Uh oh, it gets worse!

So the other day my son discovered my secret hiding spot in my bra (if I knew how to put in the link to that post I would, but I am not very good with the technical aspect of blogging yet- someone help me please!!!) and now he just can't let it go! This morning at daycare, Mr. M was playing with the magnets from the calendar- he was particularly enchanted with the "snow" icon- and I sincerely hope he doesn't have some sort of ESP- when all of a sudden he stuck the magnet down the front of my shirt. I guess he wanted to take it home or something! I took it out and before I knew it, the magnet was down the BACK of my shirt. Oh lord. What have I started? It gets worse... at pickup, I was talking to Daycare Dawnie when Mr. M drops my car keys down the front of my shirt. Clearly he thought I was going to forget them. I fished out the keys and scooped him up to go- hysteria ensued as he totally didn't want to leave (and why would he? Daycare Dawnie is AWESOME and he has way too much fun!) so I whipped out my ace in the hole- A TREAT. He knows what treats are, and boy, does he like them! He looked at me quizzically, and you guessed it.

He pulled out my shirt and stuck in head in, saying "Where's treat?"

Food porn

Obviously there is a problem with lots of things in America- the economy is a shit show, we've got college students living in a square in Boston, liberals are defecting at an alarming rate, hospitals are axing lactation consultants, and pornography remains a problem. In Arizona, there is a shooting range where kids can pose with a semi-automatic rifle aimed at Santa for their holiday cards. Disgusting, right? There was just a thing on the news about a guy looking at inappropriate things on his laptop while on a flight. Now that's just gross. There is one porn I can totally get behind, however, and that's some good old-fashioned food porn. For the non foodie, it's cookbooks, catalogs, and shops that cater to the gourmand, and pretenders alike (that's me- I just pretend!) Look at all those shows on TV- Top Chef, Next Iron Chef, Master Chef, Cake Boss, Unique Eats- I could literally fill an entire novel with them! For me, my great weakness is the Williams-Sonoma catalog and Harry & David. They both make me feel like I could entertain with the best. From gravy base that turns my gravy into a rich, dark, velvety gloss- to Moravian Ginger Spice Cookies so thin you feel like you're snapping panes of glass. Corn relish that when whipped with cream cheese creates a 1950's appetizer staple- chutneys that paired with fresh pineapple and crystallized ginger turn a ham into a shining star of the dinner table- olive tapenades, basting oils, exotic spices, and marinades that transform any ho-hum meal into a party in your mouth! Fresh Bosc pears packaged in towers, complete with dark chocolate nibbles created solely to accentuate the fruit. This time of year is the most dangerous- there is no end of possibility for your holiday table! Luckily, they all cost mega bucks, so I am not at risk of becoming a 500 pound wanna be foodie. I stick to my pulled pork and homemade barbeque sauce (and no, I'm not sharing the recipe- but I might trade it for another tin of those Moravian Spice Cookies!) and oreo truffles- things with basic ingredients that don't break the bank.

My thoughts though? Replace Playboy, Penthouse, and all that other crap with glossy shots of glazed hams, fruit towers, and caramels- and the world just might be a better place. Albeit a slightly fatter one.

Routine

So my toddler is struggling with this whole new baby thing. I mean, who wouldn't? He's been the top banana for two years, and does a damn good job of it! My Mr. M can turn on the charm in an instant, and have strangers fawning over him in no time. Infectious laugh, curly mop of hair, and a lilting little voice. Recently, I learned that he also has a vicious temper. Mess with his routine, and there will be hell to pay! Sadly, I did just that. How dare mommy have a baby? On top of that, how dare she have a c-section? That means FOUR NIGHTS away in the hospital (which sort of felt like a spa vacation, I must admit. It was so damn quiet at night!) He did fine while I was gone, but once I returned with Schmoopie Pants in tow, it was game on. Screaming, whining, tantrums galore. Every word out of his mouth was either "a-need!" or "a-want!" What did he want? Who knows! Do you want this? Or this? Or that? We were all tripping over each other to meet his needs. We'd ruined his little life, we had to make it better! Until my mother looked at me incredulously and said, "Why the hell are we asking him what he wants? He's TWO! He doesn't freaking know!" And there lies the truth. Two year olds don't know shit. They want to play with their toys, and eat snack, and go outside, and have a tubby every so often. A two year old is not a reliable source to get information from- "Did you poop?" "Nooooooh" and yet your nose hairs have just been singed off from the stink. "Did you make this mess?" "Noooooh" as you actually see the tube of toothpaste behind his back. We're the adults, dammit! And we'll be in charge here if it's the last thing we do! It's like when we go to the doctor- we want her to TELL us what the treatment will be for our random illness, not ask us what we want to do. I certainly don't pay my therapist, hair colorist, or stylist (ok I don't have a stylist, but I really needed a third in the list and having a stylist would be really, really cool- maybe I wouldn't look so frumpy) to explore what I want- they are the professionals, just do what is good for me!  Granted, if you have a crappy colorist or therapist maybe you shouldn't give them such carte blanche, but I have outstanding ones, so I listen to them. I haven't selected my own hair color in almost ten years. Not even for my wedding!

So we started using declarative sentences with Mr. M. It's time to clean up- you will eat dinner now, and other such strongly worded directives. You know what? It works. My kid is far more pleasant to deal with. He still has his moments, but I feel in control. We even have a schedule- TV time (or ass sow as he calls "a show"), snack, tub, bed, etc. I am waiting to see nap time, mani/pedi time, or pinot time make their way on there, but a girl can dream.

For now, I'm ok with pretending that I'm in charge. We all know that's not the case, but I'm trying.

Losin' my religion...

Not that I really have one, but religion has been on my mind a lot lately, specifically the ridiculous things people do in the name of it. Wars, murder, shunning, lots of totally uncalled for things. The irony to me is that I was under the impression that religion as a concept was meant to teach people how to lead purposeful lives. Give to others, even when you have nothing. Share a smile when someone has lost theirs (and toys- definitely share toys!) Be a person whom your children and parents can be proud of. Apparently that has been lost in this dogmatic following of rules and regulations, without any question of the purposes of said rules. If a concept is important, teach your kids WHY. We do for others because it's the right thing, and makes us feel good. We treat others with respect, because that is the way we want to be treated. When people start being self-righteous, all that can be learned is lost.

So I shall continue to (mostly) eschew organized religion, and instead raise my children with the following things in mind:

1. It's ok to eat cake for breakfast, as long as you don't do it every day.
2. Just because someone thinks differently from you doesn't make them an enemy. Ask them why, and listen when they speak- that is how you learn and grow, and form your own opinion.
3. May you live to see a world that you create, and have your future be a time we cannot yet imagine.
4. Always explore.
5. Make sure your heart learns understanding, for without it, you are nothing.
6. Speak words of wisdom and sing songs of joy, in whatever damn key you want. Or in the words of "Sesame Street", "Sing, sing a song! Sing out loud! Sing out strong! Who cares if it's good enough, for anyone else to hear, just sing, sing a song!"
7. Let your eyes shine with knowledge you receive, and the wonder of it all.
8. Know that your parents' hope for you will span the generations that come after us.
9. Don't count the person ahead of you in lines' grocery items, when in the express lane. Pettiness is an ugly thing.
10. Your mom and dad will ALWAYS love you, no matter what you do. We may not be thrilled at your choices all the time, but that doesn't matter in the long run. You are still our children and should be confident in that love for all eternity.
11. Get therapy. It's really good for pretty much anyone. I'll even pay for it.
12. No one is better than anyone else. We are all different in so many ways, and it is this variety that makes life a garden.

The gig is up...

