Quit With The Big Sad Puppy Eyes Already!

After months of thinking that Hurricane was never going to sleep, that we were going to spend the rest of our lives returning him to bed and begging him to sleep, he finally seemed to get it. He loved his bed time routine (in which I must kiss puppy 4 times and him 5 and puppy must have it's own cup of water) and would generally sleep until 7:30 am when he would crawl into bed with me and watch cartoons. Occasionally he would get up in the middle of the night, usually if he'd lost his cup of water, but he would happily go right back to sleep once I tucked him in. Nap time has been a breeze. He gets his pediasure and a back rub and that's that.
And then there was last night.
Something told me when he got up at 11:30 that this was different, that it was going to be a long night. He fussed when I put him back in bed.
Midnight: He's crying for daddy who is loudly snoring and pretending that he doesn't hear his son screaming or me begging his son to go back to sleep. I tuck Hurricane back into bed and gently knee husband in the side. He rolls over and stops snoring.
12:45- I am just falling back to sleep when Hurricane is again at his door crying. I feel annoyed, frustrated and exhausted. Husband looks at me as I stomp out of the room. I tell Hurricane it's night-night time and let's go back to sleep. He reaches for me and I sigh.
And then I smell it.
I turn on the lights and he is covered in puke. His pitiful little whimpering and the tears in his eyes are enough to undo me.
I gag as I undress him (can't help it, weak gag reflex) and then begin trying to clean up his carpet.
He sits, moaning softly, watching me.
I feel guilty. Poor baby was sick and there I was not listening to his cues.
I get a clean pair of pajamas out and start to dress him.
"mamas? Tummy, huuuurrrtt."
I know baby. I know. And I'm so sorry!
I tuck him back into bed and kiss his sweet head.
"love you boo-bear."
"Oo-kay mamas."

1:30- Once again cleaning up puke and removing his pajamas. I lay towels out on his bed and crawl in next to him but he doesn't want to sleep.

2:00- I'm being taught a lesson in patience. He has decided that he doesn't want me to leave but I shouldn't lay down either.
Suddenly he sits up, moaning. I know what's coming and hold out the towel. He throws up a little more and finally seems tired.
I tuck him back into bed and leave.

2:30- It's going to be a long night. I let him put on his Nemo jammies and I sit on the floor by his bed, waiting for him to fall asleep.

3:15- I sneak back into my own bed.

3:45- Husband let's Hurricane into our bed where he promptly throws up on him, just a little (I managed to not laugh out loud. I am vindictive and mean).

4:15- Everyone is cleaned up and Hurricane is sleeping on Husband's shoulder. I drift off to sleep.

4:30- Husband's alarm clock goes off and I am once again awake. And frustrated.

5:15- drift off to sleep again.

6:00- Hurricane crying in his sleep.

7:30- He is up for good and there is poop all over the bed. Woo-hoo! It's time to party!


I need a nap. And a maid. And a Get Out of Guilt Free card.

The Long Road

I've been avoiding saying anything about this for a few months now. Not because there is anything really wrong, but just that there wasn't anything to say about it. Plus, I wasn't really sure how to articulate my thoughts about the situation.
Bre has been struggling in school. Her last report card noted her to be At or Below grade level in everything but music and P.E.
I can't say that I was terribly surprised. She has always struggled with school. She has always had to work just a little bit harder, a little bit longer. We had, at one point, looked into getting her help at Sylvan's tutoring center (something that would require us to sell some organs to afford). When I talked to her teachers, they insisted that it was simply a maturity issue, that she would catch up and there was no need to worry. But I did. (And just to note: all of her teachers have been excellent. I don't think their response was flippant, just based on their experience and not on what I was seeing.)
This year, her teacher agreed with me. A fact that I am grateful for.
I had a meeting this morning with a few people in the school who will set her up for testing and any help she will need down the road.
It was a little awkward sitting there, talking about our family's health history. Well gee, there is her crazy maternal grandmother who is no longer with us, her crazy biological father who hasn't been around in years, her crazy grandmother on my husband's side who we wouldn't trust to take care of a cockroach. Did I mention that she was deaf for a year as a baby? How about her seizure disorder?
Obviously the earlier she gets help the better. But there is a part of me that wishes she wouldn't have to go down this road. Who wants their kids to struggle? I worry about what will happen. She's only in 3rd grade and she wants to go to college. I wonder if she will. I worry that she'll just give up. It's hard to watch her try so hard and still get it wrong. I can see the frustration in her face and how much she just wants to give up. It makes me crazy because I know she's smart. She has a great imagination. It's just that something gets lost between her brain and the paper and what started out as some amazing story about a girl and a flying cat exploring the Milky Way becomes a girl feeding her cat.
I guess we'll see what happens after the testing. I should hear something by mid-March.
For now, we'll just keep going as we are. And I'll keep trying to come up with a better way to convey what I'm thinking (dang baby brain).

