One bad apple

Hello, your friendly neighborhood blogwriter here. I have been remiss in informing you, gentle readers, of Lady Epiphany's rules. That is, I am domme of this blog and she submits to my fickle whim. If I find your comments to be rude or offtopic, I will delete them.

If, for some reason I cannot begin to imagine, you would like to advertise your company or product on this blog, please contact me for insertion rates. My husband, dozen or so friends and admirers who read my senseless rantings are a particular demographic, so chances are, your advertising dollar is probably not well spent here...but to keep up with my daughter's shoe obsession (this week we MUST have sandals and have our toes painted) I am willing to consider it.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming...

Hey! It's play all day day!

I particularly relish the weekends, not only because we finally get to spend a couple of days with the man I married, but because it's an opportunity to hear all of my daughter's material tried out on another adult. Usually by Friday, her routine has gotten a little stale for me...so she also appreciates being funny again instead of having her attempts at humor met with Mommy's sighs.

They decided they were going to go out together and tackle mowing the lawn and watering the garden. I'm sure my husband will tell me later there were at least a half dozen other things that needed taking care of outside...Babe, this is how I feel about you not being able to see toothpaste stains on the sink and dust on the furniture...

On the way out, my daughter chimed, "Hey! I've got to get my video phone."

My husband has perfected the not laughing response, so I hear a little wheeze. "We can't talk on the phone once I start the lawn mower. You won't be able to hear anything," he reasons.

"Yeah, but I might get an important call..." (echoing: reasons we have to find Mommy's cell phone before going on a walk)

"From whom?"

"Oh, you know. Blue. Nanny."

"Oh, right..." my husband replied. "You'd better go get it."

Timing

If you arrive at Donaldson Park after 5:20 PM, there are no children or parents to be found except the kids at t-ball practice. I had noticed that every mom on the playground this week had a 5 minute call around a quarter after five, but I'd just assumed that if we hung around another group of kids would show. Nope. We spend a couple minutes excited that we didn't have to wait for the big girl swing or the twisty and tunnel slides, but the novelty wore off quickly and we headed home to try out the new scented bubbles we bought at Target.

Since those days back in the blue room at Battery Park City Day Nursery, any time my daughter passes gas, she claims "There's an alligator in my butt". Droll, really. The first dozen or so times even. After a year and a half of "tushie music", it's getting a little old.

Anyway, it turns out the exact amount of time a parent can discuss how an alligator (albeit a very tiny one) might find its way into a small child's bowel is approximately 35 seconds. Then, the parent in question starts to feel pretty uncomfortable, particularly when the child in this scenerio asks, "But what about the alligator's prickles?" Prickles?! Ouch.

And just when it feels life is coming apart at the seams

...you have a moment when you realize how cool your kid is.

About 2 weeks ago, I felt like I had an antisocial kid on my hands whose excellent social skills she left daycare with nary 8 months ago were all but gone. We've been getting to the park at least a couple times a week lately to get out in the warm weather. When my daughter would see all the kids playing on the slide, she'd remark, "Oh, we can't stay here, there are too many people!" and cower away from the crowd.

Last week I noticed that she seems comfortable playing with children a couple years older than she is. She just seems to lack the skills to initially approach someone and start having a conversation. Older kids will walk up and introduce themselves and ask some questions of interest ("How old are you? Is that your mom over there?" etc) and then suggest a game.

Today, I noticed she's starting to approach kids herself and ask their name and introduce herself. These conversations sound abrupt and rehearsed, and the resulting play mimics either stuff she's played with older kids or television, but it's a marked changed from the little quivering whiny girl from just a couple weeks back.

So cool.

This won't hurt a bit

I returned to The Diabetes Center yesterday to receive my blood glucose meter (see below) and to learn how to use the lancets with the little pen and feed the test strips into the machine. The very excited nurse told me that the lancet needles are 33 gauge, which is apparently the finest gauge needle they make...this is supposed to make this process painless. Uh huh.
As you probably imagine, it is not. It doesn't hurt as much as the bloodtest you get in a lab, but it hurts when you get stuck and stings for a couple of hours afterwards. I'm feeling a little put out that I have to do this 4 times a day. When I wake up, and 2 hours after every meal.

