad could be, and we did speak only to break the silence of the sea." Name and author of that mega famous poem for five points.
Music? Movies? Here's a line from a song that Ess and Gee sing constantly right now: "Don't go breakin' my heart. I couldn't if I tried." Five points for the name of the children's movie from which they learned such lovely lyrics. Hint - Pig doing karaoke. Five extra points if you can name the pig.
How about legal quotes? Anyone know the early history of our three branch system? "It is emphatically the province of the judiciary to say what the law is." Five points for the name of the very early Supreme Court case with that famous line - and I will be majorly impressed.
************************************************
Thank yous.
Huge thanks to MommyMo at Growing Up Mo for this delightful little bauble.
This one is just so pretty. Thanks so much to a new read of mine, Finding Fairy Tales.
Wait. Before I go, guess who else got a tattoo the other day?
Mom? Are you okay? Was that the sound of you hitting the ceiling? You know I wouldn't, would I?
Apparently, my lips were moving and I looked, um, insane to be blunt. At one point, the District Court judge stopped his proceedings and pulled the court marshal up to the bench. Thank G-O-D I knew the marshal. I didn't know it at the time, but the judge thought the crazy woman in the back looked like a potential threat and ought to be investigated and removed. That would be me. After my oral argument was over, the marshal told me the whole story. "Aw," he said to the judge, "that's just Stacey, she's harmless, she's just nervous." Way to inspire confidence in the government and its counsel. And then I died of embarrassment, the end.
**************************************************
Trivia. Thanks for the huge laughs in yesterday's comments. I am thrilled to learn that I do not, technically, have a tramp stamp. I loved hearing about all of your tattoos. I'll be waiting for the promised blog posts...with pictures please. Maggie Dammit gets the prize for the best description of tattoo placement I've ever heard. Pictures Maggie!! Unless it involves blurring out and in that case, we understand.
No one had it exactly right, but Psychmamma had the closest guess on my tattoo. It is Celtic and it is a protection symbol. She is the reigning AnyTrivia champion. I'll give her five points for getting half way there. From my limited knowledge, it's a Celtic Druid bind rune that turns negative energy into positive energy.
I have a necklace charm with the symbol in silver set in lapis lazuli that I adore and I gave it to the tattoo artist to recreate. I wanted the tattoo for a while before I built up the nerve to have it done - I always thought the symbolism went nicely with the placement - and the phrase, oh yeah, well kiss my ass (and I'll just turn your negativity right into positive energy for me while you're at it, thank you very much).
That was a hard one. Should we go back to poetry? "Down drooped, the sails, the sails drooped down, twas sad as sad could be, and we did speak only to break the silence of the sea." Name and author of that mega famous poem for five points.
Music? Movies? Here's a line from a song that Ess and Gee sing constantly right now: "Don't go breakin' my heart. I couldn't if I tried." Five points for the name of the children's movie from which they learned such lovely lyrics. Hint - Pig doing karaoke. Five extra points if you can name the pig.
How about legal quotes? Anyone know the early history of our three branch system? "It is emphatically the province of the judiciary to say what the law is." Five points for the name of the very early Supreme Court case with that famous line - and I will be majorly impressed.
************************************************
Thank yous.
Huge thanks to MommyMo at Growing Up Mo for this delightful little bauble.
This one is just so pretty. Thanks so much to a new read of mine, Finding Fairy Tales.Wait. Before I go, guess who else got a tattoo the other day?
Mom? Are you okay? Was that the sound of you hitting the ceiling? You know I wouldn't, would I?
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Trivia, Tags and Tattoos
Let's see if I can actually do this. Seeing things through hasn't been a virtue of mine lately.
First, a brief detour. This isn't exactly an adoption blog, but adoption is a big part of my life. I don't know how many people drop by because they are interested in adoption issues, but if you are, I'd like to send you over to www.adoptingtheolderchild.com. It's an incredible resource written by an adoptive mom with a talent for distilling complicated information. I'm the guest poster there today and tomorrow writing about adoption disruption.
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Ten days. Ten honest things about me. Ten terribly tardy thank yous (oh yeah, alliteration) for some lovely bloggy acknowledgments. To top it all off, I'm kicking off the Great Trivia Challenge of 2009 with ten chances to answer inane questions, earn some meaningless points and make it onto the list of infamy over there in the sidebar.
There's more. I know. It's like Christmas returned unexpectedly, isn't it? The present for the top trivia points earner this time is so awesome, I'm squirming on my couch and clapping my hands right now. I'm going to run this contest until the day my bouncing bundle of joy decides to make an appearance. I can't show you the winner's gift right now, but it's hand made, and it's gorgeous. One of my closest friends in the whole world makes these. I have two and she's working on one for little Cue too. Pictures when I get home in three weeks!
Enough. How can I make even this silliness into a long post?
Honest scrap numero uno. Thanks to More Than a Minivan Mom, one of my favorite woman in the blogosphere, for the idea and to Smart Ass Mom for the email tag! The rule is to dig deep and make it good.
I have two tattoos. One on my ankle that I got on my twenty-first birthday. It's simple, two horseshoes for luck. The other, I just recently found out, is called a tramp stamp. It's right above my butt on my left side. This one resulted from craziness with my sister in New Zealand in 2004. I love my tats. Matt, not so much. He tells me that anymore qualifies me for circus performer status.
Here's my tramp stamp. Pardon the close up of my back.
So, now, for TEN points and the early lead in the trivia contest...what's the origin and what does it mean? Just so you know, it's not a spider. Anyone who knows because I told them is disqualified.
Anyone else want to confess their tattoos? Pictures welcome.
***********************
Loveliness acknowledged.
The unmatchable Heinous gave me this little indecipherable gem.