The Infatuation Starts Early

Hurricane and I were winding our way through the grocery store, our typical Friday routine. His non-stop chatter (seriously? This kid never shuts up. He has started talking in his sleep which when added with the fact that he sleeps with his eyes partly open? Totally freaking me out) filled the store while I picked out juice boxes and bananas.
"Huck mamas?"

Hug? Yes! I love hugs! Even better when they are from him! Hug!!! (Woo-hoo exclamation points!!!!)

After 5 aisles of repeated bear hugs, I decided it was time for a new game so, I honked his nose.
It's something we've played many times before. I touch his nose and say 'honk honk', he touches mine and says 'beep'. It's silly, but it never fails to distract him until I can think of something better.
Except that this time he didn't beep my nose.
This time he grabbed my nipple in a death grip and yelled "HONK HONK!" until I fell over dead from pain (and maybe a little embarrassment).
Usually he saves his nipple crushing for when I'm changing his diaper.

Dear future Mrs Hurricane,
Yes. I know. I know. I am so sorry.
Love,
Nippleless.

Seven Is Heaven (or another post no one will care about but maybe me)

1947- My dad is born
1977- I am born
1997- Breanna is born
2004- David is born and Bre turns 7
Bre also informs us that her first, middle, last and nickname all have 7 letters.

Due date: August 7, 2007

And yes I know the picture is crooked and kind of small but no matter how far I've come in my comfort level as far as sharing information, I can't share my last name. Also, my technician sucked. From being pissy that I didn't have anyone to watch the kids (and never mind that they were perfectly behaved and didn't move from their seats the whole time and even if I did have someone to watch them, what if I had wanted them there?) to rolling her eyes when I asked questions, to frowning when I asked for a picture. Normally this would result in some assy comment from me but I was too happy from seeing that little hand waving.

Random Bits

It's January. Middle of January actually. There are 10 months until Thanksgiving. There are a lot of big things happening between then and now. I'm turning 30 (meh), my favorite BIL is getting deployed (voluntarily. I think Joe got the brains in the family) to Iraq, we're having a baby, my parents will be here to visit, my dad is turning 60, Joe's 20 year high school reunion is this summer, Bre will turn 10 (double digits- yikes!) and a host of other things we have to look forward too.
Still, I am looking forward to Thanksgiving.
Maybe because for the last 6 years straight I have prepared dinner for a bunch of ingrates who can't even take their plates to the sink. Maybe because I don't like having to prepare dinner for and then be ignored by people I'm supposed to call family. Maybe because this year, I get to tell them all to go somewhere else.
Yup. Probably that last one.
The original plan was to go to my SIL's house. The one I don't like. The one who is completely two-faced and phony. The one who trashes me to anyone who will listen but is so sweet to my face. Fuuuunnn.
For 2 months now I've been thinking of ways to get out of going (I love to plan ahead). I figured that even I could fake a good flu. Or maybe the kids could. I didn't realize that my husband had been doing the same thing.
Then I caught him on the computer looking up flights to Disneyland.
That's right in-laws. You're all going to have to find somewhere else to eat this year, we're going to Disneyland!
Even better, after realizing that he could save $1500 and it would only take 20 hours, we're driving.
Woo-hoo! A vacation with no flying involved!
It's enough to make me want to possibly someday have sex again!
Maybe.
*****************
I think my boobs are in cahoots to kill me. They were already way too big (in my opinion). I walk into a room about 5 minutes after they do. When I got pregnant, they seemed to take this as their cue to grow bigger. And I know that this is only the beginning. If history repeats itself (and since they have already done this twice, I don't see why this time would be any different) they will grow again this summer and then again after the baby is born and they will end up being one size larger then they were before I got pregnant.
When even my husband notices, with horror, that they have grown? There is a problem.
*************
I am still waiting for this whole 'turning 30' thing to bother me. I'm waiting to see what happens when April rolls around. Maybe I'm saving my nervous breakdown for then.
**********
I still have not downloaded the Christmas pictures from my camera. This is so not like me.
********
Ultrasound on Wednesday. I really shouldn't be anxious, but I can't help it. I asked my doctor if I could just have my epidural now instead of waiting for labor. He turned me down.
*******
As much as my kids love playing together, I don't think I could have taken another day of it. They have spent all day yelling and arguing over toys. Weebles were hurled and doors were slammed. I separated and pleaded and tried to distract but I'm just not as much fun to play with.
*******
At some point I'm going to put up something worth reading so all this boring stuff may be a distant memory. And possibly deleted.