I've been on the diabetic diet for over a week now, which is 3 meals and 3 snacks. I'm supposed to eat my snacks after I've done the testing...so sometime after 2 hours has elapsed. Initially I felt like I was being tied to the house since I have SO many dietary restrictions. This week, I was finally starting to feel like I can go out and do stuff. I've packed my snacks with me and haven't feel panicked that I'm going to mess the whole thing up. With the "you must test your blood every 2 hours", I'm back to feeling overwhelmed and restricted. *sigh* Yes, my glucometer comes in a little travel pack that can fit into my purse, and I know in a few days I will get used to it. Today I just feel really put out.

Practicing her elephant

Last night, my husband and I were watching House. Suddenly, there was a very loud hornking sound from upstairs.

Now, since I've already told you about Shannon the Cat's problem, I turned to my husband and asked, "Cat?"

He shook his head. "She was just here. I think it was kid." He got up and ran upstairs.

A few minutes later, he returned shaking his head.

"Is she ok?"

"Yeah. She said she was practicing her elephant."

I started laughing, "Whaaat?"

"Well, she's bored up there. So she decided she didn't want to forget how to make elephant noises," he said, with his left arm up in front of his face to simulate a trunk and making a trombone noise through his pursed lips.

"I can see why this might be a concern," I replied while unpausing the television.

"Yeah. She might have to repeat that class."

Deep thoughts

"My little sister can sleep in my bed," my daughter announced today in the tub.

"Well," I said, "Someday you and your sister can sleep in a bed together, but not right away because when she gets here, she will be too small to sleep in a bed and..."

"And I am too big to sleep in a crib," she said sadly, pushing out her lower lip and shaking her head.

"Yes. But your sister will get bigger, and be big enough to sleep in a bed before you know it."

"Okay, Mom."

"Maybe you want to talk about sharing a room first...we could put two beds in a room when your sister is a little bigger if you both want."

"Well, I would like that..."

"Okay, well, you will need to talk about it together..."

"She will do it because I want it..."

"Well, honey, it doesn't work that way," I said. "Ben doesn't always agree with Mommy even though he's younger."

"Because he's bigger than you?"

"He's his own person. Sometimes we agree, and sometimes we don't. But we still love each other and we get to share parents," I smiled.

"Lindsay and I will get to share parents!" she said sounding excited.

"Yep, that is very special. Even when she's bigger than you and tells you 'No'."

She looked thoughtful. "She won't tell me 'No'."

Well, really...how many points can you make in one conversation.

Hip Hop Cowboy

Let me preface this by saying, I have no idea what a Hip Hop Cowboy is. Or what my daughter thinks one is.

After bathtime this evening, my daughter emerged from her bedroom with ever item of clothing on backwards. That is, of the four items she'd put on: panties, undershirt, pajama top, and pajama pants, each had the tag in the front. The shirt was actually on inside out and backwards. Drawn to the sunhat on the rather large box in my room of nonmaternity clothes, she placed the straw hat on her head and began doing a little circle skipping dance while singing:

I'm the Hip Hop Cowboy
I'm the Hip Hop Cowboy
Everybody wants to be me

And really, how can you argue with that? Particularly with someone with her clothes on backwards...

Reaping what we sow

My husband was a child actor. It started with commercials at the age of 3. I've seen them...he delivered his lines with matter-of-fact ease in counterpart to bumbling Grandpa who needed at least a half dozen takes. In the outtakes, the little boy sat with his legs crossed, and rolled those long lashed, enormous hazel eyes every time they had to start over. He fired his agent at the age of 10, and decided when he was 11 that he didn't want to be an actor, he wanted to be a kid. Although the boy (and his mom) settled out of the spotlight on Martha's Vineyard, he never really escaped the theatre.

Though I started acting at the age of 6, and continued to be in stage productions through high school, the high points in acting for me were on a much smaller scale. I starred in Harold and Maude my sophomore year, and won the Best Actor award in a statewide competition my senior year for the leading role in Arthur Miller's Playing for Time. I entered Emerson College (my father's alma mater) as an acting major in 1992, where I met my husband in a lightbooth.

The past few weeks have been punctuated by the heightened drama of our daughter who has learned to feign tears and hyperventilation. During our daily walks, she will gasp, "Oh! I can't walk anymore - I have no more breath!" When she doesn't want to do something, she will throw her 30 pound body at the floor, bury her face in her arms, and shudder with fake sobs. I'm sure you can see this is probably at least mildly annoying, particularly since when she does it in public, her audience is usually moved to at least stiffled giggles, and parentless folks to an outright guffaw. These reactions, of course, make her more determined to hone her craft...to top her last performance. It's really just a matter of time before she starts thanking the academy.

