If you don't want to see me whine...

...Then you can come see what I wrote about over at the New England Mamas today. But come only if you're a real sports fan. Only if you love at least one team, I don't care what sport, so much you're willing to bleed their team colors.

Or come over if you hate the Patriots and you want to have a good shot at me. Whatever. I'm ready for it.

Or you could just stay here and find out why I'm not too happy with my Dad. Your call.

I hope they don't expect me to throw them a party

Since we're in that weird limbo between Christmas and New Year's I've had lots of time to catch up on my sleep sit on my ass think about all that transpired on Christmas Day.

Besides all the gift giving and food eating something else pretty big happened. My Dad got engaged to his lady friend, the woman who he's been living with for some time now. Only nobody thought it was important to actually tell us about it.

After we arrived at my Nana's house on Christmas Day the usual greetings and pleasantries were exchanged, and my Dad's lady friend (I refuse to call her "girlfriend", though my Dad may act like a juvenile it's been a long time since either of them were children and could be referred to as "girl" or "boy") showed us her Christmas present - a gold band with three equally sized small diamonds in it. I do remember noting that she wore it on the third finger of her left hand but there was little about it that screamed "He proposed!" and she didn't offer any information, so I said "It's beautiful" and left it at that.

My sister did the same.

Mr. C did the same.

None of us wanted to assume anything so nothing more was said. Until later in the day when I heard her mentioning something to my father-in-law about my Dad asking her to marry him the night before.

Wha'? Marriage? HELLO. Offspring of the groom-to-be over here.

That's right, my Dad never thought it was important to mention to his daughters that he had gotten engaged or that he was considering getting engaged. We were supposed to figure it out for ourselves. My Dad, he puts the "ass" in "classy".

I will admit that I never thought they'd get married. I thought they'd be one of those couples that just stayed together for years and years, living together and enjoying each other's company.

However, I would have been perfectly fine with my Dad buying the ring on the sly and then proposing, without consulting my sister or me beforehand -

Though, if he would have told us before hand I could have helped him find a much better ring. Heh -

But to stay silent about it and let the information come out like it did? That kind of hurt.

I don't expect this wedding will happen anytime soon so I've got lots of time to lick my wounds. And really they're more like annoying scratches that itch while they heal. I'll get over it. If Dad's not going to act as if it's very important then neither will I. So there.

I obviously got all my maturity from him.

We interupt this nap to bring you the following random thought. Just because I thought you should know and because Twitter is broken.

I've been feeling the baby fluttering for a couple of weeks now - which is very cool, especially since the early flutters are so much more preferable to the late kicks and jabs to the kidney - but today I'm sitting on my couch, listening to Chicky sing off-key in her crib,

(the singing that will soon turn to violent kicks to the side of the crib and a resounding "MAAAAA! MOOOMMMMM! MOMMMMYYYYYYY!" So even though she sounds like she's choking a cat, the singing is SO much more enjoyable.)

and baby-to-be has gone from gentle backstrokes in my womb to full on Mary Lou Retton-style gymnastics.

I bet if you held your ear to my stomach right now you would hear this:

"WEEEEEEEEEE! Thanks for the chocolate and that small vanilla coffee, Mom! That feels GREAT! WEEEEEEEE!"

Considering Chicky's vocal stylings have just reached a crescendo and the crystal in my dining room, a full floor below Chicky's room, is threatening to crack, I'm willing to bet the baby's joyous shouts would be off-key as well. But I'm their Mom so it all seems perfect to me. I give them both a "10".

This sappy moment is now over. The baby has gone still and Chicky has stopped singing and started screaming. I need to put a stop to it or we'll have to replace our new windows. As you were.

The day after the day after

A whole week away from blogging to enjoy the Christmas madness merriment sure does a body good... Except all that time away will be for naught when the actual holiday whups your ass, leaving your poor body sick and tired and your toddler's body beaten and bedraggled.

And by that last part I don't mean to insinuate that we beat our child. But have you ever seen a toddler high on fistfuls of White Trash snacks who hasn't napped in a couple of days? I always thought it was a saying but they literally bounce off of walls.

We're both slightly sick and very over tired so all stories and pictures from Christmas will have to wait. But, oh, I have stories. Stories of excess and surprise engagements and hour long violent tantrums.

On second thought, I think I might skip that last story. Some things don't need to be relived.