One Of Those Weeks.

To Do:
1) The laundry. The massive piles of laundry which threaten to organize and take over the house in a fit of dirty rage.

2) Organize the toys. The massive piles of toys that are no longer played with which now far out-weigh the toys that are still 'cool'.

3) Dishes. How can there be so many dishes? Hurricane barely eats, Bre only eats stuff that has been pre-made and therefore does not require dishes and I just flat out can't eat. So where are they all coming from?

4) Call PTA President. Again. Because she won't call me back and I'm about to say screw it and let her handle chairing that particular project herself.

5) Set up sleepover for Bre and her friend and be grateful that it isn't our turn.

6) Make bed. Maybe if I could get out of it this would be plausible.

7) Referee children's fighting.

Things That Will Get Done:

1) Nap- mine and Hurricane's

2) Separate playtime for kids to slow the fighting.

3) Nap- mine.

4) Where did all these court shows come from?

5) Nap- mine

6) I really need to clean this bathroom. Maybe later.

7) Did you know Finding Nemo lasts the perfect amount of time for napping?

This Is Going To Be Harder Than I Thought

Since I got to hear the heartbeat and am feeling strangely optimistic (did I just say that?), I decided to try to explain to my little Hurricane that he is going to be a big brother.
I sat down on the floor in front of him and showed him a picture (ok, it was a weak-ass drawing I did) of a woman (yes, that was a woman. She was wearing a dress. Sort of) and in her belly was a baby (it was passable).
He looked at it and then at me, one eyebrow raised. This is his father's expression. Usually meant to convey "crazy woman alert".
"She has a baby in her belly!"
Again, look at the picture, look at me. Still crazy.
"Dat's baby?"
"Yes. That's a baby."
He looked doubtful.
"Dat's doggy."
Great. Now I have an art critic on my hands.
New tactic.
"Mommy has a baby in her belly." I gently rubbed my belly and waited.
"I haff baby in bebly Mamas." He lifted his shirt and smiled at me.
"No, mommy has a baby in her belly. Your belly is full of goldfish and tickles."
"No."
"Baby in Mamas belly."
"No. Baby in my bebly."
Hmmm. I guess it is a bit much to expect him to understand at this point but I didn't think he'd be so argumentative either.
"You get to be a big brother just like you have a big sister! We're going to have a baby!"
At this he threw himself into my lap and declared, "I da baby!"

With any luck, we'll get this figured out before the baby gets here.

I Love Thumpy-Thumpy

I have been living, for several weeks now, with the certainty that I was going to walk into my Doctor's appointment today and be told that this pregnancy was just my imagination. That this constant desire to toss my cookies, the sudden increase in the size of the girls (and yeah, great, as if they weren't already big enough to qualify for their own zip code. Move over Rhode Island, you have competition), my achy legs and serious aversion to any form of meat was all some very cruel mind game I'm playing with myself.
I think that may just be my way of protecting myself. When it comes to pregnancy, I'm always certain that I will fail.
It never works though. Because when it does fail, I am devastated. Crushed and afraid that this is how it will always be.
This time, after waiting 2 hours for my turn, I just knew that the nurse was going to shake her head and offer me the number to a really good psychiatrist.
There are no words to describe what it was like to hear that little thumpy-thumpy. A steady, strong heartbeat that was not mine but came from me. Because it meant that this is not all in my head. Because it meant that there really is a baby in there. Because it meant that I have reason to hope that this will work. Because of the 3 other pregnancies that had heartbeats, 2 resulted in some pretty adorable children.
Ultrasound to be scheduled tomorrow. Next appointment in 4 weeks.
Plenty of time to torture myself with all those lovely pessimistic thoughts.