Loveys

My daughter went 3 1/2 years before needing a lovey to sleep. Even through that object attachment phase around 13 months or so, she'd hug a little stuffed animal for a while (invariably one purchased by a certain friend who shares his birthday with her...who either has some baby/toddler whisperer capabilities or laces his gifts with the kiddy equivalent of catnip) but when she went to sleep, she wanted her space stuffed animal free.

In the past several weeks, she's taken to sleeping with a stuffed turtle puppet. Let me say, this is not a cute stuffed animal...it was probably purchased from the Museum of Science or one of those science-type stores they have in malls near you. For a while, Turtle was joined by Nemo, until she pulled all his stuffing out. Then she slept with Turtle and Nina (who is a little stuffed West Highland Terrier bearing resemblance to this formentioned friend's pet). Now she's settled with sleeping with Turtle and Winnie the Pooh dressed up as a dalmation (a Disney store release limited to the remake of 101 Dalmations) who has been a companion since my daughter was very small. See:
She's about 4 months old in this picture, a brand new Winnie seated next to her.

If you have kids or dogs, you can imagine what this stuffed animal looks like 3 years later having lived through learning to eat puree and then table food, getting stuffed into the bottom of diaper and travel bags, getting spit up on, going through the washing machine about a dozen times. Well, he looks pretty sad. Which is, I imagine, why my daughter is so attached.

Friday night date

We actually got to go on a date last night! I know, I too am shocked and amazed!

Jess (aka the best babysitter in the world) played with our daughter and they carried out their plans to have Annie's Macaroni and Cheese for dinner and watched Shark Tale.

The husband and I had dinner at Chili's where they actually have some light fare suitable for your favorite gestational diabetic...I had the "guiltless" grill pita, which is sort of like a chicken fajita.

We stopped at Bed, Bath, and Beyond and bought a kitchen scale (for weighing food) and a bathroom scale (for weighing people). We had a pretty good laugh trying out the scales, particularly since with my tummy, I couldn't actually see the numbers on any of them. Perfect!

We took in Thank You for Smoking which was short, and fairly hilarious. All the kids who came to the Regal Commerce for their student discount at the 8:20 PM show went to see Scary Movie 4, which was cool as far as we were concerned...it meant that the dozen or so old married types were quietly enjoying the movie.

We got home around 10:15 PM to find it was just bedtime, and storytime was finished, so we kissed the little one before she fell asleep. Jess and Husband enjoyed Stoli O and tonic while I took in my evening snack.

Enter Easter bunny

My daughter wears those Easter goggles into every store we go into these days. She wore them to the bridal shop where we were fitted for our dresses for my brother's wedding, to the grocery store, the pharmacy, and the Benjamin Moore dealer today where we bought paint for the nursery.

The staff at the store always say, "Oh, look! It's the Easter Bunny!"

My daughter replies, "No. No, it isn't."

"Oh," the retailer/cashier/store owner says, sounding disappointed. "But you LOOK like the Easter bunny."

"No," my daughter says, "I am just wearing sunglasses."

Advice of the week: If you're trying on your bridesmaid's dress and 8 months pregnant, don't do it among a party of tall, thin bridesmaids belonging to another party and the bored mother of the bride of yet a third party. Because, every time a bridesmaid emerges, the mom says, "Ooh, that looks divine. Is that chiffon?" or "That dress looks like it was made for you". When you stumble out of the dressing room in a dress made for someone about a foot taller than you with the dress so large on top your cleavage is spilling out, and under the empire waist the silk clings to your round belly, the mom audibly gasps. I must've shot her an annoyed look, because you could see tiny wafts of smoke coming from her ears while she struggled to come up with something nice to say to the semi-crazed looking preggo in an ill-fitting frock. "It's really a lovely color," she choked out finally.

In less polite circles, she would've just said, "Moooo."

A whiny, self-indulgent post

I'll try to keep this brief...but it's going to be whiny and self-indulgent. I am feeling a little sorry for myself this morning. Since this is MY blog, I won't apologize for it...but if you don't want to read me pout, skip this one. If you look over on the right, my blogroll has some great folks who probably wrote about much more important, interesting stuff. Or at least you'll find a chuckle.