Kmommy from The Poopie Patrol made my day quite a while ago with this.
Thank you! I love reading you both.
First, a brief detour. This isn't exactly an adoption blog, but adoption is a big part of my life. I don't know how many people drop by because they are interested in adoption issues, but if you are, I'd like to send you over to www.adoptingtheolderchild.com. It's an incredible resource written by an adoptive mom with a talent for distilling complicated information. I'm the guest poster there today and tomorrow writing about adoption disruption.
*******************************
Ten days. Ten honest things about me. Ten terribly tardy thank yous (oh yeah, alliteration) for some lovely bloggy acknowledgments. To top it all off, I'm kicking off the Great Trivia Challenge of 2009 with ten chances to answer inane questions, earn some meaningless points and make it onto the list of infamy over there in the sidebar.
There's more. I know. It's like Christmas returned unexpectedly, isn't it? The present for the top trivia points earner this time is so awesome, I'm squirming on my couch and clapping my hands right now. I'm going to run this contest until the day my bouncing bundle of joy decides to make an appearance. I can't show you the winner's gift right now, but it's hand made, and it's gorgeous. One of my closest friends in the whole world makes these. I have two and she's working on one for little Cue too. Pictures when I get home in three weeks!
Enough. How can I make even this silliness into a long post?
Honest scrap numero uno. Thanks to More Than a Minivan Mom, one of my favorite woman in the blogosphere, for the idea and to Smart Ass Mom for the email tag! The rule is to dig deep and make it good.
I have two tattoos. One on my ankle that I got on my twenty-first birthday. It's simple, two horseshoes for luck. The other, I just recently found out, is called a tramp stamp. It's right above my butt on my left side. This one resulted from craziness with my sister in New Zealand in 2004. I love my tats. Matt, not so much. He tells me that anymore qualifies me for circus performer status.
Here's my tramp stamp. Pardon the close up of my back.
So, now, for TEN points and the early lead in the trivia contest...what's the origin and what does it mean? Just so you know, it's not a spider. Anyone who knows because I told them is disqualified.
Anyone else want to confess their tattoos? Pictures welcome.
***********************
Loveliness acknowledged.
The unmatchable Heinous gave me this little indecipherable gem.
Kmommy from The Poopie Patrol made my day quite a while ago with this.Thank you! I love reading you both.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Questions, Comments, Pithy Observations?
My first year property professor in law school was a character. A stick thin wisp of a man with a shocking puff of white hair and out of control nose hair. My roommate called it party favor nose hair. I love that phrase, I still think of it when I see someone who could use a little trim. He's probably one of the foremost experts on property law in the United States. We spent hours mocking him. Envy, I'm sure. Of the brilliance, not the nose hair.
He ended every lecture with that phrase in a Ferris Bueller monotone. Questions? Comments? Pithy Observations? He never got, nor do I think he expected, any. I have backwards looking respect for a man who can use the word pithy with such confidence.
I've had some questions about our baby in progress in my comments and emails lately and, of course, all of your observations are lovely and pithy too.
Fifteen weeks yesterday, with a strong heartbeat. The second trimester. Sigh of relief. And sigh of regret. Where did that time go? My last first trimester. Wished away, endured away really, along with the sickness and tiredness and fear of loss and general not myselfness. This should be the fun part. I've enjoyed my other pregnancies from this point. Fingers crossed!
Thanks to everyone who has asked if we'll find out the baby flavor ahead of time. I think we are going to wait for the big reveal at the final moment. We gleefully found out that Gee was a boy the moment we could. We waged a 'will we find out the sex' war at Cue's twenty week ultrasound, which left the technician thinking we were fit to be no one's parents, boy or girl. I wanted to wait. Matt was dying to know. I was so disappointed (about not getting to have that special birth moment announcement, not about Cue's sex) that I think Matt is feeling more supportive this time. If he pushes me, I'll crumble because secrets are not my strong point. (My own secrets, I'm fine with other people's confidences.)
The belly shot requests. You all are brave! There's nothing good to see there. I'm the same number of weeks as Dooce, go check it out, she has a much cuter ass. I'm sorry to say that there is quite a belly at almost four months. Sadness. My first pregnancy, I got frustrated because I wasn't showing at six months. Foolish, foolish child. Those stomach muscles are long gone, never to return.
Brace yourself. I call this squinty flushed pregnant woman against a bare white backdrop.
And that in a picture is why I pay for a photo shoot once a year with a professional photographer. Please don't blow it up, you might get a glimpse of my party favor nose hair.
Someone asked, joking with me, if I'll be thrilled when this pregnancy is over. I laughed while my heart skipped. Will I? I am beyond glad that the nausea and tiredness are passing. But I don't want this to be over. Or I do, but I also want it to last forever. When it's over, my babies will be four. When it's over, I'll never feel this way again, this special secret warmth that is carrying a baby.
I want to stay right here, pregnant with my last baby, slurping up the cuteness of my eighteen-month-old in huge gulps. The truth is I would play the alphabet game endlessly (and bitch about it to you) to steal extra time like this, right now, with my three-year-olds that slough off baby like it's a molting skin, a little more every day. I want to have brain freeze from living it so hard, so intensely. I want it engraved in my mind and my heart forever. That's what I want.
And, I want it to be over. Because there's always good things ahead. That tiny little pumpkin newborn snuggle. The way their lips suckle in their sleep. Watching my big kids meet their new baby brother or sister for the first time.
Oooooooh. Hearts and rainbows. Don't worry, in three short weeks, I'll start bitching about the snow.
He ended every lecture with that phrase in a Ferris Bueller monotone. Questions? Comments? Pithy Observations? He never got, nor do I think he expected, any. I have backwards looking respect for a man who can use the word pithy with such confidence.