Somehow Fitting

When we were visiting my parents over Christmas we took a day to put flowers on my grandmother's grave. It seemed wrong that it had been nearly 2 years since she had died and I had yet to stop at her grave.
As we were leaving, my dad asked if I'd like to stop at the farm.
The farm.
When I was little, I loved going to the farm. It was my Great Aunt Violet and Uncle Sam's place. Neither of them had ever married (brother and sister) and they always treated us as though we were theirs.
They had 7 acres. A relatively small plot for farming, but perfect for a few unruly children to go wild.
I remember the corn field. We could play tag in there and it was so easy to get lost. Standing in the middle of that field, everything else went away. It was so quiet. I loved standing there with these stalks towering over me, staring up at that bright blue sky.
The barn. Big, red, peeling paint, a little creaky. Perfect for jumping off that 2nd floor loft into the waiting hay bales. OK, it sounds painful now but then? It was free. Aunt Violet would come out from time to time, telling us to stop that before we broke our necks, but Uncle Sam would simply wink at us, knowing that as soon as they were back in the house we would be jumping off that loft again.
The outhouse. Yes, an honest to goodness outhouse. They didn't get indoor plumbing until the early 80's, but my Uncle Sam still preferred that outhouse. I guess after using that outhouse for 75 years, it seemed wrong to change that.
We would spend hours chasing each other around that farm. Never worrying about anything but which tree we should climb first.
My favorite part of our visit was sneaking away from the others and going inside.
No one ever used the front door. That was for strangers and salesmen and since they lived out in the middle of no where (the town didn't get paved roads until the 90's), that was extremely rare. I can only remember their doorbell ringing once and only because the sound of it caused the adults to look at each other as though an alien had suddenly appeared and offered them a cake made of slugs.
The back door led straight into an honest to goodness washroom. No, not a laundry room. They never had a washer and dryer. They had a large metal tub with a washboard and a line out back for drying clothes. My Aunt always insisted that we wash our hands before coming into her kitchen. Seems fairly simple enough. But they didn't have a sink in that room. Instead there was an old porcelain bowl and pitcher. I loved having her pour the water over my hands. Such a simple act but so different from when my parents made me wash my hands at home.
Then we would sit at her kitchen table and I would listen to them talk and answer questions all the while waiting. Because I knew it wouldn't be long before Aunt Violet would hand over that little glass bowl of tea berry mints. If you've never had one, there's really not any decent way to describe them. Only that they do not taste like mint and you will either love them, or hate them.
I loved them.
My Uncle Sam was quiet and thoughtful. My Aunt Violet was so bursting to the tips of her being with life it seemed that she could burst with it.
One day, my Uncle Sam died. And even though the visits continued, they were diminished. As though his loss sucked some of the life out of everything left behind.
The barn seemed a little less. The corn stalks seemed smaller. The trees drooped as though they could no longer pretend to be perfectly maintained climbing wonders.
And then Aunt Violet died and there just wasn't a reason to go to the farm anymore. All the things that had made it so amazing were gone.
Seeing it all again took me back for a moment. But all those memories couldn't hide the truth. The corn was gone of course (it is winter). The barn looks like it should be taken down. 2 of my favorite climbing trees are gone and I miss their branches even more now. The house looks the same and I wonder if the people renting it can love it as much as my Aunt and Uncle did. I wonder if they are still there. In the halls, the kitchen, the rooms that they breathed and laughed in.
As we pulled away, I saw it. There in the back of the house just as perfect as I remembered it.
My Uncle Sam's outhouse.