This morning I asked Mr. M to get a binky for my little schmoopie face, who has been a touch cranky today. Mr. M looked at me quizzically, and then stuffed his hand down my shirt to retrieve the binky in my bra. Well shit. He knows. That's where I hide EVERYTHING. I have caught him before trying to tuck small toys in there, but hadn't really thought about it. Admit it, a bra comes in totally handy to keep things in. I would say small things, but really, I can stash quite a bit. I think it goes back to college- we had this tradition where at the first home hockey game of the year, against our arch rivals (Booo Crest!), was called the Orange Bowl. Basically, when your team scored the first goal, you hurled oranges onto the ice at the opposing goalie. It was quite a sight to behold- oranges ricocheting off the boards, and the goalie crawling into the goal to take cover. When I wast there we kept it pretty tame- the dining halls wouldn't serve oranges that week, and the town grocery store would have a run on oranges, but we made it work. It wasn't like it is now- they throw stupid things on the ice. It's not called the Blow Up Doll Bowl! You throw ORANGES. Not a tough concept! The problem was that you were patted down on your way in- oranges weren't allowed! People got pretty creative- there were quite a few frat boys who did their own version of drag purely to stuff their empty bras with oranges. For my group of friends, however, I could guarantee at least a dozen oranges- stash them outside, and every time you came back in, bring some more tucked in the bottom of your bra. I had to be careful not to wear something low cut, because it had the same effect as a wonderbra, which I didn't need! It was also pretty handy for frat parties, especially the ones down in Bundy- you don't want to take a purse, and you can put things in your jacket pocket but the likelihood that you would come home with your own jacket was slim. You tried to keep your stuff on you, and the bra was the place to do it. With party themes like the classic toga, Pimps & Hoes, Jungle Juice, and Club DU, there wasn't a tremendous amount of clothing being worn to keep your room key in. And lip gloss, a couple of bucks for late night ordering from Tony's or Roma's, and some other crap. For me, it was never a problem! I could stash enough makeup to take over for the Extreme Makeover team at a moments notice! Old habits die hard- if I can't find something and I know I had it yesterday, I always check my bra in the laundry bin, and more times than not, it's there!!!

Well, I used to. My toddler has put and end to that fine tradition. I might have to use my purse.

All things retail...

I had no intention of "doing" Black Friday this year. I have a two year old and a two week old- shopping like a ninja is pretty low of my priority list. Until I got the ads in the Globe Thanksgiving morning. My husband has always loved the ads and I like Target usually, but am not overly into them. Well, I didn't used to be. The ones we got yesterday were like Pandora's box- once I started looking I couldn't stop, and pretty soon I had a game plan. Hubs up at 4:30 am to go to the sporting goods store and get hockey nets and sneakers- because my two year old NEEDS to start practicing. Never mind he can't skate yet- he has had a hockey stick since I was three seconds pregnant with him. Positive pee on a stick? Head to Pure Hockey. That's pretty much how it went. So off he went, returning at six for the passing of the baton- mom's turn! Babes into the car and away we went. I hit the craft store first- keeping a two year old entertained for more than thirteen seconds takes planning, lots and lots of planning. And markers. Totally scored there and got stuff to make busy bags for an upcoming swap too! Then to my favorite parenting place for some great deals on everyone's favorite Calendula lotion, and a Moby wrapping lesson- somehow I had forgotten the most important part, and my little schmoopie baby was sliding right out- we had to master that in preparation for tomorrow's tree finding adventure! Strollers don't really off road at the tree farm...then I tempted fate. I went to the uber-popular big box toy store. Crayons buy one get TWO? Oh hell yeah. Toddlers eat crayons (typically red- the diapers in this house can attest to that!) Magna doodles? Bring it! Temporal thermometer? Filters for the humidifier? I could really score there. That is, until I made the mistake of asking for help finding Aquadoodles. The young man led me around the store for a while, scratching his head. Finally he turned to me and said "Those don't exist." Really buddy? Then where the heck were you taking me? And they DO exist, I already own several! He looked like the proverbial dear in the headlights and quickly scuttled away to the "Wheels" area which was clearly his safe zone. Cursing under my breath, I vowed to find the Aquadoodles and prove him wrong. Find them I did. After fifteen more minutes of dodging runaway carts and pushing through mobs of overtired fathers debating the merits of the three in one trike versus the adaptable two wheeler,  I opened my eyes and actually looked at the aisle headings.

You guessed it. I was standing right next to an aisle with a HUGE sign saying "Aquadoodles". Apparently I can't just blame that kid. Hell, at least I got what I came for (and seventeen other things). The major bonus? I got to have lunch at Wegman's.

A little overdue

So I wrote this about a month ago and then promptly lost it somewhere on the damn cloud, or whatever it is that floats around in cyberspace eating my thoughts and ideas. Well, guess what? This is my blog and I want to use it!!!! So pretend it's November 6th or something, ok?

This morning people woke up in the dark. Again. For maybe the eighth morning in a row. Ridiculous, hunh? It’s not Little House on the Prairie, it’s 2011. And yet, people are still in the dark. Yeah, because we live in New England, and apparently Jim Cantore just bought a house in our neck of the woods, cursing us for weather patterns forever. So far this year, we have had the Snowpocolypse- when we received at least 2 million inches of snow. The plow pile at the end of my driveway reached the second floor. I could stand on top and see into my son’s room. Now that is RIDICULOUS. We lost power a few times, but not for very long. Then we had tornadoes- not crazy tornadoes like the midwest suffered from, but tornadoes all the same. We were at a school event huddled in the stair well. My hubs and son were barricaded in the basement convinced the world was actually going to end. We were lucky- western Massachusetts was devastated- entire towns were plowed through leaving swaths of destruction cris-crossing neighborhoods. As people were just starting to recover the meteorologists began flipping a nutty over a hurricane. And kept flipping out. Frantically predicting the apocalypse. Sadly, they weren’t totally wrong. It did rain. I didn’t think it rained terribly hard, but all of a sudden we had no power. It kept being out- we waited, and waited, and still, no power. After two days of roughing it, off to a hotel we went. The first day of school? Cancelled. Start racking up those snow days early! It’s 90 degrees outside and we have a SNOW DAY? I so enjoyed it though- little Mr. M headed to daycare, and I lazed about the air conditioned hotel, and enjoyed a lovely, peaceful, quiet lunch. All was well until the evening, when some idiot mother decided that her bouncing toddler can sleep in the big bed with mama. Of course he couldn't, and off to the emergency room we went! Toddler noggins are fairly resistant, however, and he went from dazed and way confused to hyperactive and climbing out of the baby crib/stretcher/cage. Needless to say, no CAT scan, just a bill for $100.  Power came back that night, too. Clear out the fridge and freezer, and start over again. Breath a sigh of relief, only 40+ hours with no power.
Ok, it’s fall now. End of October, and the meteorologists do it again- get all crazy about a Nor’Easter- record levels of snowfall! Mass destruction! Sure. Whatever you say. Well, they were sort of right. There was snow, and lots of wind, but not an epic amount of snow. What did happen was mass suicide by trees across the state. You couldn’t sleep for the staccato of breaking trees. The next morning really was post-apocalyptic. Trees blocking most roads, no power to be found, ANYWHERE. Wegman’s didn’t even have power, just their back up generator. And it was COLD. Teeth chattering cold. At least there was sunlight to warm the house up a little bit. Blankets and sweatshirts did the trick, until we approached nightfall. Something had to be done. Mass evacuations were occurring- ever the idiot I had NOT booked a hotel room first thing in the morning, like I had recommended my friends do. We joined the exodus and slept elsewhere. The next day, I dropped Mr. M off at daycare- she had power, heat, TV, everything a toddler could want! I pulled out all my tricks- fire in the fireplace, took down curtains to maximize sun exposure, and called every single hotel in a crazy radius. Nothing. Nada. Hotels were taking reservations online, but actually had no power at their facility. It was a free for all. There were so few gas stations with power, I actually saw a cat fight at the pump over who was next. Roads impassable, and obviously, snow day number two for schools everywhere. And number three, and four and five for many districts. We got our power back after about 39 hours, thankfully, but I had neighbors out until almost a full week afterwards. As I write this, there are still families in western mass with no power. People DIED from this storm. We lost another fridges’ worth of food, which is NOTHING in the grand scheme of things. My neighborhood is still barely passable because of the hundred year old trees that had to get busted up by National Guard tanks are still lying mostly in the road. Our yard is covered in broken trees, and crushed patio furniture. You know what pisses me off the most though? The emails I keep getting from the town. “Please bring storm debris to the town garage”. And how? I have a fifty foot tree in the back yard. Am I supposed to hitch that to my son’s tricycle and drag it through town? State of emergency you nutso politicians! Use the money from the government to rent a damn wood chipper and drive around for a couple of months! You had to bring a TANK to my neighborhood to move trees. Come pick it up your damn selves. Or get that tank back in here. The National Guard seemed to have it together.

Bring it to the town garage? You really don’t want me to. I won’t be kind.

My Kid is the Cutest

I know, we all say that. My kid is freaking adorable MOST of the time. I absolutely lose my mind, however, we he says pumpkin. I could cry it’s so adorable. I dedicated an entire day to capturing it on video and was finally successful, saving it to every media site possible to prevent loss. When I’m 75 years old I want to listen to that little voice saying “pun- keen” (that’s if I still have my hearing- it’s debatable now whether I actually hear most of what is being said to me- I am just discerning in my book) I make him say it every chance I get, driving out of the way to see billboards with pumpkins, and buying an excessive amount of books about Halloween just to hear that “pun-keen”. He says lots of cute things of course, like “triang” and “rectang”  (with an almost southern twang on the second syllables) for triangle and rectangle. The third syllable is just beyond his two year old ability I guess. I don’t care, it’s so damn cute!!!