I've had some questions about our baby in progress in my comments and emails lately and, of course, all of your observations are lovely and pithy too.
Fifteen weeks yesterday, with a strong heartbeat. The second trimester. Sigh of relief. And sigh of regret. Where did that time go? My last first trimester. Wished away, endured away really, along with the sickness and tiredness and fear of loss and general not myselfness. This should be the fun part. I've enjoyed my other pregnancies from this point. Fingers crossed!
Thanks to everyone who has asked if we'll find out the baby flavor ahead of time. I think we are going to wait for the big reveal at the final moment. We gleefully found out that Gee was a boy the moment we could. We waged a 'will we find out the sex' war at Cue's twenty week ultrasound, which left the technician thinking we were fit to be no one's parents, boy or girl. I wanted to wait. Matt was dying to know. I was so disappointed (about not getting to have that special birth moment announcement, not about Cue's sex) that I think Matt is feeling more supportive this time. If he pushes me, I'll crumble because secrets are not my strong point. (My own secrets, I'm fine with other people's confidences.)
The belly shot requests. You all are brave! There's nothing good to see there. I'm the same number of weeks as Dooce, go check it out, she has a much cuter ass. I'm sorry to say that there is quite a belly at almost four months. Sadness. My first pregnancy, I got frustrated because I wasn't showing at six months. Foolish, foolish child. Those stomach muscles are long gone, never to return.
Brace yourself. I call this squinty flushed pregnant woman against a bare white backdrop.
And that in a picture is why I pay for a photo shoot once a year with a professional photographer. Please don't blow it up, you might get a glimpse of my party favor nose hair.
Someone asked, joking with me, if I'll be thrilled when this pregnancy is over. I laughed while my heart skipped. Will I? I am beyond glad that the nausea and tiredness are passing. But I don't want this to be over. Or I do, but I also want it to last forever. When it's over, my babies will be four. When it's over, I'll never feel this way again, this special secret warmth that is carrying a baby.
I want to stay right here, pregnant with my last baby, slurping up the cuteness of my eighteen-month-old in huge gulps. The truth is I would play the alphabet game endlessly (and bitch about it to you) to steal extra time like this, right now, with my three-year-olds that slough off baby like it's a molting skin, a little more every day. I want to have brain freeze from living it so hard, so intensely. I want it engraved in my mind and my heart forever. That's what I want.
And, I want it to be over. Because there's always good things ahead. That tiny little pumpkin newborn snuggle. The way their lips suckle in their sleep. Watching my big kids meet their new baby brother or sister for the first time.
Oooooooh. Hearts and rainbows. Don't worry, in three short weeks, I'll start bitching about the snow.
Friday, January 9, 2009
What Does 'Kill Me Now' Start With?
Ess and Gee entered this letter phase recently. Do you know of this new toddler horror? Yeah, yeah, it's wonderful, they're learning their letters, they love it, it's the precursor to reading, they're smart, I'm thrilled. I'm quite certain that I ought to be writing a post about how adorable it is and they are and all that, but I can't because:
OH MY FREAKING GOD IT'S ONE OF THE MOST ANNOYING THINGS THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO ME.
I try to be enthusiastic, but my cheerfulness wanes by, oh I don't know, 8:00 a.m. The barrage begins first thing in the morning, every single day.
Ess: What does store start with?
Me: Ssssssss. Ssssssss. Sssssssstore.
Ess and Gee: ESSSSSSS!!!!!!! ESSSSSSSSSSS!!
Gee: What does mouse start with?
Me: Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmouse.
Ess and Gee: EMMMMMMM!!!! EMMMMMMMM!!!! IT STARTS WITH EM!
Gee: What does shark start with? What does shark start with momma?
Me: That's a tricky one. Shhhhhhark. Shhhhark. Shhhhhhhh. What says shhhhhh?
Ess and Gee: I don't know.
Me: S and H together say shhhhhh.
Gee: NOOOOO!!! NO!!!!!!!!!!! S says ssssssssss.
Me: Right, but with H (heh, heh, heh), it says shhhhhhh.
Gee: NO IT DOESN'T. IT DOESN'T SAY SHHHHHH. WHAT DOES SHARK START WITH?
Me: Kay. It starts with K.
I've been grumpy and impatient for weeks. I know it. Matt knows it. It has affected our time in the tropics on this incredible adventure and that sucks. I haven't felt well. I snap easily and when I shouldn't. I don't want any one hanging on me and there is always some one hanging on me.
The other day, Gee asked for a "huggins please momma, can I have just one huggins." I said, "Hug your father, can you hug your father please." I realized I'd just turned my baby away without a hug, and while my rebellious stomach might be a good excuse, it doesn't matter, because even if the ultimate number of our hugs is in the millions, there is still a finite number. And I threw one away.
I burst into tears at the bottom of our stairs one afternoon because I couldn't face walking up them with the imaginary lead weights around my ankles. I cried about walking up a flight of stairs. I hiked to the top of this island the day I went into labor with Gee. What the hell happened to me and my body and my energy reserves in the last three years?
Oh wait. I remember. Toddlers. Toddlers and their endless alphabet games. (Wait, you all are so sweet to me. Don't even think about being nice to me if you comment. Don't enable my wallowing, tell me to get off my ass and do something fun with my kids because it's not like they decided to have another baby!)
I know I need to try harder, but the letter thing gets on my last nerve. Yesterday, we hit a new all around family low. I gave Gee a time out for whining at me about what shark starts with. S AND H. TOGETHER. I CAN'T HELP IT. I DID NOT INVENT THE ALPHABET.
Matt: What does 'you're a little impatient with them' start with?
Me: The same thing that 'you are not even giving me grief right now, I have been doing this all day, while blossoming (to put it kindly) with your fourth child' starts with.