Dear Chicago Airport

I hate you. No. That's just not right. I loathe you. Yes, that seems more accurate. Although somewhere out there is a stronger word, a more fitting word, to convey the depth of my hatred for you.
See, flying already sucks. I get airsick, I have a pretty nasty case of all day morning sickness going on, and I hate enclosed spaces. So when we landed in Chicago for what should have been only a one hour layover, I was eagerly anticipating a good 30 minutes of rest. Long enough for my stomach to settle before the next round of air bouncing.
After sitting at our gate for an hour and not hearing anything regarding our flight, another passenger let us know that you had changed our gate. How nice it would have been to hear that from you. Maybe before our flight took off? Yes, that would have been lovely.
So off we ran to the new gate. And we sat. And sat.
And sat.
3 hours later we finally boarded our plane. I blame your delay for why our flight was so bumpy. And maybe that's not fair, but I don't really give a damn since I had to apologize to the people sitting near me for throwing up and grossing them out. I'm just glad I didn't get anyone's shoes.
On our return flight we had to circle the airport before you decided to let us land. Let me tell ya, that descending then lifting back up business? Well, it was fun for my kids, but those airsick bags are just not big enough for all of that.
Remember when I mentioned my issue with enclosed spaces? Right. So guess how much I loved sitting on your tarmac for an hour and a half before we could get to the gate? Almost as much as I loved having to run across your airport (people? Chicago airport? really feckin' big) to get to the next gate only to get there and have you decide that it would be really funny to have us run all the way back to the other end of the airport to our new gate.
But still not nearly as much fun as it was to sit on that next plane for 2 hours waiting for you to fix a small mechanical problem (that alone was nearly enough to send me off the plane and ready to rent a car to get home thank you very much) because the paperwork took an hour and a half to complete.
You suck. You suck. You suck.

Sincerely,
I'm bringing my own air sick bags next time.

House Guests Make Me Grumpy

No really. There is only so much of this I will take before someone loses an eye. As in, no more.
We got home Sunday afternoon. Today is the first time I have been able to get on my computer because every time I come in this room a certain overly hairy and rather sloppy house guest of relation to my husband has his ass parked in front of the screen downloading various Dungeons and Dragons sort of games on my computer. Games which I will spend weeks trying to purge once he leaves because gah!
Did I mention he is nearly 40?
And that he seems to prefer these games to his very lovely wife?
And that he is perhaps deaf which could be the only acceptable reason for why my TV is on full blast 24 hours a day?
And that he comes into the kitchen at 1, 2 and 3 am for a 'midnight snack' and manages to wake everyone else up every time?
A 'midnight snack' I end up having to scrape off my fine dinnerware in the morning because he has not bothered to rinse off the plate?
Plates I am now missing two of?
And glasses?
And the mess. Just crap everywhere.
Yes, we are in fine shape here.
Or we will be once I kill the man.
They went... somewhere. I don't know when they'll be back, just that they will since his stuff is everywhere.
Do you think it would be rude to throw all of his belongings in a box and set it on the curb?

Still Here.....

Yes, I know. Awful of me to simply disappear. Sorry about that. House guests, sick, tired, and so forth with the excuses.
And I feel doubly sorry because I had a picture to share but am now too lazy to walk back upstairs and scan it in. It was a picture of the kids on Santa's lap. Only mildly interesting because David is screaming his head off, sliding off a rather drunk-looking Santa's lap while Bre smiled, safe in the knowledge that the presents are all hers this year.
If it's any consolation to know, I will be greatly suffering in the morning as I have to get up at 2 am for our flight back east. I do not do well with mornings. I do not do well with flying. Honestly, I hate flying. Would very much like to be knocked out on Valium while in air but that just never seems to happen. Something about having kids that need attention. And of course now being pregnant. I am even less thrilled with the flight this year as I will be dealing with morning sickness, air sickness and a nasty little cold. Boo-hoo.

I'm sorry, posting will be most likely be even less frequent (if at all) while we are away.
Until I return, I hope you all have a wonderful holiday and new year!

Review: Insignia Video MP3 player

After I posted about Best Buy's gift finder, I got an e-mail from Melanie asking if I'd be interested in occasionally reviewing topics and products. And who doesn't like telling everyone what they think?
On Thursday I received an Insignia video MP3 player.
Having never owned one, I naturally thought that I would need my more computer adept husband to load my music and possibly turn the thing on.
So, I was really surprised at how easy it was to add music, and how fast it worked. The sound is clear, the video is clear and I can't wait to take it on our trip.
It came with a free download from audible.com (and the only trouble I'm having there is figuring out which book I want).
It also came with a free 2 month subscription to rhapsody's to-go plan and 5 free downloads. And that was where my trouble started. Because no matter how many times, and how many different ways I tried, I could not get signed up to use it. An hour later and I gave up because I was started to twitch. Even now my eye is starting to get a little buggy.
Aside from that, even my daughter could download to this player.
I would highly recommend this MP3 player, especially for the technically challenged!
Now pardon me, but I have books to browse and music to load!