I was diagnosed a few days ago with gestational diabetes. Although I have no family history of diabetes, tipping the scales at about 60 pounds overweight at the beginning of this (my fourth in 5 years) pregnancy, my high BMI has a lot to do with it, I'm sure. I'm very pissy about it because I feel like it's a cosmic joke that I can't be healthy and pregnant - 2 ectopic pregnancies, a fullterm (resulting in my beautiful daughter) pregnancy marred by preeclampsia and low birthweight. I began this pregnancy with chronic hypertension (as a result of being overweight, genetics, and preeclampsia) and now I have diabetes.

I really feel like a big baby whining about this because, geez, I know how painful it is to really want to have a baby and face fertility issues. We went through time between the first ectopic pregnancy and conceiving our daughter that the medical professionals couldn't say if we'd ever have a baby. If someone told me then, "You can have two beautiful daughters, but you will have to give up all those little things that make you happy" I wouldn't have even thought before saying "Sign me up".

All four times I've been pregnant, I've quit smoking. If you know me, you know I really enjoy my cigarettes. I still want a smoke most days, even though it's been 7 months since I had one. I didn't give up caffeine entirely this time...studies show now there is no link between caffeine intake and hypertension, and pretty much as long as you drink less than 3 cups of coffee a day, the obstetrician thinks that's just fine. So for the rest of the pregnancy, which at this point is probably close to 7 weeks, no more evening glass of wine or beer, no sugar, and my new diet limits salt, carbohydrates, and fat.

The ramifications of this on the Rest of My Life right now are uncertain. In all but 3% of cases, women with gestational diabetes are normal after delivery. My chances of later developing Type 2 diabetes are now around 50%, so the medical professionals are advising after I am done nursing (because you're not supposed to restrict calories while nursing) I will need to lose whatever extra poundage remains. Otherwise, they hope I enjoy pricking my fingers 3 times a day and peeing on ketosticks, because that's what I can look forward to.

God says, you don't get a crutch any more. Better find a healthy way to cope.

I know this isn't the hardest thing I will have to do for my kids.

Favorites

My daughter's favorite show this week is Miffy. The first time I saw it, I had to laugh because when I was little, I had several books about Miffy's antics. She's a smart little bunny who likes to count things, and plays little math games like "Who has more?" and "We have the same".
The animation is a little reminscent of Gumby. As you see above, Miffy and her family and friends are little clay animals.

Readership

Just because she sometimes mixes up her b's and p's (I've always done that...and my t's and d's) and cheers when she manages to make 3-letter words in the Word Whammer! doesn't meant she isn't reading this blog. My daughter binged on jelly beans this morning. I came downstairs to find her trying to determine how many she could cram into her mouth. Of course, once the number got above 6, the numbers sound sort of muffled. Maybe it was an altruistic gesture? Hey, if I get rid of the jellybeans, Mom can't obsess on them? Or was it rather those well-honed empathic skills she's developing...MUST EAT JELLYBEANS. MMM. So good.

We've often entertained the idea that the cats surely have abilities they hide from us (eg, thumbs). The cats are reading the blog, otherwise, would they deliver the one-two punch of Shannon puking on the stairs and Seamus taking a whiz on the bathroom floor because Daddy House Ape got out his suitcase? Ooh, maximum effect on parents. Make sure you do it in the doorway and in the middle of a tread so you can be sure they'll step in it in their bare feet.

Nota Bene: For other not smallish folks who don't otherwise pretend not to read, this blog should not be used as a manual of the author's buttons. Serious adverse events may result.

Through the thick of it

Alright, I'll admit it, besides the crabbypants I WANT JELLYBEANS BECAUSE WE HAVE THEM feeling today, the decreased sugar, increased veggies, and morning walks I've forced on myself have me feeling pretty good. Even a little less fatigued.

My daughter has enjoyed the morning walk, for her, it is more like a morning prance though. It's a little hop-step-trot that has a song that goes:

Through the thick of it
Through the thick of it
We'll find our way...

Well, except she says "through the thickamint", which sounds like it might make a nice tea with a wedge of lemon.

Perspective

I have been on a journey of self since I last posted.

I called the doc, and he explained that though my fasting glucose test was within normal parameters, 2 of the 3 timed tests were above normal. This means that my body isn't producing enough insulin to efficently process glucose. Next week I will meet with a dietician who will recommend dietary changes to reduce my sugar intake to keep it inline with my insulin production. My doctor seems pretty confident that that's all that's needed.