Matt: What does 'eat something and get your blood sugar up so that you aren't such a pain in the ass' start with?
Me: What does 'maybe I'll go to a restaurant and have a nice quiet meal all by myself' start with?
Matt: What does 'I had them all yesterday afternoon' start with?
Me: What does 'puh-lease' start with?
Matt: The same letter 'prima donna' starts with.
Me: I'm thinking of a word that starts with 'A.'
Matt: Huh, mine starts with 'B.'
They were 'awesome husband' and 'big, happy family,' in case you were wondering.
This post is brought to you by the letter B (for brilliant mother).
OH MY FREAKING GOD IT'S ONE OF THE MOST ANNOYING THINGS THAT HAS EVER HAPPENED TO ME.
I try to be enthusiastic, but my cheerfulness wanes by, oh I don't know, 8:00 a.m. The barrage begins first thing in the morning, every single day.
Ess: What does store start with?
Me: Ssssssss. Ssssssss. Sssssssstore.
Ess and Gee: ESSSSSSS!!!!!!! ESSSSSSSSSSS!!
Gee: What does mouse start with?
Me: Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmm. Mmmmmmouse.
Ess and Gee: EMMMMMMM!!!! EMMMMMMMM!!!! IT STARTS WITH EM!
Gee: What does shark start with? What does shark start with momma?
Me: That's a tricky one. Shhhhhhark. Shhhhark. Shhhhhhhh. What says shhhhhh?
Ess and Gee: I don't know.
Me: S and H together say shhhhhh.
Gee: NOOOOO!!! NO!!!!!!!!!!! S says ssssssssss.
Me: Right, but with H (heh, heh, heh), it says shhhhhhh.
Gee: NO IT DOESN'T. IT DOESN'T SAY SHHHHHH. WHAT DOES SHARK START WITH?
Me: Kay. It starts with K.
I've been grumpy and impatient for weeks. I know it. Matt knows it. It has affected our time in the tropics on this incredible adventure and that sucks. I haven't felt well. I snap easily and when I shouldn't. I don't want any one hanging on me and there is always some one hanging on me.
The other day, Gee asked for a "huggins please momma, can I have just one huggins." I said, "Hug your father, can you hug your father please." I realized I'd just turned my baby away without a hug, and while my rebellious stomach might be a good excuse, it doesn't matter, because even if the ultimate number of our hugs is in the millions, there is still a finite number. And I threw one away.
I burst into tears at the bottom of our stairs one afternoon because I couldn't face walking up them with the imaginary lead weights around my ankles. I cried about walking up a flight of stairs. I hiked to the top of this island the day I went into labor with Gee. What the hell happened to me and my body and my energy reserves in the last three years?
Oh wait. I remember. Toddlers. Toddlers and their endless alphabet games. (Wait, you all are so sweet to me. Don't even think about being nice to me if you comment. Don't enable my wallowing, tell me to get off my ass and do something fun with my kids because it's not like they decided to have another baby!)
I know I need to try harder, but the letter thing gets on my last nerve. Yesterday, we hit a new all around family low. I gave Gee a time out for whining at me about what shark starts with. S AND H. TOGETHER. I CAN'T HELP IT. I DID NOT INVENT THE ALPHABET.
Matt: What does 'you're a little impatient with them' start with?
Me: The same thing that 'you are not even giving me grief right now, I have been doing this all day, while blossoming (to put it kindly) with your fourth child' starts with.
Matt: What does 'eat something and get your blood sugar up so that you aren't such a pain in the ass' start with?
Me: What does 'maybe I'll go to a restaurant and have a nice quiet meal all by myself' start with?
Matt: What does 'I had them all yesterday afternoon' start with?
Me: What does 'puh-lease' start with?
Matt: The same letter 'prima donna' starts with.
Me: I'm thinking of a word that starts with 'A.'
Matt: Huh, mine starts with 'B.'
They were 'awesome husband' and 'big, happy family,' in case you were wondering.
This post is brought to you by the letter B (for brilliant mother).
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Sweets for the Sweets
Parasite eradication complete. We treated everyone in the family. You know that old saying, the family that treats for pin worms together, stays together. Thanks to all the wise medical professionals and veteran parasite hosts for that suggestion. I am certain you are all right and the kids had them too. Where else could I have picked up such filth?
Pin X (I know, I know) may be the most disgusting liquid goop in existence. It's thick and nasty and the fake caramel flavoring is worse than the actual horrendous medicine taste that it barely covers. I gagged getting two tablespoons down. I'd been warned and we were fully prepared to hold the kids down and squirt it down the back of their throats.
Except, these are my kids, so I thought I'd just try handing them their dose in the little cup first. Slurped it down. With relish. All three of them, even the baby. Gee asked me if it was juice. Ess asked if she could have another treat.
What? Your kids don't beg for more antiworm medication? Freaks.
People tell me often that I am 'very strict' with my kids. Mostly, I'm okay with that. Parent and let parent. I learn a ton from the other parents I know, whatever their styles. If it's particularly judgy, I get a little defensive. Oh yeah, well when's the last time your kids sat at the table for an entire meal? Will your kids be going to bed at 6:30 tonight without a peep and sleeping for twelve hours?
It's okay, they can nod knowingly when I have really resentful, rebellious teenagers.
No, honestly, it always leaves me doubting myself. I am strict. I envy and admire more flexible parents. What can I say, chaos and mess make me nauseous. Good thing I decided to have like eight kids in three years then, huh?
My food rules revolve around manners. We only eat at the table, if you throw or scream, you're done, no more starch if you don't try the veggies, that kind of thing. I guess we don't eat a lot of sweets, but it's not because I don't like them or I keep them from the kids. Refined flour and high fructose corn syrup are two of my favorite ingredients. I don't have them in the house much, but that's only because if they make it into the house, I consume them in 2.5 milliseconds.
