Facebook: Like a high school reunion but worse

I've been a casual Facebook user for awhile but my history with it has been spotty. I opened the account to stay connected to some friends I met through blogging but soon after I essentially abandoned the thing, mostly thanks to their position on posting breastfeeding pictures. I had blogs to read anyway, and then I had Twitter - and those in the know can tell you once you've been Twittered you never go back. Or something like that. Once you've been Tweeted? Once you've been Twittled? Anyway - but I picked it (it being Facebook) back up a couple of months ago for reasons I'm still trying to figure out.

It's an interesting medium for communicating for sure, but I'm not sure how I feel about it. At first, as I mentioned, it was for staying close with new friends but then it was also for social networking. When I started using Facebook again I included every day friends in my virtual circle. It was a hoot getting a peak into their brains; viewing pictures of their kids and catching up on harmless gossip. It was also a little awkward posting a rant on my wall forgetting for a moment that everyone could read it and then seeing some of those people the next day at preschool dropoff, but I take the good with the awkward. It's the story of my life.

However, call me naive but I never expected to start accepting friend requests from people from my past - otherwise known as the dreaded former high school classmates I was never very friendly with at the time but who now want to reconnect and compare notes about our new lives.

Doesn't really flow off the tongue, does it? Really deserves a nickname.

Almost twenty *cough* years of separating myself from that awkard girl with the HUGE 80s hair that I was and BAM I'm right back in the 11th grade, shyly taking a peak into a former crush's page, hoping he doesn't see the gawky girl behind the teased bangs. Or these days, hoping he doesn't see the gawky woman behind the under eye circles and muffin top. And the girls from my class? They're even worse. I'm sure they're lovely people now, actually, I'm sure they were lovely people then, but old inadequecies die hard. Ya'know?

My actual 20th high school reunion is next year so I suppose I should get used to this new dynamic by friending a few former classmates myself. It might make the party and all the grab-handing, getting to re-know you's a little less awkward. But then again, I doubt it. I do like a good rant.

Kicking the Bucket

It's the end of an era. Over the weekend we put away CC's SnugRide infant car seat - otherwise known as "The Bucket" - and swapped it for the car seat she will use for the next three years of her life. I'd be lying if the process didn't make me a little weepy.

Okay, quite a bit weepy.

Okay, fine. I may or may not have shed a tear over a car seat. Happy?

What did make the tears actually flow past my lids, as far as you know, was putting away tiny cotton baby pants in size Newborn and 0-3 months. Wee little pants, they'll bring down even the toughest cookie. And when that cookie is crumbly because her baby is growing and there will be no more babies after this one... Oh Christ, I'm choked up just thinking about it.

Also, Mmmm... Cookies.

Maybe it's her age, but now that CC is almost 8 months I've been asked a number of times recently if we're done having kids. Let me lay this idea to rest right now - Oh yes, we're done. Two and through, as the saying goes. The procedure has been scheduled. And by "Procedure", I mean Mr. C is going to have his man parts surgically altered. The ol' snip-snip. Snipper-ino. Ain't no fish swimming down that river no more because the beaver done dam it up. I guess that makes me the beaver? Or does it make the doctor the beaver? Probably me, that makes more sense. Either way, it's wrong that I'm taking some satisfaction in my husband finally taking some of the pain for once, isn't it?

Anyway. As I was saying.

I got reflective when I put away the baby clothes the first time when Chicky grew out of them but now that it's CC, my last baby, it's way worse. How much worse? I'm glad you asked. I actually said to Mr. C the other day, "We could always adopt another".

Yeah, he said No. Which is why I married him, he saves me from myself.

The way I see it, I should probably just leave the clothes where they are for the time being. If not, the poor man will come home from his "Procedure" to a new puppy. Maybe that's not such a bad idea. Just the thought of the greeting between the two of them made me giggle.

Get it? Dogs like to sniff crotches? His nethers will be covered with a bag of frozen peas? Dogs also like food? There would be an exuberant greeting? Jeez, I birthed two babies and lived with stitches, sitz baths and hemmorhoids. Work with me here, people. I'm hormonal.