I'm frustrated with myself. I really never saw myself at 31 years old with gestational diabetes (technically speaking, I am in the pre-diabetic range) and chronic hypertension. I'm looking for some factor in my life to point at and blame, but really...honestly...I've hovered between 30-40 pounds overweight my entire adult life (with the exception of about 3 years in there I was within 5 pounds of my "target weight") and smoked since I was 16. If my chronic hypertension is a result of my addiction to caffeine and nicotine (with some genes thrown in for flavor), my weight is a result of a vicious cycle of binge eating and lack of exercise caused and fueled by depression. Ooh. Depressed. Let's eat a pound of oreos. More depressed? A gallon of ice cream! Even when I am feeling OK, like I have been for more consecutive months than I can ever remember, I have trouble motivating NOT to just eat whatever I want to and getting off my butt to walk around the block or do some yoga.

I've made a lot of positive changes in my life this past year, and part of me feels entitled to wait until there is a "better time" to tackle so many years of a sedentary lifestyle. But procrastination has gotten me to where I am now. It's time to move forward.

I'm keeping the crabbypants ON this time

I am officially over the little crush I had on my obstetrician. Someone please tell me what the heck kind of doctor does this:
This came in the mail at around 3 PM. I mention the time because it is important to understand that my doctor's office closes on Fridays at noon. So, the mail arrived, I received this, called the office and got "The office is closed. Please call back during business hours."

My husband suggested I page him. Though, I am pretty sure if I got him on the phone there would probably be at least some impolite name calling. There might even be some cursing. I am hoping Monday will bring a calmer, more rational patient who can respectfully ask, "Why didn't you call me with these results?" rather than "You're an effing moron. Didn't teach you how to use the phone in medical school? Did you PLAN for me to get this crappy little note when there was no way of getting in touch with you over Passover, or over the weekend, you jerkface. Bad, gyno. NO biscuit."

[the muttering of obscenities continues]

And now accepting requests...

Oh baby when you talk like that
You make a woman go mad
So be wise and keep on
Reading the signs of my body

And I'm on tonight
You know my hips don't lie
And I'm starting to feel it's right
All the attraction, the tension
Don't you see, baby, this is perfection

My husband listened to that Shakira song about a dozen or so times last night. The silly thing is still stuck in my head.

Yesterday was Passover. We went to a seder at my husband's stepmother's sister's house. It's just easier if we say we went to Aunt Sally's. My daughter returned home with 3 bags of "loot", quite a bit of Easter candy (yes, I realize there is some irony there, but really I don't think there's much inherantly Christian about jelly beans and chocolate eggs).

So, at the request of my husband, here's what happened this morning:
Stepmother-in-law gave her a box of chocolate lollipops (and also the sunglasses in the photo above, so cute that Moms on the playground asked where they came from) which I found empty when I came downstairs this morning. The empty box was on the coffee table.

"Did you eat that whole box of lollipops?" I demanded. Other than the empty box, she hadn't gotten any chocolate on herself, and she had tossed the sticks in the garbage.

"Uh, yep."

"Well, you know we don't eat candy for breakfast."

"Yes. I'm sorry, Mommy."

"It wasn't a good choice."

"I know. I am sorry. I won't do it again."

"Alright." I gave her a hug. "Is your belly ok?"

"Yep."

Making it up to the cat children

Alright, they were being entirely too cute this afternoon...so here they are...
Every bit as unphotogenic as I'd promised. Seamus still hasn't gained back all the weight he lost when he escaped, so he's looking pretty svelte. Shannon is, of course, looking away from the camera. She's thinking, "If Mom House Ape gets any closer, I'm going to bolt". You can see that they are actually still wearing their little rainbow-colored collars with the yellow smiley faces that my daughter picked out for them. They are willing to put up with the tags with their names and my phone number.

My daughter and Jess (aka The Best Babysitter in the World) are coloring Easter eggs in the next room. The vinegary smell of Paas sure brings back childhood memories for me. They still have the punchout circles so you can set your drying eggs in them, and little plastic stickers to adorn the eggs. But we never had hats...damn, those are cute!
This evening, we're going to a seder. Hopefully I can come up with some activity to get us through the hour long pre-dinner service besides sneaking pickles, which was amusing enough last year. We'll see how it goes.