I wonder when that will change- will I send him to kindergarten and have him be routed directly into speech and language services because he still says “pun-keeeeeeen”? You know I will prompt him to now say it the wrong way because of the cuteosity factor (no, that’s not a word. Deal). Will his math teacher call home questioning his geometric abilities due to the loss of that third syllable on rectangle? I can just hear that conversation now. “Ms. Baer, I’m sorry, but your son seems to struggle with some of the concepts in math, specifically labeling shapes.” My response, “Well Miss. I-was-born-yesterday-and-am-too-freaking-young-to-be-teaching, isn’t it adorable? Don’t you just love it?” to which her ass had better reply, “Oh, of COURSE,” or we will have issues with a capital I.

Yup, add language delay to the list of ways I have ruined my child forever.

Let's be real here...

There are so many things I am thankful for, but really? These are the things I think about pretty freaking regularly. They aren't necessarily traditional blessings, but, eh, who are we kidding?

1. I have never had to lie about a baby's cuteness to a new mom. Apparently, every single person I know creates beautiful creatures.
2. I have an amazing colorist. I don't even have to think about my hair, just pay for it. And yes, I am thankful that I can afford a colorist!
3. My mom is hot. She looks like she's 45, tops. That makes me feel younger than I am. And no, I am NOT jealous of her hotness. Perhaps her wardrobe, but she does share. Well, sort of. I inherit.
4. I am really good at pretending to be sick. This comes in handy that one day in a blue moon that I REALLY need a mental health day.
5. I have discovered Jurlique Herbal Recovery Gel. It makes me look like I slept for twelve hours on a satin pillowcase. Actually, my mom thrust it into my hands after taking a  gander at my postpartum pallor.
6. I can type pretty quickly, which frequently makes me look industrious when I am camped out in Starbucks when the power goes out; in reality I am on Facebook or answering ridiculous questions for Cha Cha, for a whopping one-hundreth of a penny.
7. Wegman's. They just make good food. I like the people that work there, and I get to eat breakfast in silence while my child plays with the train table.
8. My toes. I have pretty nice toes. Now that I can reach them again I will have to return to painting them myself, or not. I really like a good pedicure every once in a while.
9. I am incredibly lucky to have DVR. I never have to miss an episode of any of the ridiculous shows that I seemingly can't live without!
10. I'm pretty good with a makeup brush- I can create a smoky eye on myself WITHOUT going to the makeup counter and pretending that I am interested in buying a whole new look for myself!
11. What I am most thankful about these days though, which is TERRIBLE? It's coffee. Pumpkin Spice to be exact. Until they invent a Mint Mocha Coffee, it's my favorite. These days I really need it too. I can't believe that coffee is so important in my life. Now that's freaking sad.

People I Like

So there are a lot of people I like. And a hell of a lot more that I don't like. Unfortunately, many of the people I super duper enjoy are really far away. Like Mickey Mouse. I am a fan of the mouse, and you know what? He lives in FLORIDA. Don't mice like the snow? I mean really! I would make him yummy grilled cheese and sing the "Hot Dog" song for him! And then there's my parents. They live in NEW JERSEY. That is really far away too. Personally, I would like to hold them captive in my guest room forever, but my father, being a super genius, would surely figure his way out. That isn't going to work. Let's talk different continents too- I have a friend in Abu Dhabi. You read that right! Who the hell lives in Abu Dhabi? Yeah, my friend. I guess my cooking was crappy, and she had to escape far, far away! Now I don't have ANYONE to go to Christmas Tree Shoppe with (don't forget the extra -pe, it's so much classier that way) who understands my need to fill my cart and then not buy any of it!!! (yup, I know, I am a terrible person. I always say thank you to the toll taker guy though) I could always count on her to go do something crazy on a Saturday too, like drive to Kittery, or paint a room hot pink. Now I am just jealous as I see her stunning pictures of glamourous ports of call throughout Europe. I personally think she should quit and be a photojournalist, because she's good. Wah. Get out of the desert already! Friends from camp in England (sure, the beer is better, but it's FREAKING SERVED WARM) Even close by people are far away! Some of my favorite mamas live in towns that may as well be in Zanzibar, given the GPS directions to get there- take routes 122, 190, 290, 495, 117, 11, and damn, I feel like I am stuck in a Team Umizoomi episode, trying to decode the numerical codes to rescue the Purple Monkey and return him to the damn jungle! I have a friend in Brooklyn too, and one in far far far north Jersey which may as well be Canada! Why can't all of these people be smart like my mama friend across the street, and just move to my neighborhood already. There's room. We're friendly!

Well, only if I like you. And don't expect to have power 365 days a year either, not in this neck of the woods!

Blessings in a blog...

So it's the month to be thankful around here... Thanksgiving; friendly, happy status' across the 'book; recognizing all we have in our lives- I can handle that. I totally can't handle remembering to do it every day though- life gets too crazy, way too fast. Showering regularly has become a feat so I figured I would sit and come up with things that I am thankful for, but all at once.
1. Dark Chocolate Dipped Marshmallows, preferably peppermint or coconut.
2. SLJ- that girl, my fellow logger and frequent partner in crime. Perhaps the only existing witness of some of my most spectacular late night debacles as well. Ahhhh, college!
3. Baby monitors that light up- so you can turn off the sound during endless nights of sleep training. Sucks, but it works!
4. Having my husband work in foods- I always know that something yummy can be for dinner- it's just a phone call away! Perfect for the many nights when there is just no way I am going to get it together to create something halfway edible!
5. Obviously, my mom. She's freaking incredible, people! Lovely and fabulous in every way. She's also a kick ass tennis player and has the BEST sense of style of anyone I've ever known. That and she raised me, which totally wasn't easy, I am sure.
6. My hair. Every time it looks good, my mom gets upset and says "That's the hair I've always wanted!!!" and I look at her and say "That's the body I've always wanted!". Then we say bad words and giggle.
7. Amazing colorists. Specifically, my colorist. And no, I am not telling. Well, I guess I would as long as I can always still get an appointment! Ones that you can just say, "oh, do whatever you think will look best" and know that I will walk out looking like a million bucks.
8. Janie & Jack. Enough said.
9. Zulily and Totsy. I can shop to my heart's content and be thrilled about how much I am saving but actually buy nothing, and just close out the box.
10. My dad. He's so freaking smart it's ridiculous. We changed a side view mirror, straight up. He can also quote a study for just about every conversation, which is pretty handy. Then I can wind up looking smart the next day when I simply regurgitate everything he said.
11. Showering. A day that I can do that without an audience is pretty awesome. Using a body scrub? Even better.
12. A Place on Earth in Cape May, NJ. They make the world's best sugar body scrub. I'm partial to the lavender lemongrass.
13. Katie Lee. She's my oldest and dearest.
14. Having amazing friends who are also clinicians. They can always help you either rationalize your insane behavior, or drag your ass to their colleagues' office so that you can fix it.
15. Sticky buns, from both Wegman's and Ellie's Bakery in West Cape May, NJ.
16. My dear friends gin and tonic. Especially if it's Tanqueray, with the fancy lime already in it.
17. Curriculum maps- they make me look pretty damn organized and keep me totally on track.
18. Burt's Bees. You all know why. Show me a mama purse without it.
19. My first born, Mr. M. There isn't anything I don't adore about that boy- except maybe the excessive screaming and the hair pulling. Those kind of suck.
20. Cape May- it's the happiest place on earth next to the actual happiest place on earth. The beaches are amazing and it brings such a sense of calm to my life.
21. Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, Team Umizoomi, Berenstain Bears, Caillou, Barney, Thomas, and Chuggington. Thirty minutes of silence. Very thankful.
22. Dougie Fresh- he loves me just the way I am, or at least does a damn good job convincing me of it! Oh, and he also decided to ditch that Movember shit and shave his 'stache.
23. Danskos. Yeah they are hideously ugly but I couldn't live without them. If they are shiny? Double score.
24. Mothers & Company. Yeah, it's a store, but really, where would I be without it? Where do you think I found all of my people??
25. The end button on a phone. So I can hang up when people are running their mouths and treating me with a complete lack of respect.
26. Sweet little nugget, baby J- he's such a beautiful baby and that smile? Or gas? Melts me... now if he could sleep at night and not ALL DAY?
27. My mamas. See previous blog post for further clarification.
28. Quinnie- she just knows me. Being with her is easy. Easy is good. Friends are lovely.
29. Walt Disney World. It's the best. ALL THE TIME.
30. That November only has thirty days.

CRAP! Did I forget Wegmans?