Sigh

Talking to walls

Sick kids, days on end stuck in the house and emergency trips to the doctor's for the littlest one have made me a little bit introspective today. Which is to say, there's a new post at Operation Get Happy.

Wiping noses is fairly mindless work. I've had some time to think. How about you?

Someday is Today

On our way to preschool this morning, Chicky and I were listening to morning DJs pondering whether or not the Secret Service was going to let (soon to be) President Obama continue with his pickup basketball games.

What would the other players call him while waiting for a pass, they speculated. Hey, Prez!?

POTUS, I said to the radio. If it were me I'd yell Hey, POTUS!

Chicky pipes up from the back, Who's Otis?

POTUS, not Otis. President of the United States. P-O-T-U-S. Together we spelled it out.

And that's Barack Obama, she said.

That's right.

We pulled into the parking lot and I got out to unbuckle her from her carseat. I'm only allowed to do the tough buckles, she has to do the rest.

As she was standing in the car doorway, school bag in hand and almost eye level with me because of the height of the car, she said, One day I can be President. I can be POTUS.

My heart exploded into a million pieces. Her future flashed before my eyes.

Of course you can, I said meeting her smile. Anyone can be President.

That's good, she said soberly. Someday I'd like to be like Barack Obama.

And she can. Anything is possible.

Laugh if you want but it totally worked

Scene: Trying to put a very sick CC down for a nap this morning. Neither one of us slept last night and she's screaming her little head off because she's overtired and can't breath - which made her even more pissed because she couldn't breath because she was overtired and screaming. And this went on until brain matter started leaking from my ears.

Then I dared try to swipe at her nose with a tissue which caused her to howl like someone possessed. I'm pretty sure her first word was said just then. "Bitch", I think it was.

Nursing is not working, neither is the pacifier (let's face it, it's hard to give a pacifier the love it deserves when your nose is plugged with all manners of ick) and I'm afraid a little demon is about to spring forth from my baby's head if I don't do something drastic. So I sing to her. Believe me, this is drastic.

The problem: I never remember the words to this damn lullabye. The solution: Make it up as I go along.

"Hush little baby, don't say a word.
Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird.

If that mockingbird don't sing,
Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring.

If that diamond ring don't shine,
Mama's gonna buy you a, uh, valentine.

If that valentine's not.... uh, red?
Mama's gonna buy you a... uh, puppy instead?

If that puppy's fur is not, uh, soft...

(Oh crap, what rhymes with soft? Soft, soft...)

If that puppy's fur is not soft,
Mama's gonna... buy herself some Zoloft."

Parenting without a net

Do you ever feeling like, as a parent, you're making things up as you go along? I do, you betcha.

The other morning I left the girls alone in the living room for two minutes, tops, while I ran upstairs. I needed to retrieve a sweatshirt for Chicky before I brought her to preschool. Both girls were dressed - okay, almost dressed. Chicky was completely attired, from her smock-type dress she received as a Christmas present to her cheap Target snow boots (she had left her other shoes at school the week before and I was too lazy to drop by and pick them up). The baby was in her pajamas. Why go to the effort?

I had sweatshirt in hand and was at the top of the stairs when I heard the most horrific screech come from CC. It was the type of scream that you hear just the first bit of but then it reaches levels that are only audible to dogs. I knew when I got to the living room someone was going to be in trouble. When I got there, Chicky was sitting on the couch with her hands over her ears and CC was wailing and crawling away from her sister as fast as her little chunky monkey legs would move her.

CC's cries are easy to interpret - she has one for sleepiness, one for hunger, one for Dear God, I've lost my pacifier and I can't find it OH THE HUMANITY, and one for pain. That last one is the most horrible cry; as painful to hear as it is for the poor baby to experience. This cry was the granddaddy of all Pain Cries. Oh yeah, this was going to be bad.

"What happened?" I demanded of Chicky as I scooped up CC and started checking her from head to toe.

"She did it herself," she replied with her hands still over her ears.