Twofer Tuesday

The rock station in Hartford when I was in high school (at the time it was WHCN, it's probably changed formats 3 times since back around when good ol' Al was inventing the Internet) had Twofer Tuesday. They'd play 2 songs in a row by a band. Seems these days I always hear the same bands when my scan button lands on the rock station programmed into my radio at Q104. It's either Led Zeppelin or Rush. I like both Zeppelin and Rush, it's just sort of a disconnect for me that they are always on. Otherwise, I surf among three Top 40/adult mix stations. It makes me feel less old to know the top 10 songs on the Billboard chart. Saying that probably means I am. Way. Old.

We had a busy day today. We went to the bank, the car wash (which makes us both nervous...I have visions of the car being taken over by the machine and getting stuck, and my daughter is probably nervous because I am projecting "get me OUT of the car NOW"), lunch at McD's, and then the park where we didn't want to play with any of the kids there even though they were all these girls around 4-5 who were running around and playing on the slide. Was it a Moslem holiday today? There were a lot of them at the park in Piscataway on River Road. Probably about 30 men, sitting at picnic tables and about a half dozen women in their burkas with their daughters in tow. Piscataway seems pretty ethnically diverse, and usually when we go to that park there are extended Mexican families with their kids, usually the black and Asian women with their kids, occasionally a white single dad with kid. My daughter likes that they have animals and swings. Me, I like people watching, so a blend of cultures makes for interesting observation.

After the park, we drove to the farm stand in Somerset where we bought bananas (because I forgot to add them to the Peapod list) and artichokes (because Peapod ran out). As we got out of the car at the farm stand, my daughter said gleefully, "We are enjoying this beautiful day together." Now, really, I know she was just excited at the prospect of buying artichokes because she likes them, but for a moment I pretend this is a delightfully existential observation on her part. "You're right," I reply. "It is a beautiful day. And we are sharing it together."

Your animal fact of the day

"The scarlet mccaw likes to eat bananas," our daughter announced at dinner.
"Really?" my husband asked. "Bananas?"

"Yep," she replied. "What's yellow on the outside and white on the inside and you can peel it?"

"The cat?" suggested my husband.

She laughed loudly. "No, Daddy, a banana!"

Weekends are for playing

On Friday night, we shared a very tasty French dinner in the City with friends to celebrate Sybil's birthday. Although the sitter report time turned out to be not so well planned - I forget that the dinner and bedtime routine merits review each time, and the commute into Manhattan took the hour and fifteen minutes I'd planned, making me a good 20 minutes later than our reservation, it was a lot of fun. The birthday girl had herself some steak tartar (which looked divine). We had ourselves some nice wine. Unfortunately, because of my early morning tests, we had to excuse ourselves around 10 pm when I could no longer eat or drink, and I drove the tipsy husband home.

The glucose tolerance test on Saturday morning was not nearly as horrible as I'd imagined. I guess that if one is going to fast, a hearty French dinner along with fondant du chocolat is the way to begin. It was a small lab in New Brunswick, with no apparent staff, several signs posted about logging oneself in (including a note in all caps that said YOU MUST INFORM STAFF IF YOU NEED A TIMED TEST), though no sign-in sheet. There were about a dozen or so people waiting in the lobby already, none English speaking...and I know, well, what Dora has taught my daughter how to say in Spanish. Finally, about 15 minutes after I arrived, a phlebotomist appeared behind the counter...and I informed him that I was there for a timed test. He asked when my appointment was and rolled his eyes that I was late. Uh huh. So, anyway, despite the rough start, we shared a relatively pleasant 3 hours together, while he complimented me for "doing so well" on this "rather difficult test" and poked two veins in my left arm with ease.

Late Saturday afternoon, we visited Karen and Chris while our daughter and their 2 sons did a remarkable job of taking out every toy stored in their playroom. After sharing some pretty fabulous barbeque, the kids retired to the living room and movies while much alcohol was consumed including Kleiner Feigling. I can only say that the fig vodka smelled really yummy, and it must've been pretty good because my husband must've had 3 glasses. We made plans for Sunday afternoon to take the kids to see Ice Age 2 which was cute, and the kids enjoyed. We even got to share a Weird NJ moment, and met at Mary Ellis' grave in the middle of Loew's parking lot. Karen even brought daffodils. Her sons scaled the 6 foot retaining wall to place them graveside.

I missed playing. It was so great to see everyone this weekend! We must do it again soon.

Just a little bit longer...