Before I go rest my heavy head I realize that I neglected to mention before my mini break that my quad screen test came back all clean and healthy. No problems there, as far as we can tell, which means we'll probably be skipping the amnio and live in blissful oblivion until the end of May. That's all I really wanted for Christmas anyway.

So internets I leave you to watch Elmo's Countdown to Christmas for the bazillionth time. I hope all your holiday celebrations were worth the stress of mall trips, shipping charges, long lines in the post office and staying up late to put together ridiculously large Christmas presents that your kids played with for 20 minutes before they moved on to the boxes and bows. Which as everyone knows are way more fun to play with anyway.

A Very Chicky Christmas - 2007

Dear Santa,

It's been a whole year since I last wrote to you, pal, and you NEVER WROTE BACK. I think I mentioned that when I finally got to meet you a few weeks ago but, you know, I'm two and a half and I forget things. I think you laughed about it. That much I remember. I don't like to be laughed at, buster. So you just wait and see what I leave for you in your plate of cookies this year.


You can make it up to me, Santa. Remember how I asked you for a doll house? Yeah. I'll be expecting that under my tree. I'd also like a monkey, a purple cow and Raffi tied up with a big red bow. Not a Raffi CD. I want the man himself so he can sing to me whenever I demand it, which is often according to Mom. She's been trying to get me to listen to other types of music this year - she calls it my "musical education", whatever that means - and I've gone for some of her tricks. Johnny Cash is pretty cool, I like him a lot. I like some of that Beatles stuff too, even though bugs usually freak me out. I'm not buying the rest of it though. Could you talk to Mom about lightening up on the weird music and concentrate on more "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star"? Oh, but don't touch the Macarena. I like that crazy groove.

And I expect the monkey and the purple cow to be real, not stuffed.

It's been a crazy year, Santa. Mom spent a lot of time either sleeping on the couch or coughing. Daddy said she wasn't coughing but that she was "throwing up". I don't know what he was talking about because I was always asking her to play ball with me and she always said "Don't throw the ball in the house". Maybe she and Daddy are playing ball after I go to sleep. They always seem like they're in such a hurry to get me to bed at night.

Whatever, all I know is that she's now telling me she has a baby in her belly. How could she have a baby in her belly when she was always coughing everything she ate into the toilet?

Hey, wait just a minute... Do babies come up from the potty?? Do you think a baby jumped up from the potty and into her mouth while she was coughing and then she swallowed it?? That's it. I'm never using the potty now. I don't need some baby growing in my booty.

Regardless of how that baby got there Mom says I'm going to have a baby brother or a baby sister next year some time after my birthday. I'm not too sure what she means by "brother" or "sister" - I mean, my vocabulary is getting better but it's not perfect - but I think there's a little boy in there. If you ask me tomorrow I'll tell you it's a baby girl. Ask me the next day and I'll tell you it's a kitten. Try living in my head for a while, big guy. It's WILD.

Onto the presents!

I mentioned I wanted a doll house, right? Never hurts to say it two or three times. Or twenty-five times! I really like to repeat myself over and over and over and over and over and over and over...

I never got that Elmo doll from last year. Hint, hint.

How about a dinosaur? He can sleep in my room with me.

And a new pair of rain boots. I wear my old rain boots almost every day around the house and Mom says they're two sizes too small for me. Eh. Doesn't bother me one bit. Especially since I usually have them on the wrong feet anyway.

My Mom says she really wants a glass of wine and for Daddy to put the Blackberry away. Daddy wants Mommy to get a job but then says we all know that isn't going to happen any time soon, so I guess you can forget a gift for him.

Oh, and the dogs would like more Girl Scout cookies.

Just to warn you, Santa, now that Mom has told me you come in the night when I'm sleeping to drop off the presents I fully plan on staying awake all night so I can say hello. I love a good petting zoo and I want to feed that reindeer of yours with the freaky red nose.

Word to your mother.

Love,

Chicky

This story could make almost any Red Sox fan cry

Remember when my dogs broke into my closed pantry and ate my Girl Scout cookies? That was a pretty bad day. But this story is much worse.

"Given my chosen profession as a dog trainer I love a good dog story in the news, but this one almost broke my heart..." [Continued at New England Mamas]

Oh yeah *head slap*... THAT's why I married him

No matter how cute my little bump is, I'm still pregnant. Uncomfortable, irritable, clumsy and pregnant. So tonight after bathing Chicky I decided to take a bath myself.