Craving worm meds and thinking fake caramel syrup is juice, though. That's out of control. My kids will know the difference between Betty Crocker and anti-parasite medication or I will have truly failed as a parent. Excuse me, I'm off to bake a cake. Which they will eat plain. Because I ate all the damn frosting with a spoon. Go ahead, judge me.
Gratuitous happy tropical baby pictures. We share our infestations with all the international tourists at the water park. We like to be generous and friendly and diplomatic like that. We don't share our plain cake. There's a limit.
(I am totally kidding about the sharing. We were already fully dosed, I swear.)
Pin X (I know, I know) may be the most disgusting liquid goop in existence. It's thick and nasty and the fake caramel flavoring is worse than the actual horrendous medicine taste that it barely covers. I gagged getting two tablespoons down. I'd been warned and we were fully prepared to hold the kids down and squirt it down the back of their throats.
Except, these are my kids, so I thought I'd just try handing them their dose in the little cup first. Slurped it down. With relish. All three of them, even the baby. Gee asked me if it was juice. Ess asked if she could have another treat.
What? Your kids don't beg for more antiworm medication? Freaks.
People tell me often that I am 'very strict' with my kids. Mostly, I'm okay with that. Parent and let parent. I learn a ton from the other parents I know, whatever their styles. If it's particularly judgy, I get a little defensive. Oh yeah, well when's the last time your kids sat at the table for an entire meal? Will your kids be going to bed at 6:30 tonight without a peep and sleeping for twelve hours?
It's okay, they can nod knowingly when I have really resentful, rebellious teenagers.
No, honestly, it always leaves me doubting myself. I am strict. I envy and admire more flexible parents. What can I say, chaos and mess make me nauseous. Good thing I decided to have like eight kids in three years then, huh?
My food rules revolve around manners. We only eat at the table, if you throw or scream, you're done, no more starch if you don't try the veggies, that kind of thing. I guess we don't eat a lot of sweets, but it's not because I don't like them or I keep them from the kids. Refined flour and high fructose corn syrup are two of my favorite ingredients. I don't have them in the house much, but that's only because if they make it into the house, I consume them in 2.5 milliseconds.
Craving worm meds and thinking fake caramel syrup is juice, though. That's out of control. My kids will know the difference between Betty Crocker and anti-parasite medication or I will have truly failed as a parent. Excuse me, I'm off to bake a cake. Which they will eat plain. Because I ate all the damn frosting with a spoon. Go ahead, judge me.
Gratuitous happy tropical baby pictures. We share our infestations with all the international tourists at the water park. We like to be generous and friendly and diplomatic like that. We don't share our plain cake. There's a limit.
(I am totally kidding about the sharing. We were already fully dosed, I swear.)
Monday, January 5, 2009
Forced Twins
Someone asked me to consider writing an essay about adopting a child so close in age to my biological son. I tried recently and when I reread it, I had to laugh. The essay is a rewriting in a sense of two years of worries and thoughts recorded in some of my past posts, but it bubbled out of me from a whole different perspective.
I want to post it here, although some of you have read these thoughts before. I left so much angst and doubt behind and wrote from this new place. It's like I gave myself a hug and permission to see things clearer, with balance. Except, I didn't give myself the hug, not entirely, you gave me the hug.
Thank you. For every single thoughtful comment and email on our adoption experiences. To every one who has shared their own stories with me. I've learned so much. It's made a world of difference.
*************************************
October 16 is our forever family day. The day we arrived home with our daughter from Haiti. Four days after our son's first birthday. Although she had been ours in our hearts from the first, we accepted her referral when she was ten days old, she was fourteen months old when she finally joined our family in person and forever.
Our social worker called our children "forced twins." She talked to me about how I would handle our son's displacement in the family, how I would balance their needs. I listened, I understood, I prepared over that year, alone with our son, waiting and wishing and longing for our daughter, but I didn't think of it as forced. It was just our family. They were so young. We would all adjust.
She came home and we drank in the joy of getting to know her and of being together. Honestly, though, it was a really, really difficult transition. Far more difficult than I had dared to imagine. She cried whenever I put her down to hold my son. Screamed, actually, with anger and outrage. I felt angry at times and overwhelmed. Couldn't she just give me minute? Must she hoard every single second? Her brother needed time too. He cried as well those first few months. His new sister took his toys and sat in his mother's lap. He didn't understand. None of us did really, we had a lot to learn. I cried a lot myself.
Some days, I felt like it wasn't working. I could meet no ones needs completely. "Meet their needs, not their wants," the social worker told me. Oh how I tried. It was hard. All children have to adjust to their new siblings, I soothed myself. They both have to learn to share. I am only one person. All well and good most days, but in weak moments, their crying broke my heart. I wanted my daughter to attach to me and I knew that meant I had to hold her and be physically and emotionally with her. I wanted my son to feel special and loved as well. Not displaced.
In that first, wonderful, terrible, hard to process year, I wondered if we had made the right choices. I had my doubts. They shamed me, I kept them secret, but I had them. Some days, the cons seemed to outweigh the pros.
They grew and changed and adjusted, as did I. As the first year ended, we had a routine, we had balance, we were a mostly happy, secure family. They welcomed their newborn brother with barely a hitch in their second summer. The adjustment went beautifully, but doubts still plagued me. We wanted a bigger family, but were they each getting enough of my time? Did the fun of playing with siblings and having sisters and brothers to see you through life outweigh the stretched resources, the stretched, tired, sometimes impatient parents? We hoped so, but we didn't know.