Crispy, not crunchy.

Some of the best things on earth are crunchy, like peanut butter (store brand- otherwise it's chunky, but this post is NOT about my physique), potato chips, toffee, and Cool Ranch Doritos. Notice I didn't say anything like carrots or celery. Apples are crunchy, and sort of yummy, especially if you add some of that crunchy peanut butter! These days parents get labels too- Attachment parenting, Homeschooler, Soccer Moms, there are lots, and they are different around the country. They don't actually mean anything, just sort of allude to their parenting style. It's like when you are shopping for shoes online, you type in what you want, but you still have to choose a subcategory. For example, if I wrote "Team Umizoomi" I would have to choose apparel, toys, DVD, or music. The same thing for mommy friends! You write "mommy friends" and you have to figure out which subcategory you might best get along with. It's not mutually exclusive either- you can have a Soccer Mom posse and then still drink Pinot with another group altogether. Me, I like the crunchy moms. Now, we're not talking hemp and patchouli here- stop thinking Haight/Ashbury! More like organic, locavores who use cloth diapers and non-yicky cleaners.  Me, I love just about anything edible, so local is more like within my reach. I use bio-friendly cleaners purely because they smell WAY better and the bottles are better designed and look cuter and more environmentally friendly on my countertops! As for cloth diapers? I totally admit- I LOVE THEM. Super duper adorable, those babies with super cushioned rumps, ready with enough cushioning for their first experience on roller skates! Reality? Oh hell no. I can barely wash my own clothes. I just left the hospital with and entire bag of disposable mesh undies, just in case. These "crunchy" mamas are my people- they have my back in ANY situation, and don't judge me because I use formula and eschew wool. Women that feed me when I am wading my way through the tenth circle of hell, also referred to as the postpartum period. Women that will say "Do you need me to beat them up?" when someone is mean to me (not that they would- the crunchy mamas are pretty much peace loving people- unless you screw with one of your own!!!) Women that will stay, voluntarily, at my house through the toddler witching hour until I stop crying. Women that tell me that, yes, you can have an emotion, and no, it won't make you a wus. Yeah, these crunchy mamas ARE MY PEOPLE.

Even though I am not above buying a cloth diaper cover and putting it over my Luvs, (which were totally on sale at the bulk superstore- SCORE! {but I am so totally not a hoarder- I just REALLY like a good deal}) and am just barely crispy, these crunchy women make sure I can make it through each day, and for that, I love 'em all.

Where to start..

There is SO MUCH that I could blog about! The email I got at 1 pm last Thursday saying, "Stop eating or drinking!" from my midwife. Driving my cooler full of pee to the hospital, and feeling WAY cool walking in with it. The amazing nurses I had while in the hospital, because, oh yeah, I had the baby last Thursday! That email about eating and drinking should have clued me in. The rest of the day went something like this:

1. Receive email from midwife. Put down turkey & bacon sub I had just finished eating half of. Share with students, who all of a sudden think I am amazing. Email her back and pretend like I hadn't eaten since breakfast.
2. Tell my secretary that perhaps this means I won't be in Monday.
3. Stare at my students eating the rest of my sub and curse them, not so silently, under my breath.
4. Get phone call from nurse at midwife's office saying perhaps I should come in early.
5. Drive to hospital. Listen to world's best CD, "Prologue" by the Milk Carton Kids.
6. Have ultrasound. See that baby is BREECH. WTF? He was vertex like, yesterday! Bye bye VBAC!
7. Break down, sobbing, realizing that I will never have a "normal" delivery.
8. Have blood pressure taken. Yup, it's high. Shocker.
9. See midwife. Cry. She goes to talk to doctor. Doctor takes my head in her hands and says "Go to L & D".
10. Tell parents (in waiting room, thank god, and not in New Jersey!) that we're going to have a baby. They say, "RIGHT NOW?" and I say, well, in like an hour.
11. Call husband. Tell him that we are going to have a baby. He says "RIGHT MEOW? What about dinner?", and I say, well, in like an hour.
12. Send father to pick up Mr. M at daycare. Call daycare lady and say "We're going to have a baby, and yes, right now-ish."
13. Go to L & D where Lucy says "What are you doing here?" and I say, sighing, yet again, "I'm going to have a baby." The same "right now" routine goes on with her, then a couple of my most favorite nurses.
14. Get IV. Realize I'm going to have a baby. Start to freak out.
15. Take off at a sprint with my IV pole to the surgical suite. I know where I'm going, I go to L & D every other minute already. Jeannie K. has to hustle to keep up. I stop in the waiting room to give my mom her purse.
16. Laugh at Mr. M cleaning the tables in the waiting room with baby wipes. My daycare lady rocks. My kid cleans.
17. And it's showtime. 6:36 pm, time in. Dr. Toffy on anesthesia, Donna A. on baby, Jeannie K. on my left, Sharon on my right, Eileen the scrub tech. Dr. B on baby delivery, and Dr. L assisting (he wears size 6.5 gloves. This fact sticks with me for some reason)
18. I commence my stand up comedy routine to lighten the mood in the OR. Learn that all nurses in the room have the middle name Marie. I love those girls. Try not to watch the slicing and dicing in the reflection of the light pole on the ceiling. Fail miserably.
19. 7:10 Sweet Baby J enters the world! All 7 pounds 10 ounces of him!

Who Loves the Dentist?

I am clearly a freak of nature. I love going to the dentist. When my parents hear I had a dentist appointment they say “Oh, that’s great! Have fun!”. Yeah, I’m that person. Don’t hate me yet though- I spend A LOT of time at the dentist. While I am a big fan of the floss, toothpaste makes me gag so I brush as quickly as possible to just be DONE. In my maturity (i.e. past five years) I have taken my dental hygiene much more seriously, using mouthwashes, and supersonic tooth scrubbers that sound like the Space Shuttle taking off. Now it’s mostly repair work- replacing old fillings, painting on that goo for sensitive teeth, and the like. Really, it’s like me booking a 45 minute coffee date with some of my favorite ladies! Think about it- you arrive in the office and are greeted by name, and get to chat about caramel apples, or shopping, or the delight that is Wegmans. Dream up ideas for layered candy apples (white chocolate, caramel, and pretzels anyone? YES PLEASE- have to keep the dentist in business!) and usually get some other patients into the discussion. Then I get to go back and lay in this super cushy chair that moves for me, so I have to use NO MUSCLES WHATSOEVER. I am tempted to put one in the living room, but needless to say, dear husband is not such a fan of the dentist and would probably run screaming the instant he saw it. Then we talk about fashion, cosmetics, the evils of exercise, men, dogs, real estate, television, anything. Episodes of “Curb Your Enthusiasm” come up frequently, along with shoes and the best doctors in Boston. All this while drilling and stuff happen in my mouth. After more than ten years with the same dentist, I have totally mastered the open mouthed mumbo jumbo, and we can actually have a two sided conversation! Really, it’s a lovely and relaxing break from the day. I wish everyone enjoyed dental visits as much as this kid!

Which is good, because I have to go back next week, because all those caramel apples gave me a cavity.

The Glamor of Pregnancy

What glamor, you say? Well, there are lots of lovely aspects of pregnancy of course. The glowing skin (that someone ELSE has), the perky little belly that looks like a basketball shoved under your just taut enough shirt (again, definitely someone else!), the rich, lustrous locks and long nails (do I really need to elaborate again? NOT ME!!!). Those pregnant women look FAB-U-LOUS. This preggo? Well, I've got it going on too!

1. Bags under my eyes from the perpetual anemia (unless it's the week after my iron infusion, and then I am like a bee on speed, buzzing from project to project).
2. Thinning, dull hair (again, lack of vitamins!)
3. Nubs for fingernails (being pregnant is STRESSFUL!)
4. Varicose veins that resemble those maps you use in high school with all the rivers and tributaries on them, and no, I totally don't remember what they are called! Topographical, maybe?
5. Incredibly hachi machi compression stockings for said veins. Putting them on actually required an instructional VIDEO. And special gloves, or else you rip all the skin from your fingertips, (which would be awesome if I was a cat burglar. I wouldn't have to worry about leaving prints behind!)
6. A belly that just won't stop morphing. It's round one day, and the next looks a lot more like a lopsided football. My kid's a mover, what can I say.

As if that isn't bad enough, twice a week I get a non-stress test, which is a lie. It's very stressful. You have to haul ass to labor and delivery after work, get hooked up to the monitors, and watch your babies heartbeat for at least twenty minutes. Plus you get to see a graphical representation of the Braxton-Hicks contractions you have every twelve seconds. Fun, hunh? They also check your blood pressure and stuff like that. I have an issue with blood pressure. I have it. And it's usually high but only at non stress tests. That is bad, especially when you are pretty damn pregnant. Pre-eclampsia, and a host of other issues can arise quickly, and are dangerous. So protocol is to admit the patient, draw labs, and if the labs are clear and the BP goes down, cut the mama loose onto the world.