It's been freezing here in the North East and I'm always cold anyway (please keep your frigid jokes to a minimum), the thought of a nice warm bath sounded really good. Even if I couldn't have my customary glass of wine while I soaked.

I ran the water, grabbed some jelly beans and stripped down to my birthday suit.

With my handy rubber ducky thermometer floating in the tub I felt comfortable with the temperature of the water - my last OB-Gyn told me never to take baths while pregnant, and that's another reason why I switched doctors - but it still seemed on the cool side to me. However, the cold air in my bathroom forced me to make the decision to get in anyway. Pregnancy boobs hurt under the best of circumstances. At that temperature I thought my nipples were going to fall off.

The first minute or two was fine. I had my book. I had my jelly beans. I was happy. Then I noticed the water had gone from just warm enough to a little chilly in that tub. Then it got a lot chilly. Then my nipples were really threatening a revolt.

"Hooooneeeeyyy!" I called to my husband.

After a few seconds, "Yeah?"

"My water is getting coold." Wow, I can be whiney.

He thought for a second. "Well, we just gave Chicky a bath and you ran the dishwasher right before that. And I just washed some dishes in the sink..."

"So what you're saying is we have no more hot water in the tank?"

"That's what I'm saying."

Sigh. "Okay. I really don't want to get out so soon. Maybe I can stick it out for another couple of minutes until the water heats up again."

(Fool)

He went back to his computer, I went back to my book.

Another couple of minutes went by and still no hot water.

"Hooooneeeyyyy!"

After a few seconds, "I have water boiling on the stove for you. You relax and I'll bring in the water to heat up your bath."

Come on, say it with me. Aawwwwww.

"Aw, hon. That's so nice of you."

"Yeah, I know."

So he brought me two separate pots of hot water from the stove to heat up my bath, just so I could languish in my own type of sensory deprivation tank. And I didn't have to ask. I was going to, oh yes I was, but he beat me to it. Sometimes he can be the greatest guy.

But I can't help but wonder what his ulterior motives are. I think it was to keep me in that bath longer so I wouldn't keep forcing him to get up to fetch me bowls of ice cream.

Get in my belly!

Those are just a sampling of the foods I have to have in my house these days. Normally I would never have most of those items in my house so I have to say I like these pregnancy cravings. Scratch that - I freaking love pregnancy cravings. Love with a capital S-U-G-A-R and S-A-L-T. And while we're at it a capital F-A-T too.

I need bowls of mint chocolate chip ice cream and big glasses of cold filtered ice water with lots of ice cubes. I need pigs in a blanket from my grocer's freezer section and ham salad sandwiches with cole slaw on the side. I need burrito supremes from Taco Bell with lots of mild sauce. I need my house to smell of pumpkin pie or snickerdoodle scented candles constantly...

Ooh, snickerdoodles. I know what I'll be making tomorrow...

I need all of these things. It's almost primal. And woe to the person who gets in my way if I'm trying to put them in my shopping cart. I'm really surprised I haven't bitten someone yet. I've growled, but I haven't bitten.

I can't even explain how good it feels to eat. I don't think I could accurately describe the pleasure I take from eating some days, but I'll try. Oh yes I will.

As one example: I had a grilled cheese sandwich soon after my nausea started to abate, a very simple bread and melted cheese sandwich, and I swear to God (har) eating it was a religious experience. I seriously believe I saw Jesus in that grilled cheese. And then I ate Him and licked the plate clean. How's that for having the spirit of the Lord in you?

Those of you who have experienced Hyperemesis know what I'm talking about. Those of you who haven't should consider yourselves lucky. But imagine this - You live in a house full of food. Your refrigerator is full, your pantry is full. You have people offering you home cooked meals. You feed others (in my case, Chicky) but you, yourself, can not eat. Even though the Food Network makes you salivate - when it's not making you vomit - you have zero desire to eat. And even if you did have a smidgen of desire to put something edible in your mouth, like say water, you would almost instantly throw it back up.

I, for lack of a more suitable term, was starving. Literally. Do I deserve to eat Skittles and French Fried Onions until they're coming out of my ears. Uh, yeah.

It's over now for the most part, the sickness and the starving. I still have some not-so-great days and medication is still necessary, but as you can see from the picture I'm not hurting as much as I was a few weeks ago. That bag of chips? It'll be gone by tomorrow. And is it me or do they not make boxes of Crunch 'n Munch as big as they used to? That box is empty. Hell, it barely made it home from the grocery store this morning.