The One Where I Am Just Too Tired To Care

I am fairly certain that this is an exercise in futility as the winds are still blowing and I am tempting the fates to simply blow a bit harder and once again knock out our power. Most likely right before I can hit publish. But since it is 1 am here and I cannot sleep, what else am I going to do to amuse myself?
Perhaps turn the tv back off and listen to the trees crack, bend and crash?
Wait. Back up a moment. The point of this was to prove that my husband, dear and smart though he is, is wrong. Because a falling tree can in fact fall through the top floor to the bottom floor of a house. He is of the belief that the tree will fall through our roof and rest comfortable on our kitchen table (which creaks when we put a plate on it so I don't see how it would hold up bearing a rather large dogwood but whatever). To this I said "Ha!"
Right. So, we're having a wind storm. A rather nasty one this year (it's actually a normal occurrence this time of year it's just a bad one this time) and we've lost power several times now.
The first time my head exploded. I had just finished sprinkling carpet cleaner and was ready to vacuum. My sister (the one married to Joe's brother) and BIL will be here tomorrow night and as she's a little crazy in the cleaning arena (You know how my MIL is um.... not really into the whole 'clean is a good thing' scene? My sister is on the opposite extreme of the spectrum in that she cannot sleep at night if there is a single unwashed dish in the house. At her last visit I kept leaving plates and cups out and in half-hidden places. It drove her nuts and provided me with hours of amusement for I am evil). So, power out, kids freakin', husband mad about missing his football game, me holding dead vacuum and no one has yet eaten dinner.
So we went out.
By the time we returned, power was back and it was bedtime for all creatures under 10. I quickly ran vacuum and tucked kids into bed. In Bre's room. Together. (ooh. lights flickering. not good. whimper).
Joe had seen a tree next to our house (we are next to a greenbelt) leaning in such a way that we was certain it was going to fall on our house once the winds picked up. He determined that the direct trajectory of said tree would be in David's room. Which to me means that we should all be sleeping in a hotel where there are no trees nearby but to him meant the kids and I should sleep downstairs (and I am ever more thankful that I said Bre should have a queen size bed so that when my parents came to visit there would be a comfy spot for them to snore) and he would remain upstairs in our bed alone because apparently he is immune to falling trees. I guess he's been vaccinated or something.
So off he was to bed and the kids were giggling but soon asleep and I sat down to play with my new MP3 player (which I will tell you about later as I need more time to play with it but people? So. Freakin. Cool.) and no sooner did I have the stuff downloaded then the power went out.
1 minute later, power back on.
I turn on the computer, load my settings, begin to type and........
power gone.
Suck!
So off to bed with MP3 player (yay for already loaded music and radio feature!) and book.
*Side story (because I never do that!) I am re-reading A Monk Swimming by Malachy McCourt (which if you've never read it you should, but start with Frank McCourt and Angela's ashes. They are honest and witty and so funny, I have never felt such empathy for someone who, at the time, was such a fool. But it's really a beautiful book and worth the read.) which once caused a fight between my sister and I. She insisted his name was pronounced Muh-lack-key, which to my ears sounds like something my cat would hack up. I said (as it's pronounced anytime I've ever heard it) Mal-uh-keye (long i). Anyway, I have this habit that when I really get into a book, I start reading it in their voice, or at least the voice I imagine them to have which in this case is deep, a bit sandy and with an Irish accent (duh). And I've done this my entire life, but sometimes those accents slip out. So when I'm talking to someone that Irish brogue slips in there and they ask my if I'm having a seizure because I don't do accents any sort of justice. Am I the only one who does that? **
So, off to bed am I with my book and MP3 player until I can't read anymore because my eyes are too heavy. Bre has her tiny corner of the bed and I have my tiny corner and between us David has sprawled out in such a way as to take up the space of 2 adults. Bugger. He proceeds to snore and fart as if we have no right to complain. He very much takes after his father in the snoring and farting department and I began to wonder just when the hell that boy had eaten tacos.
I turned the other way and pretended to not hear the bending and cracking and crashing of trees outside Bre's window.
Unfortunately, Bre had decided some weeks ago that curtains were just the thing to use while performing her swinging monkey routine and they had been ripped nearly all the way off so I could see the trees swinging and swaying.
I shut my eyes and pretended my leg didn't itch, my back didn't ache, the wind was not going to knock over a tree that would soon trap us under layers of rough bark, David was not attempting to further deplete the ozone with his farting and Bre was not bouncing and tossing.
You would think that someone who could not get through the day without a nap would have no trouble sleeping. I guess anxiety over-rides sleep requirements.
I was finally being lulled into sleep with Justin Timberlake bringing sexy back when the power popped back on and now here I am.
Damn wind.