I now know that routine all too well. I've done it countless times. I also know that my labs are fine EVERY TIME. And my pressure comes down EVERY TIME (to speed that along they have me call my mom, which is actually ironic. Most adult women have a BP spike after they talk to their mothers). Well, yesterday was different. It was a "traveling nurse" who didn't know me. They put me in room 1- not 8, which is my stomping ground! I'm very into routine. I was in room 1 once before, and that was the time the munchkin's heart rate was gonzo. Room 1 is bad. I had already hooked myself up to all the monitors, so they turned on the machine and away we went. (I am not your typical patient- yes, I hook myself up. Yes, I tell the "traveling nurse" where the sharps container is. I'm not looking for pampering, just yet) I did prompt her to check my pressure right away so we can see that it's high and start the drawing of labs right away so I could still make it out in time to pick up little dude from daycare. She did, but put the small cuff on my forearm. I was sort of confused, but she was lovely and a nurse for gods' sake. They know EVERYTHING. I did let her know that the PLUS-SIZE (I typically call it the fatty cuff and they get mad at me!) cuff was in room 8 if she wanted a more accurate read. She assured me we would be fine. Snort. WRONG. Astoundingly high blood pressure. Over and over again. My OB was away, my genius midwife covering the office, someone ELSE ON CALL. A travesty. This little man who really could have been Rocket Romano's twin from ER comes in and starts yackety yakking about BP. And he looks at the cuff. And says "Well, we clearly need a bigger cuff." To which I reply- "it's in ROOM EIGHT PEOPLE! HOW MANY TIMES DO I NEED TO TELL YOU THIS??????" And then my pressure is fine. My labs are fine. I get cut lose to come home. My kid gets picked up from daycare by a friend, which he thinks is the coolest thing since Team Umizoomi.

The tale does not end there. They give me a "collection kit". For what you say? Let's not forget how glamorous pregnancy is. It's for urine. PEE. They want me to pee in a bucket for twenty-four hours. And keep it refrigerated or on ice. And then drive it back to them. I'm ticked at this point because I just want my lovely midwife to appear and tell everyone to shove it, but she's covering the office. So I take my pee bucket and high tail it home. I'm a rule follower, I am going to pee in the bucket if they say pee in the bucket. This creates its' own challenges. Must be kept on ice (hello travel cooler!) and collected for twenty four hours. Thank god no one at work noticed me hauling a cooler to the bathroom every twelve seconds today- and it was starting to get heavy by the end of the day so I was tempted to have a student carry it for me but that's just wrong. Abuse of power, yadda yadda. Took my pee to the dentist, took it back home. Got my collection bucket all set up in the toilet for the evening (it's this little thing that attaches to the seat so it's easier to manage the whole thing, thank goodness!) and sat to talk to hubs for a split second. No more than twenty seconds later I hear "Mama, hat!" and see my little dude toddling into the kitchen wearing the pee bucket. On his head, of course. Thrilled as can be. Icing on the cake, my life is complete. My two year old son did a hat dance around the kitchen with (a thankfully CLEAN) pee collection bucket on his head, while I tried really hard not to pee my pants as I snorted with hysterical laughter.

Seriously, that was one pee that didn't make the bucket.

Procreation

There are some people that are really good at procreating. Like it's their job! Which I suppose, it soon becomes- if you have enough children to fully staff a restaurant, football team, or a small school, then you are going to be parenting for a REALLY long time! Think about it- if you have a baby when your oldest child is, geez, maybe 23 or 24, that makes for another 18+ years of full time parenting, so you're still "on duty" when you're 63. With an 18 year old. So you have will have been actively parenting for 42 years. FORTY-TWO YEARS. That's longer than most people work at their given profession before retiring. The concept of doing anything, everyday, for 42 years other than basic human functions like breathing, makes me itchy with panic. And we are talking about 42 years not drinking, yelling, swearing, or self-medicating in some other way. Forty-two years of HOME SCHOOLING. No "The kids are off to school!" relief for you! If you're a bad parent, then that's a looooooooong time to be ruining your children. Granted, you will be solely responsible for at least five clinical staff's financial success over the span of your tribe of childrens' therapy. If you're a good parent, then you're raising kids that are actually good citizens. Kids that are making society better, by volunteering, being respectful, playing music for others to enjoy. If you can afford to raise that tribe of kids, and do a good job of it? Go with your bad self mama, and procreate. Yup. I love that lady. Her hair might be a touch mullety but damn, 20 children? I wouldn't worry about how trendy my hair was either.

If alcohol wasn't banned by whatever religion they practice, I'd buy her a drink. 

Packing the Bag...

Most people are not big fans of the hospital. I am that freaky 1% that really thoroughly enjoys them. I like my hospitals like most people want their spa visit- attentive staff, good food, and valet, of course! My new chi-chi hospital totally fits the bill! It’s well landscaped and the parking is easy peasy, I don’t even NEED valet! The gift shop has some adorable things, and the cafeteria, excuse me, cafe, is quite good. They even have mint chocolate whoopie pies! I mean really, those are hard to find! The waiting rooms are scented lightly with some blend of rosemary & lavender, and they have acupuncturists and aromatherapists on staff for pain management. Bring it! That said, I have not planned very well for my impending hospital “retreat”. I finally decided to pack a bag last night. Since we were recently nomads seeking refuge from the cold and dark, my bags are already out of the closet. I dumped out a variety of mismatched socks and stared into the abyss. Empty. Now what?

THINGS ONE NEEDS IN THE HOSPITAL
1. Chapstick, numerous tubes. Preferably Burt’s Bees original. Stick form, no tin. Less contamination.
2. Fancy shower products because even the nicest hospital isn’t providing bumble & bumble. If they did, we would all try to be in the hospital more, leaving no room for people who are actually sickly.
3. Makeup, the full arsenal. Everything- foundation, eyeliner (stick AND powder- if you’re having a baby you are going to get photographed, A LOT- may as well have some doe eyes!), and a really good blush. Nars Orgasm preferably. Terrible name, but the most universally flattering blush of ALL TIME.
4. Blow drier. Many hospitals do provide blow dryers, but they are the low wattage hotel variety. Unless you are staying at the Ritz Carlton or the Four Seasons, those blow dryers bite (if you are staying in one of those fancy pants places, leave EVERYTHING at home- all products, blowdriers, robes, etc. will be better than what you already own)! If you need a round brush or paddle brush to achieve the desired affect for your hair, don’t forget it!
5. Menus for local restaurants. As good as some hospital food is (there is one hospital in particular right off the Pike that has FABULOUS catering) it can get boring. If you can, choose a hospital in close proximity to gourmet markets or a Wegman’s as well, for those smaller noshing moments. It is no accident that my hospital is within five miles of Idylwilde Farms, Main Street Cafe, Serafina,  Sweet Bites, and the Colonial Inn, home of the world renowned Indian Pudding. Got an ice cream craving? Hello, Bedford Farms! Not that I picked a hospital JUST for that (the literary panache was a big part of it too! Oh, and the doctors, I think).
6. Slippers or fuzzy socks with grippies. No matter how nice the hospital, you want your feet fuzzy and warm, even in the summer. There are drafts sometimes. Besides, when else can you strut your stuff in your sleepwear?

I probably won’t use any of it, but at least I won’t have forgotten anything!

Coffee....yum.