Now, lest you think my days are one big bacchanalia after another, but without the wine... Okay, it's sometimes true. But for the most part I don't really eat much because my poor stomach is still adapting to having real food in it.

If eating like a pig on occasion doesn't make you hate me just a little, well hold on to you hats. Due to my months of not eating and then sporadic eating binges, if this pregnancy is like the last one no one will know I'm pregnant and since it's winter most people won't until I'm at least 7 months. I, friends, am a skinny pregnant woman.

I know what you're thinking - Poor woman gets to eat whatever she wants and still looks skinny. Let's spread nasty rumors about her and the school nerd and not let her sit at our lunch table. But for every silver lining there has to be a rain cloud of bitchiness.

As I understand it one of the perks of pregnancy is having people give up their seat for you and help you with your groceries and shit like that. Last pregnancy I didn't get any of that special treatment. Not once. I want special treatment, dammit! Is that so much to ask for all my pain and suffering? I'm breeding future Democrats here, for chrissake.

So try not to hate me too much. Sure, I'm 17 weeks pregnant and I can still wear size 4 jeans still buttoned (no elastic band through the button hole here) during my second pregnancy. And I live on a steady diet of high fat, high calorie foods but have only put on three pounds since Thanksgiving...

Nah, go ahead and hate me. I'll just drown my sorrows in another bowl of peanut butter cup ice cream. And I may not have strangers carry my bags for me but I'm banking on walking out of the hospital after delivery in at least my size 6's. I can live with that.

T.B. Wams @17 weeks
Objects in picture may be smaller than they seem.

----------------

Thanks so much to Izzy for the fantastic job she did on my blog. Ain't it purdy?

To get the amnio or not to get the amnio. That is the question.

Tomorrow we should find out the results of our quad screen prenatal test. The quad screen is not a perfect test but it's what we decided to do before making a decision about the amniocentesis.

The amnio. Just thinking of it has been a stress. Unfortunately, being of "advanced maternal age" it's one of those things the doctor has suggested we consider. Apparently that one calendar year makes eggs very sticky and extra chromosomes can get attached where they didn't just a few months before.

That's not necessarily true, of course, but I'm a little bitter about being considered "advanced" when it comes to my age. I am not advanced, I am prime.

Me and my prime self have been really wishy-washy when it comes to making a decision about amniocentesis. I don't relish the idea of someone sticking a needle into my belly and into the sack that holds my unborn child, especially since I struggled so much in my first trimester. I really don't like the possibility of problems happening as a result. But I would hate not knowing if there was a problem with the baby before he/she is born. Then again, what would I do with the information? So many buts and none of them about my prime behind.

This baby, though easily conceived, has been hard won in my opinion. I don't think many women would have voluntarily gone through what I did for a baby, especially a second one, and definitely without knowing if the sickness was ever going to stop. If I had known it was going to be as bad as it was I don't know if I would have gotten pregnant. And that's the hard truth. Ignorance is bliss, but it can bite you in the ass if you're not looking.

And that leads me back to the amnio. If there are no glaring problems in the quad screen I don't know if we'll go ahead with it. My pregnancy has been tough, would I really consider (if you'll excuse my bluntness) aborting the fetus if something seemed to be wrong or will we live in ignorant bliss and see what happens?

It's a hard decision and not one I can make until I'm in the thick of it, which is why I'm waffling on getting the amnio done and waiting for the quad screen results. It has nothing to do with ethics or religious beliefs, I just don't know what I would do if placed in that situation until I was actually faced with hard facts. And I'm not sure I want to put myself there. Especially since I had a very long ultrasound when my doctor thought I was a candidate for the early screen. Can you bond with an image on a television screen?

T.B. Wams @ 14 weeks

I think you can.

Tiptoe through the (holiday) tipping

I'm over at the New England Mamas today begging people for advice on tipping during the holidays and feeling pretty guilty because I think I just gypped my dogs' groomer out of a decent holiday gift.

And my dogs are not exactly, um, easy to groom. I should know, I used to do all their grooming before Chicky came along. Have you ever tried bathing two eighty pound dogs? The hair ingested alone is worth giving the groomer one of my kidneys if she ever needed it.

So come visit us and give me your best tips on tipping.

I don't ask you about your toilet habits so back off my kid

When did it become acceptable for one complete stranger to ask another complete stranger if the latter's toddler is potty trained?