Leapin' lizards! It's been 2 days since I posted. Sorry about that, my friends. I am sad when my favorite blogs remain unupdated for days.

I will regale you with tales from my weekend this evening...

Fast facts

While we were waiting for the ultrasound today, my daughter and I played Crazy Eights. When she dropped a card under the chair between us we were using as a table, she wiggled on her belly on the floor to get underneath it. She looked up at the Pakistani man sitting next to her and said, "Look, I'm an anaconda! I live in the Amazon."

During the ultrasound itself, she argued with the intern technician when she told my daughter that we were looking at her little sister's belly. "No, that's her shoulder." A few minutes later, the intern was corrected by her technician that she was looking at a posterior view. Then, the technician listened to a heartbeat.

"That's Mommy's heart," she said.

"Oh, I think they are listening to the baby's heart," I said.

"Nope," she said.

The technician interjected, "Actually, she's right. It is your heartbeat...we're assessing the bloodflow to your ovary."

Wow. Snap, as the kids say...

This evening, after her bath, my daughter cuddled in her towel with me on my bed while I dried her off before we put on her jammies. She took one of my pillows, and put it on her back. "I'm a turtle," she said. She folded her arms and legs under the pillow. "Turtles hide inside their protective shell when scary animals are on the prowl."

Seriously. I am not making this up. I don't even know where she's getting all these factoids...maybe Diego the animal rescuer tells her about the anaconda and turtle, but I defy you to point out a cartoon about ultrasound interpretation for the preschool set.

Honey...maybe we ought to reassess how we're investing that 529 money. Maybe it doesn't matter? Don't radiologists make good money?

30 weeks 4 days

At 30 1/2 weeks, our little fetus is weighing in at a very average 3 pounds 5 ounces. She has her Mommy's nose and her Daddy's lips! So beautiful.
We can't wait to meet you, little one...

I'm a Bad Cat Mommy

My first 2 kids are of the feline variety. We adopted Seamus from a very chic Back Bay pet store a few months before we got married, and Shannon was adopted a year later from an Ashwaubenon farm. We (only somewhat) jokingly told our friends at the time that we had cats to practice our parenting skills. Our cats would be entirely neurotic, but our kids would turn out normal.

They aren't terribly photogenic, as you can see below. Seamus is on the left. He's a big 10-year-old cat, part Maine Coon, with a clubbed tail. Shannon, who will be 9-years-old in a couple of weeks, is on the right. You can see she's quite a bit smaller than her catmate with silkier black fur. And, yes, for you estute blog readers, that IS the carpet of our Yonkers apartment, so you know this picture is at least a couple years old.
I've already posted that Seamus is an aspiring hockey star. I didn't mention his almost pathological obsession with Michael Jackson. As a young black kitten, we often caught him wearing his red leather zipper coat and sequins-studded glove. We had to make sure not to turn on the news during the trial, and most recently, after the sale of Neverland. Shannon, unfortunately, under the great pressure of the mainstream media towards middle-aged female cats (the Desperate Housecats culture), suffers from an eating disorder. Although we've spent some couch time discussing body image, she still has difficulty with mirrors and photographs...which explains why at the last second, she most often turns her face away from the camera.

As so often happens, when our daughter arrived, the cats unwittingly became the forgotten children as our routines began to revolve around the person they referred to as Tiny House Ape. They realized she was a permanent fixture and began developing their own relationships with Tiny, who usually drank things that tasted pretty good to the feline duo. As she grew into Small, Loud House Ape, Shannon decided that it was time to stand her ground. She spits whenever Small comes too close, and spends a great deal of her time avoiding her entirely. Seamus, on the otherhand, prefers human contact, and found that while Small watches the Flashing Color Box, he can often sit next to her without being on the receiving end of one of her bone-crushing hugs.

Today, I managed to remember (okay, chose not to avoid) to bring the laundry basket from the bedroom to the basement to do some laundry when I discovered that, not only have the cats been sleeping on the white flannel duvet cover, now black and furry, but also in the top of the laundry basket on the yellow towels from the guest room. Yes, also black and furry. I grumbled at whichever one chose to say "Mom? Food..." as I tripped over him in the kitchen with the laundry basket clung to one hip. I scowled after emptying the dryer lint tray of matted black fur. Thought about what sort of effort it might take to shave them. Hey, I have plenty of Barbasol and disposable pink razors! Yep, I know. No catnip bubbles for me today. No Pounce either, even though we know it's the way you get us to eat the hairball medicine.