So America runs on Dunkin’, you say? Well that was pretty evident during this past freak weather occurrence- there were LOTS of power trucks at the DD trying desperately to restore power, and pretty much none in my neighborhood. Jerks. Well, secretly I was pretty happy, because I am a big fan of having my coffee made for me. I think the slogan should really be “Mamas run on Dunkin’” because I rarely see a mom without a coffee in hand. Not that ANYONE is surprised by that. Think about it- moms have numerous functions, and if we aren’t in peak shape, EVERYONE suffers. Nose wiper, tush cleaner, meal preparer, sock finder, toy repair specialist, plumber, laundress, moral compass (um, theoretically), maid, therapist, behavior analyst, food source, task master, chaffeur, the list is totally endless. That said, we have a plentitude of choices when it comes to coffee- mom and pop coffee shops;  the evil empire, Crackbucks; convenience stores; Wegman’s; diners; there are even machines that make coffee in OUR OWN HOMES! Bottom line? Dunkin’ makes my coffee for me. For once, I get to order someone else aroun d and get exactly what I want. Yeah, someone waiting on me, asking what I need, how they can HELP ME. Not “mama, heeeeelp, or mama, mess!” That said, I love my Dunkin’ ladies- the nicest girls around, who NEVER screw up my coffee. I actually- wait for it! GET OUT OF MY CAR TO GET MY COFFEE. There isn’t a drive through but the service is worth it. That might be the most exercise I get in the day even. If I HAVE to drive through at my second favorite store, E takes pretty good care of me and her “boyfriend” Mr. M, in the back seat- she can toss a munchkin across the back seat like a really good pitcher (and if I knew JACK about sports I would actually use someone’s real name. But I don’t!) and have Mr. M catch it! He’ll do pretty much anything for that chocolate munchkin- bats his eyelashes, waves, says “HI!” and even winks every once in a while (yeah, I have a mirror in the back seat- I know what’s going on- he’s totally cheating on Melmo) all for a little ball of dough, which he nom-noms through in point four seconds. Then we get to daycare and have to do the donut shimmy to dislodge all the crumbs from his wardrobe.  He’s at the point that every time I put my front window down, he starts screaming for a “donut”. I have tried to explain the concept of an ATM to him, but he just hasn’t gotten it yet!

Every once in a while I get really ticked off at Dunkin’ to the point that I send emails and call corporate. They do things like offer special sandwiches with delicious things like maple sausage, cheddar, or pepperjack cheese. The new thing is that smokehouse link thing.  Yumminess between two slices of a carb of your choice, and since I don’t get the egg because it’s yucky, I am all about those special ingredients. They develop a cult-like following, and make me crave breakfast like it’s going to be my last meal. And then, you know what they do? THEY TAKE IT AWAY. Limited time only! While supplies last! NO! Pigs don’t stop being raised, sausage doesn’t just stop being flavored with faux maple additives. Hillshire Farm isn't about to declare chapter eleven!

GO BUY SOME MORE, DAMNIT!

Pants

My two year old won’t wear his pants. He hates them. Pajama pants? No problem! Taking them off in the morning to put on real pants? Oh hell no. Wails of “pants” echo off the walls, an endless cacophony of toddler hysteria. Really, they are freaking pants! And they are CUTE! He would NOT put on his skinny jeans this morning, wanted nothing to do with them. I tried to explain that they were stylish, and what all the little boys were wearing, but there is just no reasoning with a two year old. Come on! When does this rational thought kick in? Long tantrum ensues- Mr. M:1. Mommy: -3,476. Needless to say he waltzed into daycare wearing normal blue jeans, which he picked out himself. I was sort of mortified, but really, it totally doesn’t matter. I’ve been trying to embrace casual wear for the two year set, but clearly, I need further interventions.As soon as we get home in the afternoon, his pants are gone. They were the first piece of clothing he learned how to ditch. I’m just waiting for that note to come home from daycare. “Your son repeatedly takes off his pants.” With a background in behavioral analysis, I actually stopped to think about why he wasn’t wearing pants. 

Well crap. It’s my fault. AGAIN. Add that to the list of the many ways I am ruining my son’s life!!! I am 38 weeks pregnant. What kind of clothes are comfortable? NONE. As soon as we walk in the door in the afternoon, my pants are history too. They lay in a heap by the door until I need to put them on again, which is typically the next morning. My husband is used to it by now, and just shakes his head. Pants hurt! Those stretchy panels squeeze my belly and that HURTS! I want them OFF immediately. At this stage of the game, I have graduated to muumuus. And yes, that is spelled correctly. I googled it. 

Bottom line, pants are overrated.

Daylight Savings? My ass.

You ruined my Sunday. Second Sunday in a row that NATURE f&^%$ with! Snowtober and now Daylight Savings Time. I get that it was conceived to provide more daylight hours in the summer- the concept is not lost on me. However, in the winter, it just screws up. Look, winter sucks. If you live in New England, at least you signed up to have it suck. It's going to be cold, dark, icy, snowy, and if recent events are indicative of this winter, power-less. So having the clock "fall back" does what? Makes it slightly lighter earlier in the morning? Takes away daylight from the afternoon? Seriously, if you are a rational person, mornings bite anyway. You haven't had your coffee yet, your kid has probably been up for hours, getting out of bed at all takes moxie! Whether it's light out doesn't really make a fig of a difference. It's not like "Wahoo, it's light! I am awakened and refreshed for the day!" At least we can do stuff in the afternoon- you're functioning, the day is rolling along, perhaps even feeling productive? TOO BAD. Now it's dark. Go to bed.

Not to mention that small children can't tell time. They just don't care, or realize, that DST trims electric usage by about 1% each day, (which is a total load of crap- maybe it's lower in the summer but way higher in the winter- we need freaking spotlights to see the end of our noses trying to take out the trash; never mind the I-am-so-freaking-seasonal-affective-disorder lamps that most people hover around like an old-time radio in times of war). It's just time for them to wake up! No toddler cares that it's now 4:30 in the morning, their body is done sleeping and it's ready to rock. Never mind that there is NOWHERE and NOTHING to do with a wide awake child that early. Wegman's doesn't open until 6 am!!! And then, the toddler will be overtired at nap time, thus not sleeping. By the time dinner rolls around (at 4:15 in the afternoon- tummies can't tell time!) said toddler is hell on wheels and mommies everywhere are drinking wine straight out of the bottle if they don't have a prescription for a sleep aid. Daddies just want to at least be able to HEAR their team getting their rears kicked, even if they can't see it for the flying toys that have now become part of the toddler tornado tearing through the living room.

As quickly as it begins- it stops- mommies twitching in rockers, toddler drooling on their shoulders- calm again takes over. A sigh of relief.

Yup, it's 6 pm. Press rewind because tomorrow is going to be just as crappy.

72 Days

Does that really even count? Everyone is all a-twitter over the demise of that gorgeous brunette’s relationship with some dude who is tall and plays some sport. Don’t know his name, don’t know if it ever really mattered. When you are getting married because your sisters are suddenly more famous than you are for being married to another tall sports star or having a baby with a preppy jerk, does it matter who stands at the altar with you? Smoke and mirrors people, obviously this relationship wasn’t going to work. No one ever knows if ANY relationship will work, unless they have a crystal ball that they aren’t sharing! Going to see Miss Pamela, who works out of a trailer by the overpass, totally does not count. Of course I will have a wonderful life and marry a fabulous guy. Why else would twenty something women be sliding you sweaty twenties whilst trying not to choke on the patchouli fumes? Not because it’s a fun activity for the day, but because they are desperate to know that there is hope for them yet! You know, more than the carefree party nights out with the ladies, trolling for a hottie to buy you a watered down G & T, pretending to  not check out every other single girl in the room to compare your shoes with. Coming home with a pounding headache from the never-ending soundtrack of such hits like “The Sign” and “Barbie Girl”, reeking of secondhand smoke (well, back in the olden days that was a problem), and vowing never to go out again. 

That said, carefree nights out sound pretty damn good right about now.

S&%$ happens

I get that. I understand that phrase. I am an ENGLISH TEACHER FOR GOD'S SAKE. (cue lovely song from Bye Bye Birdie-NOW) I do not need a working representation of the phrase. I do not have processing delays, and do not need the hands on experience to understand it. And yet, the universe decided I did. This morning. VERY EARLY IN THE MORNING. In all it's technicolor glory. It's not enough to be 38 weeks pregnant, shaped like a bowling ball, trying to dress a toddler who is screaming bloody murder because I attempted to put socks on his little cold feet (socks? SOCKS? Are you kidding me? Pick a fight over something good, like vegetables, but SOCKS? THEY HAVE MICKEY MOUSE ON THEM. Socks are not our enemy!), a fetus doing straight up gymnastics and ricocheting off my uterine walls, while trying to crimp my hair with one hand because Halloween has been rescheduled and I just have to be 1980's Madonna, complete with mesh gloves (don't get me started, we do not reschedule holidays- we just cancel them, but this post is about s^&) when I hear this gurgle. Not like oops, I burped gurgles, like a "take cover! run for the hills! BANZAAAAAIIIIIII! gurgle. And that, my friend, is when the proverbial s$#% hit the fan. And the walls. And the floors. And the pregnant 1980's Madonna.

And that, my friends, is why RotoRooter is on speed dial.

Medical Professionals

Most people aren’t big fans of doctors. They appreciate the care they get, most of the time, and piss and moan when they think they are wrong. Don’t misunderstand me- if you think your doctor sucks, by all means, find a new one; but complaining gets you nowhere, unless you do it to the state medical board, and that gets you pretty damn far (don’t even ASK why I know that)!