For instance...

...The other day in the grocery store. I just ran in to buy a few items when the (complete stranger) nice older lady checking my groceries asked, out of the clear blue, if Chicky was potty trained yet.

Uh, no.

"Oh," looking at Chicky, "Someone's still using baby diappies. You're not a baby anymore. You need to make tinkle in the potty."

Even Chicky was stunned. Guilt from a total stranger? Ain't that a bitch?

Not to mention that, no, Chicky is not a baby anymore, so why was the (complete fricking stranger) nice older lady speaking in baby talk? I tink someone needs to cut back on dere houwers and go back to da home for dere wedicine.

It seems wherever we go these days there's always someone inquiring about the status of Chicky's potty usage. And by "inquiring" I mean sticking their pointy noses where they don't belong. The older, grandmotherly types can't believe that she wasn't toilet trained by her second birthday (oh, the horror!). Mothers of other toddler's want to compare notes and make sure there kid is on schedule, if not doing better, than other kids their age. Mothers of slightly older children want to offer advice - even if you don't want it and you didn't ask for it.

These types are usually the exception, not the rule, thankfully. But then there is my family.

Ugh.

My dad, whom I doubt had too much of a hand in getting me potty trained at the ridiculous age of 18 months, is always the first to gently chastise his only grandchild for still wearing diapers. He's followed by his lady friend, my Nana, and my sister. None of them, I should add, have offered to train Chicky themselves but they're always there to ask what's taking so long. Sometimes I go along with them. Often I stay silent and change the subject.

(I love my family. I love my family. I love my family.)

But here's my secret: I'm in no hurry to have my daughter use the toilet and she, either feeding off my apathy or going on her own timeline, is in no hurry either. And honestly I find it convenient when taking my daughter out to the mall, for instance, that she's still in diapers. No scary sounds of "Uh oh" followed by a trip to Gymboree for some dry pants. Not once have I had to deal with being in aisle 7 of the grocery store, sandwiched between the cans of peas and the spaghetti sauce, and hearing the words, "Mommy, I need to go potty NOW." That will come soon enough, thankyouverymuch.

Nope, I'm in no rush at all.

I'm a fairly laid back person. I believe when it comes to certain matters Nature will step in when necessary, so why fight it? Chicky will use the potty when she's ready. To use a tired old saying, I don't think she'll be the only kid in diapers on the first day elementary school.

I've always felt this way but I will admit the pressure from others started to get to me. What if I was doing my daughter a disservice by not gently leading her toward potty training? We have videos and books and two potties in the house. We talk about the potty, we talk about big girl underwear, but still Chicky is not interested enough to try it herself. What if it was me who was the problem?

But then this weekend I caught Chicky, if you will excuse the cliche Mommy blogger talk, making that scrunched up face that could only mean one thing - she was about to poop. I coerced her onto the potty - okay, I picked her up and ran her to the bathroom, yanked off her pants, and put her down on the pot - where she cried a little at first but then proceeded to talk excitedly about getting candy. Because that's what happens when big girls use the potty. They get candy.

She talked. And sat. And talked. And sat. And nothing came out.

(Sounds like someone's been reading "Once Upon a Potty" too much, eh?)

Nothing came out that day in her diaper either. Or the next day. Or the next. Until the fourth day when she made that face again and I gently encouraged her to use the potty. And she screamed in terror. My little girl was terrified to use the potty. That's when I knew it was time to start listening to her, and to my gut, and cool it with the toilet talk.

Which means, the next time someone suggests to my daughter that she's somehow inadequate because she's not toilet trained the Mama Bear in me will have to come out. I almost feel sorry for that woman in the grocery store. I'll have to make sure I don't go through her line again so I won't feel the need to tell her to back the fuck off.

Where positive reinforcement ends and I consider crate training my toddler

On the surface Chicky seems to be the most gentle, thoughtful toddler you could ever hope for. She says Please and Thank You (and You're Welcome - she's big on the You're Welcomes). She's friendly enough to say Hello and Bye to family, friends and strangers in the grocery store but not so friendly that she's in your face every second. She plays well on her own, even though she prefers to play with someone else. She's helpful with easy chores and generally is very good about putting her toys away when asked.

Chicky is the child every parent dreams about.

And then there's the Chicky that comes out when no one else is around but me or Mr. C.