There were still times when everything fell apart and I'd mentally beat myself up. When things went badly, it was hard to accept it as normal toddler ups and downs. I panicked, wondered if we were facing unresolved adoption issues, if our daughter's attachment was secure, if our son had hidden grief and anger to process? At a memorable birthday tea party for little girls, my confident, well-behaved daughter disintegrated. She regressed so far in that hour period that I felt like it was the first year all over again. She screamed about nothing and everything. She clung to me and then hit me when I protested, when I had to set her thirty pounds down for a moment.
Defeated, I finally removed her from the party, as a consequence and as self-preservation. Sitting in the car, my nerves flayed by her protesting screams from the back seat, I spoke to her less kindly than I should have. "You need to use your words. Your behavior was not okay. Not only did you miss the cake, you won't be going to any parties for a while."
Her lip trembled and her eyes filled with real tears, "I felt shy," she quavered, "I miss my Garrett." Amazement and sudden understanding flooded my brain as hot tears flooded my eyes and choked my throat. She had never been anywhere with other children without her brother before that day. I hadn't realized how much she relied on him, for safety, for guidance, for stability.
My inner worries transferred to my son. Was it too much for him? Did it seem like pressure? Did he feel usurped, like his place in the family was threatened? It was so hard to read their complex little minds.
As the fall approached, they both turned three. I prepared them for their new drop-off preschool. Only one day a week, for three hours, but for the first time ever, besides some nights with a trusted sitter in our home, I would not be with them. I had, I think, a typical parent's reservations and conflicts. Would they cry? Did I want them to cry? I wanted them to need me, I longed for such concrete evidence of Saige's attachment to me. But, my conflicted mother's soul longed for other things too. Strong, confident children. An attachment so strong that they felt no fear in separating.
They showed no fear in our discussions. "Mamma won't stay, but I'll be back before lunch."
"We'll go to school all by ourselves?" The proud declarations pricked at my heart a bit.
The day before school started, I talked with my son in a quiet moment. "Are you excited? Are you scared?"
He remained resolutely closed. Then, for a moment, he softened and turned to me with his wide gray-green eyes. "Will Saige be there?"
"Yes baby, of course."
"Okay."
Maybe it wasn't only Saige who took comfort and confidence from her brother's presence.
My heart beat way too fast when we pulled up in front of the small in-home preschool. I took pictures in the driveway, fighting tears like the silly mother that I am. We entered the lovely basement room holding hands, but they immediately separated, enthralled by the roomful of new toys and flew, flew, from my side with squawks of joy. I stood to the side, catching my breath, alone, and quietly watched the teacher deal with a little boy sobbing in the fetal position on the floor, his security blanket clutched in his white fist. My eyes wandered to another wide-eyed little girl in the corner, crouched as far as she could get from the teacher and my excited, confident siblings. My beautiful, disparate twins. Nothing felt forced about their relationship in that moment.
"Saige, Garrett," I said softly, "I'm leaving. I'll be back for you after school and we'll have lunch." Saige yelled "bye mommy" without pausing in her exploration. Garrett gave me a brief wave, possibly of farewell, but it looked more like dismissal. They didn't look up again, so I quietly exited.
Outside in the van, the sun warm on my face, the baby asleep in his car seat, I let a few tears fall. Tears of sadness, to see my babies reach another milestone, grow, change, move step by step away from me as they should, as all children must. And also, tears of joy, to see our unusual choice for building our family work. To see a difficult transition smoothed for them, eased by their bond. They didn't need me today. They had each other.
Things still fall apart, more often than I'd like. They fight, they hit each other, they compete for attention, they stretch us to the limit at times, just like all siblings. They also play, they whisper secrets, they team up against me. Like brothers and sisters everywhere, usually, more often than not, the pros far outweigh the cons.
I want to post it here, although some of you have read these thoughts before. I left so much angst and doubt behind and wrote from this new place. It's like I gave myself a hug and permission to see things clearer, with balance. Except, I didn't give myself the hug, not entirely, you gave me the hug.
Thank you. For every single thoughtful comment and email on our adoption experiences. To every one who has shared their own stories with me. I've learned so much. It's made a world of difference.
*************************************
October 16 is our forever family day. The day we arrived home with our daughter from Haiti. Four days after our son's first birthday. Although she had been ours in our hearts from the first, we accepted her referral when she was ten days old, she was fourteen months old when she finally joined our family in person and forever.
Our social worker called our children "forced twins." She talked to me about how I would handle our son's displacement in the family, how I would balance their needs. I listened, I understood, I prepared over that year, alone with our son, waiting and wishing and longing for our daughter, but I didn't think of it as forced. It was just our family. They were so young. We would all adjust.
She came home and we drank in the joy of getting to know her and of being together. Honestly, though, it was a really, really difficult transition. Far more difficult than I had dared to imagine. She cried whenever I put her down to hold my son. Screamed, actually, with anger and outrage. I felt angry at times and overwhelmed. Couldn't she just give me minute? Must she hoard every single second? Her brother needed time too. He cried as well those first few months. His new sister took his toys and sat in his mother's lap. He didn't understand. None of us did really, we had a lot to learn. I cried a lot myself.
Some days, I felt like it wasn't working. I could meet no ones needs completely. "Meet their needs, not their wants," the social worker told me. Oh how I tried. It was hard. All children have to adjust to their new siblings, I soothed myself. They both have to learn to share. I am only one person. All well and good most days, but in weak moments, their crying broke my heart. I wanted my daughter to attach to me and I knew that meant I had to hold her and be physically and emotionally with her. I wanted my son to feel special and loved as well. Not displaced.
In that first, wonderful, terrible, hard to process year, I wondered if we had made the right choices. I had my doubts. They shamed me, I kept them secret, but I had them. Some days, the cons seemed to outweigh the pros.