I love me some docs. Nurses, midwives, dentists, phlebotomists, doulas- all of them. Medical professionals are probably my favorite group of people EVER, if we are determining the quality of a person by their profession alone (which of course we can’t REALLY do). This is odd, I can freely admit. My team of medical staff are my posse. My tribe. THESE ARE MY PEOPLE, and I have LOTS of them.

My hematologist. I’m REALLY anemic and don’t absorb iron at all orally, or any other vitamin for that matter, which gets me a one way ticket to Hematology/Oncology, which is wonderful and horrendously depressing all in one. Iron infusions make me feel like freaking superwoman. My floors are clean, laundry folded, meals made AND frozen! Yup, it’s like speed in an IV bag. My hematologist herself is a hoot. She’s very plain but wears the most fantastic rings I have ever seen. Always a different stone or design, I always want to ask about the story behind them, but I have infusion techs to see! They are lovely girlies- great with a needle, and even savvier with a blanket and manipulating the thermostat with a syringe (it’s always cold in there. ALWAYS.) I’m the anomaly in the infusion wing- the vastly pregnant woman glowing among those receiving their life saving drugs via ports and pumps. My favorite patients are the Petes- Pete, Repeat, and Repeat it again- we always have a good time with each other- I mean, you’re hooked up for a while, and no one is really going out for a jaunt rolling the IV stand.

My endocrinologist- she of FABULOUS shoes- a Holly Golightly for the medical field, this woman does not mess around, and periodically sends me links for great shoes via email. She also hooks me up with my insulin grata, as my insurance doesn’t seem to find it necessary for me to take it in a format where I WON’T overdose. I kept my glucose levels totally in check, and mainly just because I was scared of what she would do if I blew it off!!! I think she actually had a patient section twelved once because she wasn’t a med compliant gestational diabetic! Yeah, she might be my hero.

Oh the ladies of L & D- haven’t had Jameson yet, but guess what? I visit L & D twice a week to have my non stress tests, which are, ironically, rather stressful. I have to remember to bring my stretchy straps to hold the toco and heartrate monitors (you know, reuse!!!), and I get to know my blood pressure really well while I’m hooked up. I also get to watch my contractions on the computer screen, which is really quite lovely. Um. Not. At. All. Those ladies are the best- I do have a tendency to bring them treats (which are not worth enough to count as bribes- I swear!!!) and as a result, I get buzzed in immediately and have never waited more than three minutes for one of my favorite nurses to come bopping in and hook me up. That’s important, because we need twenty minutes of continuous monitoring, and I have Mr. M to pick up at daycare!!! The ladies all filter through to chat and harass me about the excessive baking I have felt compelled to do. Although one of them ratted me out to the OB, and I am now banned from baking. I had to take them pastry from Wegman’s the other day!!! Yeah, I called today just to say hi. I will probably have separation anxiety once I do deliver!

Midwives are amazing, by the way. My midwife would totally be my BFF if she didn’t know me a little too well for my liking. She always makes me laugh, and will sometimes hide in my exam room if it’s been a crazy day. She has about a half dozen children too, so she GETS motherhood. None of this “go home, put your feet up” BS- she KNOWS what moms do. Just crunchy enough to love natural childbirth, but savvy enough to have an au pair. PERFECT for me. Really, I think I would have an elective section but then I wouldn’t get to spend as much time with her, and that would suck.

Oh how could I forget my dentist? She’s like my favorite EVER!!! I’ve been seeing her for over ten years now, and I always try to schedule an appointment on our anniversary. Stylish, sassy, and ridiculously suave with that damn drill. I call him Mr. Bumpy, as my entire skull shakes. Yeah, I hated brushing my teeth as a child. If she had kids, I probably would have bought them at least their first car. She’s great though, and I love to chat with her about real things, like Sephora, wrinkle creams, and the Kardashians (of which Khloe is my favorite, in case you were wondering). The receptionist is one of my most favoritest people of all time too. She ALWAYS makes me giggle and has a non-harassing tone when I forget to bring my checkbook. Which I do every time. On purpose. Shhh. Don’t tell.

Those are just my current team of medical professional crushes. I still keep in touch on an almost weekly basis with my obstetricians, nurses, receptionists, nutritionists, and ultrasound techs from my first pregnancy. Two years ago. In a different city.

I’m a freak, but that’s OK. I know how to get some bangin’ medical care.

The Rules

So there are rules for a lot of things in life- share with your friends, treat others as you would like them to treat you, toast ALWAYS drops jelly side down, drivers in the rotary have the right of way (unless you are in Massachusetts- then it’s a free for all and your best bet is closing your eyes and gunning it), and lots of other things that govern pretty much everything we do. I have my own set of rules which have served me pretty well until now.

• Coral is a nail polish color, not a lipstick.
• If you are going to wear red lipstick, it had better be Chanel. Remortgage something if you have to. NON-NEGOTIABLE RULE!
• Don’t even bother dustbusting the pile after you sweep- just flick it under the refrigerator, because NO ONE will ever move it until you sell your house, and then you can be amazed by your slovenly habits.
• If you feel down on yourself, go to the makeup counter and let the lady have free reign, you will either leave feeling fabulous or a little bit like Mimi from the Drew Carey Show, and either result is better than feeling crappy!
• Your mom really does know what you look best in. I don’t dare pick out my own clothes if I want to actually look good. Same with makeup- the best products I EVER got were the ones my mom ran out to get when I was in labor with Mr. M- (I had forgotten my gold eyeshadow and I tend to look quite peaked without it) I got more compliments on my eyeliner in photos than I did on the little bundle of cuteness!
• Shoes really are the answer, especially when you are REALLY pissed off. Try on shoes. LOTS of them. Don’t even buy any unless they are perfection (My endocrinologist is a champ when it comes to anger shopping. She has impeccable taste and always walks out with winners. I do not have such good taste, so now I refrain from buying- case in point, my shoes covered with sequins. Ruby slippers are totally not neutral.)
• If you are tripping a lot, for god’s sake, go buy a new bra. Which really leads us to the most important rule of all- WOMEN DO NOT BUY BRAS IN STORES THAT CATER TO TWENTY YEAR OLDS. Your bra shopping experience should not include a DJ and snippets of satin masquerading as a support system. You’re a woman, not a preteen, no matter what size your boobs are. 

Boobs work hard- and are totally more functional than most bodily extremities. I mean, yeah, there are some leg men out in the world, but let’s face it, boobs bear the brunt of staring. And really, they can do ANYTHING, including providing nourishment, and this astounding thing called breastmilk, which can apparently do everything. It’s kind of like Chuck Norris- it can cure pinkeye, ear infections, and solve world hunger in one fell swoop. These ladies need love.

Now my grandmother was a hoot and a half, and sort of really annoying at times. The tag line always was, “…but we loved her,” which was her saving grace. Ahh, another day, another seven million word blog post. That lady knew how to shop though, and she had boobs. Serious ones that needed a sort of pulley system to remain aloft. I always thought she would make a tremendous masthead for a pirate ship with that rack. Her shoulders bore permanent grooves from the straps and many, many years of schlepping them around. She probably taught my mom, who in turn taught me, that bras need to be fitted, not just bought. And not just from anywhere, but a high end department store. Bonwit Teller, Bendel’s, Saks, Lord & Taylor…you didn’t need to BUY them there but that’s where you went to get fitted. These days, the rule is Nordstrom- those women working there are like the Michaelangelos of mammary tissue! They can make any woman look perky and curvy in just the right places! Unless you REALLY crave that beautiful silver bag (which I do from time to time- it just feels lux in my hands!) you can then go home and buy the bras off of eBay, or whatever online portal floats your boat. Sometimes they even have mine at Marshall’s, which is a major score, one that I would probably post as my status. Or even text other people about. Can't you just see that now? WACOAL AT MARSHALLS!  Go now!

On the Subject of Pastry

It had finally happened. The moment I had been waiting for- anticipating, knowing that it would eventually happen, but fearing it at the same time. No, my water didn’t break while I was at the white board at school (now that would be mortifying!), but there were NO. STICKY. BUNS.