That Chicky hits when she's frustrated. She slaps. She screams. She'll haul off and cuff us in the ear if we get in her face or do something to displease her. She'll throw things, either at us or in our general direction and her aim is so good that if the item hits you, you'd better believe she meant to hit you.

I've tried to teach her to hit things like pillow cushions when she's frustrated, and she does, but nothing alleviates her suffering like hand hitting flesh. The other day I tried to teach her to clap when she felt angry but the end result was a whack to my head and then she clapped. It looked more like a victory celebration than redirecting anger in a positive manner.

When it comes to dealing with my toddler's outbursts I believe in redirection and praise. In my job as a dog trainer I preach the gospel of positive reinforcement and rail against constant negative punishment. Not that punishment doesn't have its place, its just not what I generally go for first or teach my students to rely too heavily upon. But toddlers aren't as easily shaped and their behavior not so easily modified with simple praise and small treats as animals are - and it's beginning to make me frustrated too.

I'm the person who, if I really set my mind to it, can teach a dog to do any number of tricks, from fetching the paper to turning off a light switch. I can teach a dog to be as obedient as that dog is capable of being (I'm a trainer that believes that not all dogs are created equal, and that's just the way it is), but most days I feel as if I'm failing with Chicky.

It may seem odd to compare caring for a dog to caring for my child but if you compare a modern dog training book written by a positive dog trainer and a modern child-rearing book the methods are not so different. But the fundamental difference between the two is the emotion involved. For me, when a dog acts out and refuses to cooperate with all my methods I simply walk away and try again later. When my child refuses, however, it's a whole different ballgame.

She pushes me. I think many of you know where I'm coming from. The angrier I get the more she laughs and does what she pleases. Is there anything more grating than reaching the end of your rope with your kid and having them laugh in your face? If there is, I hope to never see it.

A couple of weeks ago she pushed me further than my nerves could take. I was just getting over my morning sickness but still not feeling all that well. She was bored from multiple weeks spent in the house and acting out more than usual. Mr. C was home but it was one of those days when I felt he was pulling his weight. It probably wasn't the case but that's what it felt like at the time.

After many time-outs, naptime had finally rolled around. I was done. As I tried to change her diaper, after chasing her around her room for about five minutes and finally wrestling her to the ground, she kicked me - hard - right in the stomach. And then she continued to do so, or tried to do so, even though I told her not to.

I snapped.

Slap!

My bare hand slapped her bare butt before I even knew what was happening. Hard enough to leave a small pink mark and a sound that got her attention. Chicky's face slowly crumpled as she went from laughter to tears. I don't think I'll ever forget that day or that face. I don't believe in spanking such a young child. I don't know if I believe in spanking at all, but a toddler? I was completely ashamed of myself.

I remember how I was feeling before I spanked her. Betrayed and emotionally pained that she wanted to hurt me. Walking away didn't seem to be an option at the time.

I'm not beating myself up over this, too badly anyway, because I know I'll be pushed again. I'm human and she's a kid. We've got a lot of learning to do.

I don't have a nice, clean ending for this post because this entry, like this subject, is more of a "To Be Determined" subject. My hope is that I'll be able to continue raising my child in a positive manner with occasional punishment only as necessary while I keep the memory of that day I spanked her in the back of my mind. Chicky is a good kid, all of her violent outbursts aside, and that's got to come from somewhere. Does that make me seem slightly delusional and naive? Well, that's to be determined.

It's worked for my dogs pretty well so far.

November ROFL Awards

It's that time again. Time for that whole funny thing we do every month - the ROFL (roll on floor laughing, for the acronym-challenged) Awards.

My nominee is going to seem like a complete cop-out and maybe it is, I have spent more time with damp towels on my forehead, moaning like a dying woman, than reading blogs lately. But I have been puke-free for like, multiple days in a row. So bring on the funny people!*

I nominate MamaLee and her post about her anti-Martha Thanksgiving.

Sure it's on that new website that I founded (you know, the one with the wicked cool contest going on for just another day!) and it seems like blog nepotism giving an award to a post on the blog I contribute to, but I really could care less. The post was funny and that's what this award is about - funny posts. So there.

Nyah.

Here's the rest of this month's nominees!


Pundit Mom awarded Self Made Mom

Moosh in Indy awarded Clink

Bri awarded Crystal

Red Stapler awarded I Am Bossy

Jozet awarded Beanpaste

Marie awarded A Pile of Dog Bones


*You may notice the nominations are a little light this month. I'm going to chalk it up to a quiet month around the internet. Next month I expect there will be many, many, many more nominations. Right?