As If I Haven't Had This Argument Before

I've been arguing with myself for 2 days now about whether I'm a giant moron or just crazy.
I'm still not sure who won but I know I have a headache and I remember, clearly, what I hate about pregnancy.

It's the worry.

Because while I've had spotting in the first and second trimester and it's worked out just fine (hello Hurricane), I've also had it work out not so fine. And quite frankly I'm pretty much sick of telling myself to calm down. If this is not going to work out, I wish it would just end so that I could stop making myself nuts.
That said, the thought of miscarrying, again, makes me physically ill. Or that could be morning sickness. Anyway, it's not good and I really wish I could just tell myself to shut up, but I never shut up. I just keep beating myself up.
During my Black Year, I blamed myself. I believed that all my bad deeds had caught up with me and that was my punishment. When David was born, I thought we were even. At last, we were even.
What if I was wrong? That's what I keep asking myself. What if I was wrong and it's not over? What price will I have to pay? And am I ever just going to forgive myself?

Aside from that ever-present thought........
I have never been so tired. With David and Breanna and even the pregnancies that didn't last, I had plenty of energy. This time I can't get through the day without a nap.
Mildly nauseous, and achy joints.
If I can just hold onto my sanity for a few more weeks maybe I'll be ok.

On Gift Finders And Re-Wrapping

A few weeks ago I mentioned a little... glitch?... in Overstock's gift finder.
And then I forgot all about it until I got an e-mail from Melanie Seasons about a gift finder.
Uh-oh.

But at least it wasn't from Overstock.

She mentioned Best Buy's new gift finder (and really? what the hell is up with all the gift finder's this year? I don't remember this from previous holidays so have we all just gotten really lazy or has someone else received a gift from my MIL?). I was skeptical. Not that it wasn't a good gift finder program thingy, but that it was actually real and not some scam just waiting for me to click and then it could eat my computer and all my preshus, preshus pictures of the widdums! (I think I just threw up a little. Pardon me.)
Anyway, I wouldn't click on it. Instead I sent it to Best Buy. And apparently they have people working there who have no idea what's going on in their own company because lady had no idea what I was talking about. So she clicked on it for me.
And it's legit.

Not only that, but it won't offer up a thighmaster for a 2 year old boy, like some lame ass gift finders.
I don't think I'd use it for my toddler, but it did have some pretty cool ideas for Bre. Like a kid friendly MP3 player. (Actually, I may get that for my parents because if it's good for the tween set, my parents might actually be able to use it without calling me for help). And it was fairly specific. So, if you're thinking of getting some techy gadget but not sure what........
Best Buy's gift finder. Go on, click it.
(And sorry Melanie for my lack of faith in strange e-mails. Hope this makes up for it.)
*******************
People.
Did you know that you cannot take wrapped presents on the plane?

Why the hell didn't you tell me?

Seriously. I thought we were friends Internet. I thought we had finally gotten past that time I promised to post certain things and then.... didn't.
Because now I have to unwrap a bunch of presents before I can pack for our trip next week. Presents it took my hours to carefully, neatly wrap. Presents I am now going to have to unwrap and re-wrap later. While I'm on vacation.
Just for that, I'm keeping all my Oreo balls to myself.

Oh! Ok. Don't whimper. I can't stand it when you cry and pout.