That creepy little bee

Is anyone else really creeped out by the Nasonex bee?

He has a very strange accent, and an odd manner of speaking. He's also kind of scary, almost manic looking.
In the television commercial, a voiceover cautions:

Side effects were generally mild and included headache, viral infection, sore throat, nosebleeds, and coughing.

To which the creepy bee replies, "A wise choice."

What brain trust at the Schering Corporation thought this was a good advertising campaign? I mean surely, this bee was normal before he started snorting your product. Now, he thinks he's Yoda on speed.

Lucky numbers

Husband came back from Vegas $400 ahead. With that, and his mom picking up half, we've decided to hire a contractor to finish the nursery. I think he is relieved that he won't have to try and fit in plastering and painting with his busy travel schedule this month.

I kept meaning to transfer my daughter's fluoride prescription from the dentist to the local pharmacy. I was driving about 15 minutes to Pathmark, figuring it was worth it since they have a blood pressure machine. Well, of course, the local Rite Aid just had one installed. So we went there today to fill her script.

The amazingly helpful (ie, probably not on drugs) pharmacist told me that my insurance pays $9.99 for 30 pills and $19.99 for 120, so he gave me a 4-month supply. Well, that was definitely worth the shorter trip!

And my blood pressure today was (fanfare music) 109/75. It hasn't been that low since, well, I can remember. I nearly ran back to the car to get my charging cell phone so I could snap a picture. That's like a normal blood pressure!

Hopefully the lucky numbers will carry through all the testing this week - I have an ultrasound on Thursday to take growth measurements, an appointment with my OB on Friday, and a 3-hour glucose tolerance test on Saturday. Here's keeping fingers crossed for a calm, relaxing week.

Biker Chick

We bought my daughter a pink and purple 20-inch two-wheeler for her 3rd birthday back in September. When we first got it, her legs weren't strong enough to pedal it unless she could get some downhill momentum going. As a result, taking a bike ride meant you pushed her around the block. Even at 5 feet flat (yeah, that's wearing shoes), I always finished with a crick in my back from bending over.

Lately, she has become a very strong rider, and easily zips two houses ahead of me on the sidewalk. Thirty-weeks along today, this leaves me huffing and puffing to catch up. Suddenly, she is riding fast enough that the No Brakes model we bought so she could easily learn to pedal seems like a foolish idea, though the bike is short enough that she can extend her feet to stop it if she needs to.

Looking back at those first few snapshots we took of her first ride, it just seems so long ago. It's amazing how quickly things have changed in just 6 months.

Hangin' Wid G

My daughter calls my mother G. Isn't that deliciously Gansta for a little white girl?

My mom came down to the house to spend some time with us. She's doing a great job of distracting my daughter from missing her daddy too terribly. My husband is in Las Vegas over the weekend celebrating my brother's bachelor party.

This morning, they set up a bunny village on the coffee table of little resin characters in larger resin houses with egg-shaped cars. They cut forsythia branches from the garden and adorned them with little wooden bunny and chick ornaments.

I watched them play on the chair in the living room for nearly an hour with Mr Potatohead and Mini Potatohead. This game got off to a rocky start. My mom took Mr and started putting him together upside down.

My daughter climbed off my mother's lap and walked over to me.

"Mom?"

"Yep, honey?"

"G isn't following the directions," she reported.

"Maybe you need to tell G how you like to play with the potatoes, and where his face pieces go?"

"All right," she said. Walked over and began describing The Rules.

They played that Mr Potatohead, a construction worker, was a single dad raising his daughter, Tater. Every day, Mr Potatohead (played by mom) dropped Tater (played by my daughter) off at school where she would do lessons with her teacher Mrs Walsh (also played by mom). Mrs Walsh taught Tater addition and subtraction, and told her riddles. Whenever Tater got her lessions correct, she got a star on her hat. Mr Potatohead picked his daughter up every day, at school, and always asked her if she had a good day and noticed her star. Afterwards, they did some activity together like go to the library, or make dinner, depending on what day it was. As the game continued, my daughter offered different details herself...today after school, we're going to soccer practice...tomorrow, we have fish for dinner that we caught out of the lake. It's fascinating that my daughter's stories aren't at all based on her own experiences.

I think they both had fun this weekend, and it was certainly great to see them together.