Right?

I thought so. Carry on.

Every time a cork pops, a wino gets his wings

Chicky is a child of routine. We can deviate from our usual schedule every once in a while and she adapts pretty well but not until she's had a minor meltdown. She's a kid, she likes predictability. I can't blame her one bit.

The other night Mr. C and I took her Christmas shopping with us. Nothing extreme, just a quick trip to one of the big warehouse stores looking for bargains on electronic gadgets, but she was already showing signs of crankiness. Low blood sugar. Big warehouse stores suck when you're in need of a Goldfish cracker fix.

The item I was looking for was out of stock and we didn't need four hundred pounds of diapers or giant vats of ketchup so we left empty handed, which is unusual for us. Before T.B. Wams was conceived we would have at least made a stop in the caged off liquor area for our monthly case of cheap wine.

Ah, the good old days.

As we walked out hand in hand in hand, Chicky started crying, "Noooo!"

"What's the matter honey?"

"Mama and Daddy's wiowueroujrofjsf!" she said through tears.

"What?" It's hard to understand a screaming toddler sometimes.

"Wine! Mama and Daddy need to get wine!"

"Oh, wine." We were dragging her to the car by this point, fat tears streaming down her face. We were snickering in the falling snow, proud as peacocks and not even a little embarrassed. Our kid really had our number. But Chicky was digging her feet in. How the hell could we leave without wine?

"No, hon. We're not getting any wine tonight."

"No wine?" she asked, incredulous. You silly people, she seemed to think, you live on this stuff. "Nooo! Need to get some wine!"

"Well, since Mama has a baby in her belly she can't drink wine."

Sniffling, she thought this over as Mr. C buckled her into her car seat.

She cast a longing glance through the window as we started to drive away.

"Nooo! Daddy can have wine! Daddy need wine!"

I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

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Don't forget about the little contest going on over at the New England Mamas. And while you're there make sure you read some of the fabulous posts from our contributing writers. There are some really great ones up right now.

Because everyone knows that the holidays are a gas

Last year around this time, although a week or two sooner in the season, I was freaking out about Christmas cards. Because that's what I do. I freak out. About stupid things that have no bearing on the rest of the world. Because I can.

This year was no different, except instead of realizing that I didn't have a Christmas card prepared to order and then send out to the multitude of friends and family that were no doubt waiting with baited breath at their mailboxes to receive my inspired holiday greetings (you can totally imagine them waiting on their front porches in the snow, right? I can.), then simply taking my cherubic angel of a toddler out into the backyard on a ridiculously unseasonably warm late November day and snapping 200 pictures until we made her cry (yeah, that was a good day) and making the damn card in a flash (because technology is cooool), this year was more like this...

Week before Thanksgiving - "Holy shit!" *retch, cough, gag* "We need to take pictures of Chicky for our Christmas card!" *retch, retch, gag*

Week of Thanksgiving - "Jesus Christ on a popsicle stick!" *retch* "We still haven't got a decent picture of that little shit for our card!" *gag* "Because she won't stop squinting at the camera and making goofy faces!" *retch*

Week after Thanksgiving - "For Chrissake!" *retch* "We're never going to get these goddamned cards done in time for Christmas!" *gag* "And we will burn in parenting hell because everyone is expecting some goddamned cute photo card like last year." *gag, retch, retch*

As you can see I really invoke the spirit of the Lord at Christmastime. No wonder I hear thunder when I get within a hundred yards of a church.

And no one is expecting anything. That's just part of my psychotic break.

We finally got our damn card prepared last night, no thanks to my daughter who is going through that "I will not look cute in front of the camera any longer, you cute mongers. I will instead squint and look really weird every time you try to take my picture just to spite you. And then I'll try to hit you because I can" phase. See?

I'll add that to the group of pictures to bring out when her first boyfriend comes to visit. And her hair needs a trim. Christ on a mule.

This is the final result:


I take no credit for this picture, it was all Mr. C. He took Chicky outside with that poinsettia on a 30 degree day without a coat. And he burped to make her laugh. Because that's what it takes to make our kid laugh these days. Fear of freezing to death and gas. Happy Goddamned Holidays.

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Oh, hey! Don't forget, we're giving away stuff over at the New England Mamas all this week. It's our official blog-opening for the new site. Please stop over and say hello, 'kay?