Pastries are an interesting food group- they run the gamut from the delicate and fou fou petit fours, delicate sfogliatelle, and Napoleons, but also include hearty Lobster Tails, tarts, scones, and other delightful concoctions. There’s the fruity tarts and oozing lava cakes, éclairs, madeleines, and those new fangled cake pops. However, the true star of the pastry case at Wegman’s is the sticky bun. From humble beginnings, the sticky bun is a basic homespun treat- yeast based dough, butter, cinnamon, sugar, sometimes raisins (GROSS) or nuts (which can sometimes turn a sticky bun into a pecan bun, which I deem acceptable) that your mom would serve Christmas and Easter mornings. Well, at least my mom did, and they are freaking amazing. DELIGHTFUL. Chewy, yeasty, gooey. Childhood in a swirl. I honestly tasted nothing better until I discovered Ellie’s Bakery- a little storefront in West Cape May, NJ. Ellie is a genius with dough- she can create both visual and gastronomical delight with simple, local ingredients. Brownies, cuppy cakes, and of course, the sticky bun. Ellie even made ones, every day no less, WITHOUT NUTS!!!! When I discovered the still warm sticky bun, sans nuts, it was as if the heaven’s opened and Handel himself descended singing the Messiah. Yeah, they were that good. Or so I thought. A Wegman’s sticky bun is slightly different- they use a flakier dough, which I don’t even think is yeast based. It’s like the pain aux chocolat got it on with a Cinnabon and had a bastard child. Every bite is caramel-like goo.

Back to my current crisis. I looked to the left, where the sticky buns usually shared a tray with the blueberry scones, directly above cranberry orange and raspberry.  I looked to the right, where sometimes a confused baker switches a Danish tray with the sticky bun tray. None in sight. I moved down the line, thinking maybe they were sandwiched between the fresh-baked bialys and the bagels. NO STICKY BUNS. Frantically, I retraced my steps, shushing Mr. M in the cart with a “quiet, Mommy’s thinking!!!” I couldn’t see them anywhere. I checked the coffee line- none there. The manager of the bakery noted the panic in my eyes and asked how he could help. Gasping, I asked where the sticky buns were. “Oh, we don’t have any today- the batch turned out poorly and weren’t up to par. We’ll have them tomorrow morning!”

Not up to par? I think I could have been the judge of that. 

I kicked GD ASS!

So this pregnancy, just like my first, I had gestational diabetes. In this day and age, it’s not such a huge deal, but it does mean a HUGE time commitment- food diaries, carbohydrate counts, blood glucose log, endocrinologist appointments, tons of extra appointments, the list could go on forever! Basically, you have one appointment a month with your endocrinologist, and then you submit all of your glucose levels every week to both your endo and your obstetrician. Nothing like overkill, hunh? Then you add in extra ultrasounds at 28, 32, 36, and 38 weeks, plus twice weekly non-stress tests, and you are looking at a massive commitment! Seriously, if I spend one more minute on Route Two I might actually lose my mind! I know you aren’t supposed to text and drive in this state, and I’m ashamed to say I broke that law multiple times each trip. Googling and email don’t count, right? That’s just the protocol at my current hospital- with Mr. M I had to go twice a week starting at 24 weeks!!!! Anyway, the entire process is exhausting but worth it- the end goal being a petite baby who has avoided macrosomia, which is excessive fetal growth, and produces some BIG babies! This can be bad for a lot of reasons, especially shoulder dystocia. Mr. M was a whopping six pounds one ounce, so YAY!

Jameson is a whole different story…I feel massive. I had to actually move back my seat position in the car to fit behind the wheel, and it sure ain’t from my daily trips to Wegman’s! I only gained between 12 and 18 pounds, depending on which scales I really like and when I start counting. Water weight the week I had high blood pressure totally didn’t count either… fluid NEVER counts when we are talking poundage!!! Remember the beached whale phenomenon up and down the coast of New England this summer? They were just trying to find me and bring me home to the tribe. The babe’s not massive either, about six and a half pounds as of 37 weeks, but compared to Miles? Gargantuan. Giant. Affectionately referred to as King Kong. Apparently I also have enough amniotic fluid to host a regatta in my uterus.

Bottom line though, Jameson DOES NOT HAVE MACROSOMIA. You know why? Because I KICKED GESTATIONAL DIABETES’ ASS. And yes, I have to use all caps, because it deserves it! When you have any kind of diabetes, they track your blood sugar after meals of course, and first thing in the morning, with the delightful finger prickers. They also check something called your A1C every month, which is an average of your glucose level over the past six weeks or so. You can’t cheat, it’s physically impossible- the little monitor you use every day is just a machine, so you can totally screw with it, by testing later, or pretending to test when you forgot. The A1C is a real blood draw though, and there is no messing with that. Believe me, I’ve tried. NOT POSSIBLE. The labs are all scientific and totally hacker resistant. Normal people have A1C’s below 6.0. If you are pregnant, they want it below 5.5. Well, this lady kept hers between 4.9 and 5.3 for 38 weeks! I started the GD regimen at week 12, so that’s a long ass time to deal with all this crap! 26 weeks of pricking my damn finger four times a day (728 times), shoving needles in my thighs twice a day with insulin (364 injections) and lots and lots of appointments. That said, I am wrapping up this pregnancy with an A1C of 5.0. Now that is freakin’ amazing. I told my endocrinologist today (who was wearing the CUTEST little grey suede pumps) that I felt like flipping Captain Gestational Diabetes. I wonder what my costume would look like?

Um, no.

So I already posted today but have some further thoughts, which, if you know me, means I can't keep them to my damn self. The baby is now vertex- in a one week time span he went from vertex, to transverse breech, to footling breech, to back to vertex, but on the left not the right. I would like to keep it that way, and get the delivery I really want, not the logical, practical, plan-ahead-type-A-control-freak delivery I have scheduled. I decided to do a little research, which is really just now referred to as "googling" (on a side note- when I ask my kids to research at school I often get a blank stare, until I replace that unknown verb with "google"). Some of what I found was totally good for a giggle or two (alright a couple were almost pee-your-pants inducing- who is going to have a romantic romp at 38 weeks pregnant? HA).

My favorites from the list...

1. Balsamic vinegar (clearly doesn't work- I'm a foodie, thus balsamic is part of my daily repertoire, and guess what? Still pregnant)
2. Basil or oregano.
3. Eggplant Parmigiana- at this point in the list I am thinking why are the Italians having all the fun with this? Why don't matzo balls bring on labor? Or lox? A lovely chopped liver? Even Gefilte fish for goodness sake!
4. Bouncing, galloping, jumping, dancing, rocking, and seventeen other synonyms for shaking the baby out. Haven't these people heard of shaken baby syndrome? That's BAD! Don't shake the baby! And they would make me pee. Bouncing=puddle.
5. Evening primrose oil-  "Can be taken orally from 35 weeks and used internally (good idea to do this at night and use a panty liner) from 38 weeks. It's meant to soften the cervix" Um. BIG FAT NO. That's just grody.
6. Booze. Again, contraindicated during pregnancy, which is really too bad because is the only appealing one. 
7. Walking. Don't call it walking, call it what it really is, waddling. And yes, I was a penguin for Halloween. 
8. Yoga, pilates, and a whole heap of other exercise type techniques. Duh. Refer to #7. 
9. Teas made out of a variety of twigs, sticks, berries, and probably dirt. Or raccoon dung. Or something else absolutely insanely disgusting that I am sure native people have been using since the dawn of time. It clearly doesn't work, because we have had to add more crap to the list of ways to induce labor. 


Basically, none of these appeal to me at all. Except the Italian smorgasboard. I guess I'm going to Wegman's today. Shocker. I haven't given up though, I'll keep researching until I find the genius OB who recommends shopping online, eating Ben & Jerry's, and Facebooking as a way to induce labor. Then I am totally onboard!

Almost There!

So today the realization has struck that I have less than three weeks left of being a mother of one. Probably less than three weeks left of being pregnant, ever, unless I magically win the lottery or free daycare for life! It's an odd realization, accepting that my life is going to change AGAIN completely. My mama friends have been adding seconds to their broods over the past few months, and they seem to be doing fabulously! It makes me think, hey, I can do that!!! Ever the list maker, I do have some goals for my nine-ish weeks of maternity leave.

1. Clean the damn floors. With an actual sponge. On my hands and knees.
2. Have a baby, and take pictures. I've been a delinquent photojournalist recently. (maybe this should be first? No, definitely the floors need to be first!!!)
3.. Get a head start on Jameson's year one scrapbook.
4. Take a nap, at least once.
5. Break the addiction I have to Wegman's sticky buns.
6. Break my addiction to Wegman's in general. Or not. Really, who is it hurting?
7. Hang out with the mamas that I never get to see because work gets in the way.
8. Organize the pantry- using my handy dandy iPhone of course! (there's an app for that, obviously)
9. Go on a hot date with Miles, to see Sesame Street Live! where I will be subjects to wails of "Melmo!! Melmo!!!!", which sounds suspiciously like "mama" these days. Hmm, one and the same? I guess I need to shave my legs.
10. Install the attic flooring, hang pictures in the office, dust the heaters, and other domestic things that I will put off until the LAST day of mat leave.
11. Most importantly, revel in mommyhood.

Surely I'll get at least two things done. Hopefully that nap one, and totally that baby thing.