Oreo balls- the perfectly disgusting things my husband can't keep his hands off of (and yes he often tells me that he can't keep his hands off my balls which we both find funny because we are 12 year old boys. I think I have said this before).
Anyway.
One bag of Oreos
One 8 oz pkg cream cheese
almond bark

Crush oreos (I use my handy dandy mini chopper or if I'm in a bad mood, a hammer)
Mix (by hand. Ew!) cream cheese until it's one blended mess.
Roll into small (bite size) balls and refrigerate for one hour.
I like using chocolate almond bark and then drizzling in white almond bark but some people like it the other way. Whatever.
Melt almond bark and dunk each ball. Place on wax paper to dry. Hide bag of finished Oreo balls in salad drawer under bag of lettuce that no one else will touch but you.

There. All better?

Why We Don't Go Caroling

"....3 french maids, 2 turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree."

"It's 3 french hens you perv."

"Not when I sing it."


***************************************
"Which partridge do you think it is?"

"What?"

"Because if it's Danny, that would be pretty damn scary."

"A partridge is a bird."

"Look, when I sing it? It's maids and Susan Dey. Get used to it."

For The Good Cause of Naughty Nurses

So, Jenny over at Mama Drama had a post today about hunger. Specifically, how we can help.
The Hunger Site has a special little yellow button you can click and they will donate food (at no cost to you). You can read more about that in Jenny's post, so go on and read that and then come back because I'm sure you want to know about this Naughty Nurse thing. Right? Right.

Back? Did you click? Good.

So, if we can get 200 people to post and say that they clicked, Jenny is prepared to don her Naughty Nurse costume just for the internet. (Boy there went my stats because you know how many hits I'm going to end up getting for typing Naughty Nurse? I would guess as least as many as I get for 'she had worms in her').
Even better, Jenny has agreed to accept comments here on my blog that say they clicked. But hurry up because it only counts if you comment by tomorrow night!
So go on, get clicking and commenting and spread the word!

Weirdest Of The Weird

I know this may be sort of cheating, but I'm lazy. So.... meh.
Anyway, my MIL is notorious for the strange and occasionally inappropriate things she gives as presents. I thought there was no better way to really get into the holiday spirit then sharing them with you.


1) First up is the shoe holder she gave David for Christmas last year when he was 1. In the box there was a baby's 1st Christmas bib (it was his 2nd) and this scary ass clown that I couldn't give away for free at our yard sale.
The most frightening aspect to me is the real hair used for eyebrows.

2) The much mentioned bedazzled bird barrette. I'm sorry that I don't have a picture of it. If I could remember which grave belongs to the sparkly little sparrow, I would dig it up and show it to you. I'm still not entirely sure that that bird hadn't at one point been alive.

3) The pants-less and used Spongebob Squarepants pillow given to Breanna. It was stained. And smelled funny.

4) The Christmas card she filled out after we gave her our annual gift of cash.
*side story*- We once bought her a digital camera (which she broke less than a month later) for Christmas. We were out of town visiting family and she came into our room (without knocking) at 3 am to ask for batteries for her camera. Not that this is a strange request but what really disturbed me was the thought of just what she was trying to photograph at 3 am.

5) A used floral print photo album. Empty, with the exception of the photo of Henry. I don't know who Henry is but based on the powder blue suit and stooped posture, I'd say Henry had a hard life.

6) The lighted moving picture of Baby Jesus given to Bre.
There is simply nothing more to say about that.
You can just see it towards the bottom left of the picture. Baby Jesus with the angel watching over him.

*side story*- My MIL actually has several lighted moving religious pictures in her house. This same baby Jesus one, Jesus on the cross, Mary, etc. She also has several statues and crosses adorning the walls, mantle and floor in her front room. None of this would be to terribly strange except that in the center of this plethora of religious items, is a ceramic statue of Porky Pig. A pants-less Porky Pig with a beanie hat. And the statues on either side are praying to it.
There are some things that are simply beyond my understanding.

Bartering.

"I wan some mowney."

"You want money? Why?"

"I wan some mowney for a bunny."

"Where in the world did you get that from?"

"I wan some mowney for a bunny!"

"We are not getting a bunny."

He leaves the room, head down, shoulders sagging and fairly disappointed.

5 minutes later...........

"I wan some mowney for a coowww."

"No farm animals."

Heavy sigh.

"I wan some mowney for some bubbles."

"Sold."