They grew and changed and adjusted, as did I. As the first year ended, we had a routine, we had balance, we were a mostly happy, secure family. They welcomed their newborn brother with barely a hitch in their second summer. The adjustment went beautifully, but doubts still plagued me. We wanted a bigger family, but were they each getting enough of my time? Did the fun of playing with siblings and having sisters and brothers to see you through life outweigh the stretched resources, the stretched, tired, sometimes impatient parents? We hoped so, but we didn't know.
There were still times when everything fell apart and I'd mentally beat myself up. When things went badly, it was hard to accept it as normal toddler ups and downs. I panicked, wondered if we were facing unresolved adoption issues, if our daughter's attachment was secure, if our son had hidden grief and anger to process? At a memorable birthday tea party for little girls, my confident, well-behaved daughter disintegrated. She regressed so far in that hour period that I felt like it was the first year all over again. She screamed about nothing and everything. She clung to me and then hit me when I protested, when I had to set her thirty pounds down for a moment.
Defeated, I finally removed her from the party, as a consequence and as self-preservation. Sitting in the car, my nerves flayed by her protesting screams from the back seat, I spoke to her less kindly than I should have. "You need to use your words. Your behavior was not okay. Not only did you miss the cake, you won't be going to any parties for a while."
Her lip trembled and her eyes filled with real tears, "I felt shy," she quavered, "I miss my Garrett." Amazement and sudden understanding flooded my brain as hot tears flooded my eyes and choked my throat. She had never been anywhere with other children without her brother before that day. I hadn't realized how much she relied on him, for safety, for guidance, for stability.
My inner worries transferred to my son. Was it too much for him? Did it seem like pressure? Did he feel usurped, like his place in the family was threatened? It was so hard to read their complex little minds.
As the fall approached, they both turned three. I prepared them for their new drop-off preschool. Only one day a week, for three hours, but for the first time ever, besides some nights with a trusted sitter in our home, I would not be with them. I had, I think, a typical parent's reservations and conflicts. Would they cry? Did I want them to cry? I wanted them to need me, I longed for such concrete evidence of Saige's attachment to me. But, my conflicted mother's soul longed for other things too. Strong, confident children. An attachment so strong that they felt no fear in separating.
They showed no fear in our discussions. "Mamma won't stay, but I'll be back before lunch."
"We'll go to school all by ourselves?" The proud declarations pricked at my heart a bit.
The day before school started, I talked with my son in a quiet moment. "Are you excited? Are you scared?"
He remained resolutely closed. Then, for a moment, he softened and turned to me with his wide gray-green eyes. "Will Saige be there?"
"Yes baby, of course."
"Okay."
Maybe it wasn't only Saige who took comfort and confidence from her brother's presence.
My heart beat way too fast when we pulled up in front of the small in-home preschool. I took pictures in the driveway, fighting tears like the silly mother that I am. We entered the lovely basement room holding hands, but they immediately separated, enthralled by the roomful of new toys and flew, flew, from my side with squawks of joy. I stood to the side, catching my breath, alone, and quietly watched the teacher deal with a little boy sobbing in the fetal position on the floor, his security blanket clutched in his white fist. My eyes wandered to another wide-eyed little girl in the corner, crouched as far as she could get from the teacher and my excited, confident siblings. My beautiful, disparate twins. Nothing felt forced about their relationship in that moment.
"Saige, Garrett," I said softly, "I'm leaving. I'll be back for you after school and we'll have lunch." Saige yelled "bye mommy" without pausing in her exploration. Garrett gave me a brief wave, possibly of farewell, but it looked more like dismissal. They didn't look up again, so I quietly exited.
Outside in the van, the sun warm on my face, the baby asleep in his car seat, I let a few tears fall. Tears of sadness, to see my babies reach another milestone, grow, change, move step by step away from me as they should, as all children must. And also, tears of joy, to see our unusual choice for building our family work. To see a difficult transition smoothed for them, eased by their bond. They didn't need me today. They had each other.
Things still fall apart, more often than I'd like. They fight, they hit each other, they compete for attention, they stretch us to the limit at times, just like all siblings. They also play, they whisper secrets, they team up against me. Like brothers and sisters everywhere, usually, more often than not, the pros far outweigh the cons.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Ten Reasons I Love the Tropics
1) Stunning white sand beaches.
2) Trade winds.
3) Palm trees.
4) Flip flops.
5) Have I mentioned lately that our house in Washington is under five feet of snow? Aha.
6) Gas station giveaways. (I mean it, they are fabulous. The approximately ten gas stations on the island are always holding these awesome giveaways. The last time that we lived here, Shell gave away a baby pig. I really wanted to win, but it didn't happen. Right now, it's model Ferraris. We just got one, despite my tendency to lose the receipts, which you have to keep to claim your prize.)
7) Blueberry cream cheese ball things at the Japanese bakery.
8) The water slide at the fancy pool.
9) Not caring if it's raining, because it's so cooling. Unless it's tropically teeming down rain and then, laughing hysterically because the kids and I are drenched like we jumped in the pool coming up the steps.
10) My kids' fat little bellies in their bathing suits.
Are we all feeling warm and fuzzy? Good. Love fest over. Guess who has pin worms. Is it the baby that touches feral dogs and has an obsession with rocks and always has his hands in his mouth? No. Perhaps Gee who has a David Sedaris like proclivity for licking random disgusting public objects? No. My daughter Ess, who will happily eat a year old piece of candy off of the ground in front of a trash can? No.
Me. I have intestinal parasites. Me. The woman who washes her hands 8000 times a day and uses antibacterial hand stuff like it's going out of style. It's a travesty of justice. I would appeal to a higher power, but I'm afraid I would only doom myself to coming back to earth as a pin worm in another life.
My mom just read this and she's dying right now. That's right, mom, I just admitted to whatever poor souls have decided to enter my internet home today that I have butt worms. How's that for hospitality?
As soon as she can figure out the time difference she's going to call me. "Stacey Colleen McCallister" (except that my middle name is far more Jewish and my last name (my married name) is a bit more Scottish). She'll use my whole name, though, because that's how I know she's really fired up. "SCM, do we really need to inform the nice blog people that we have worms in our ass?" My mom has a delightful sense of propriety, but a foul mouth. She's the reason my children will cuss at an early age.
Yes, mom, we (I) do. I'm bitter. I'm pregnant for the love of god, don't you get a by on these things when you're in a family way. Raise your hand if you think a pregnant woman with butt worms is entitled to a glass of wine (or two) tonight. But, no, I won't be having wine because I already have to expose this poor baby to anti-parasite medication.
I spoke to my resident health care professional (Matt, he's a pharmacist).
Me: Can you please look up the drugs for intestinal worms and make sure I can take them and bring me some home?
Matt. Ewwwwwwww. Groooooosssssssss.
Me: Very mature and professional. Is that what you say to your patients?
Matt: I don't sleep in the same bed with my patients.
Me: Just do it.
(Later)
Matt: It's a class C drug and (waa, waa, waa, blah, blah, mouth moving, don't care). So, it's considered safe, but it hasn't really been tested on pregnant women and I'm not sure you should take it.
Me: How many drugs are tested on pregnant women?
Matt: Almost none.
Me: I cannot have pin worms for six months.
Matt: Are you sure you have pin worms? How do you know? Is it really that bad?
Me: Would you like me to get graphic?
Matt: Sure?
My mom: NO! NO! People who don't know us well are reading this. Aunt K, Uncle R. Oh. God. My holiday poem. Our friends.
Me: It itches you freaking bastard, bring the damn drugs home!
PS If you're a new visitor, or you really come for the adoption posts, or the sweet posts about being a mom, or well, something a bit less worm-filled, I'm really, really sorry. I washed the blog really well, in hot water, with bleach.
PPS I can't believe this is my first post in 2009. Bright side - it can only get better from here.
2) Trade winds.
3) Palm trees.
4) Flip flops.
5) Have I mentioned lately that our house in Washington is under five feet of snow? Aha.
6) Gas station giveaways. (I mean it, they are fabulous. The approximately ten gas stations on the island are always holding these awesome giveaways. The last time that we lived here, Shell gave away a baby pig. I really wanted to win, but it didn't happen. Right now, it's model Ferraris. We just got one, despite my tendency to lose the receipts, which you have to keep to claim your prize.)
7) Blueberry cream cheese ball things at the Japanese bakery.
8) The water slide at the fancy pool.
9) Not caring if it's raining, because it's so cooling. Unless it's tropically teeming down rain and then, laughing hysterically because the kids and I are drenched like we jumped in the pool coming up the steps.
10) My kids' fat little bellies in their bathing suits.
Are we all feeling warm and fuzzy? Good. Love fest over. Guess who has pin worms. Is it the baby that touches feral dogs and has an obsession with rocks and always has his hands in his mouth? No. Perhaps Gee who has a David Sedaris like proclivity for licking random disgusting public objects? No. My daughter Ess, who will happily eat a year old piece of candy off of the ground in front of a trash can? No.
Me. I have intestinal parasites. Me. The woman who washes her hands 8000 times a day and uses antibacterial hand stuff like it's going out of style. It's a travesty of justice. I would appeal to a higher power, but I'm afraid I would only doom myself to coming back to earth as a pin worm in another life.
My mom just read this and she's dying right now. That's right, mom, I just admitted to whatever poor souls have decided to enter my internet home today that I have butt worms. How's that for hospitality?
As soon as she can figure out the time difference she's going to call me. "Stacey Colleen McCallister" (except that my middle name is far more Jewish and my last name (my married name) is a bit more Scottish). She'll use my whole name, though, because that's how I know she's really fired up. "SCM, do we really need to inform the nice blog people that we have worms in our ass?" My mom has a delightful sense of propriety, but a foul mouth. She's the reason my children will cuss at an early age.
Yes, mom, we (I) do. I'm bitter. I'm pregnant for the love of god, don't you get a by on these things when you're in a family way. Raise your hand if you think a pregnant woman with butt worms is entitled to a glass of wine (or two) tonight. But, no, I won't be having wine because I already have to expose this poor baby to anti-parasite medication.
I spoke to my resident health care professional (Matt, he's a pharmacist).
Me: Can you please look up the drugs for intestinal worms and make sure I can take them and bring me some home?
Matt. Ewwwwwwww. Groooooosssssssss.
Me: Very mature and professional. Is that what you say to your patients?
Matt: I don't sleep in the same bed with my patients.
Me: Just do it.
(Later)
Matt: It's a class C drug and (waa, waa, waa, blah, blah, mouth moving, don't care). So, it's considered safe, but it hasn't really been tested on pregnant women and I'm not sure you should take it.
Me: How many drugs are tested on pregnant women?
Matt: Almost none.
Me: I cannot have pin worms for six months.
Matt: Are you sure you have pin worms? How do you know? Is it really that bad?
Me: Would you like me to get graphic?
Matt: Sure?
My mom: NO! NO! People who don't know us well are reading this. Aunt K, Uncle R. Oh. God. My holiday poem. Our friends.
Me: It itches you freaking bastard, bring the damn drugs home!
PS If you're a new visitor, or you really come for the adoption posts, or the sweet posts about being a mom, or well, something a bit less worm-filled, I'm really, really sorry. I washed the blog really well, in hot water, with bleach.
PPS I can't believe this is my first post in 2009. Bright side - it can only get better from here.
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