"Really?" I was dubious. There was nothing close to CC that could cause her that pain and I didn't hear any thumps that would have indicated another trademark CC bump to the floor. That baby of mine is cute but graceful she is not. Then again, she's seven months so there's hope.

"No," Chicky admitted. "I kicked her in the head. With my boots." She sat on the couch lazily kicking her feet up and down as if to prove her point.

"You what?" Now I was shrieking. Once it was out of my mouth, though, I just stared at her with my mouth open. I didn't know what else to say. She was grinning and it wasn't a sheepish, oh-shit-I-got-caught grin. It was a heh-got-ya grin.

Is she acting out? Oh maybe just a little.

What does a parent do in that situation?

No TV for a week, young lady! (Whoops, just screwed myself with that one. Let's be truthful, that's more of a punishment for me. For the rest of the week it will be nothing but whining and crying for television and I won't have that go-to tool for keeping her quiet for a half an hour while I put the baby to bed. Or for when I wanted to take a shower. Or when I need a minute to scratch my butt in peace. Damn.)

Do you need a spanking?? (Uh, no. Kinda counter intuitive.)

You just wait until we tell your father about this. (That's my favorite. I mean, really... Ooh, scary. And I've just admitted that Daddy is scarier than Mommy. That hurts my fragile ego.)

I'll tell you what I did - I made her sit in time-out until the millisecond before we were ready to walk out the door. When we were about to leave - and when I was calm and had assessed the situation with CC and determined that she was not, in fact, hurt in any permanent way (that I could see anyway. We'll see what happens when we're waiting for those college acceptance letters) - I got down on my knees in front of her and we talked about how unhappy she had made me, how disappointed I was in her. We talked about how much she could have hurt her sister in terms she could understand, with lots of boo boo talk and threats of going to the doctor's for shots. There were tears and promises to never do it again.

And after the discussion and after the threats I was at a loss.

I'm sure there are answers in a book somewhere, probably lots of books actually, but who has the time when they're too busy making sure they're three year old doesn't cause lasting harm to her baby sister.

I don't know how to keep Chicky from harming CC each and every time I leave the room. I don't know how to impress upon her how dangerous it is to grab her sister around the neck when she tries to drag the baby away from the toys. I suppose I could dress the baby in bubble wrap, leaving only the important parts exposed, and hope for the best.

I keep telling myself that this too shall pass. Does that make me feel better when I'm wringing my hands over thoughts of telling the television reporters that No, my daughter really was a lovely child... Before she drowned her 7 month old sister in the dogs' water dish? Not really.

Parenting is about thinking on the fly and being fast on your feet but if this keeps up I think I'll need a better pair of running shoes.

Kill her with KINDNESS, my child. I'm begging you.

Simple

New post at Operation Get Happy - Finding pleasure in the simple things.

There's happiness all around, sometimes I just need to open my eyes and take notice. Who knew?

(Not me obviously.)

I never said I was 100% truthful

I've got a new post up at Operation Get Happy - This is me at the beginning of this journey, unhappy. With makeup and my hair not in a ball cap but with a shot of longing for fun. Eh, whatever.

Also, it's delurking day. So delurk already will ya? Here or there. You'd make my day because I? Am a comment whore. And I'm not afraid to admit that.

*added* I'm a twit. I didn't give you anything to comment about. I mean you could just say "Hi!", that would be cool, but having something to comment about would make things much easier on everyone. And I'm all about making things as easy as possible.

So.

There are some things I feel very strongly about, and one of those things is jelly. As in, jelly vs. jam on a PB&J. What is your "J"? Personally, I'm old school. I like straight up Welch's grape jelly and lots of it. Then again, I put sugar on my Cheerios so I clearly have a sugar problem.

What sayeth you? Grape, strawberry, blueberry? Jam or jelly? Or Fluff? Mmmm, Fluff.

December ROFLs - The last of '08 edition

Happy happy, joy joy.

Okay, she's the Joy and you brought the happy, right? Right? It is the ROFLs, after all.

The post that had me peeing my pants - in a good way, not in that icky, wet feeling and then you don't have a fresh pair of undies so you grab a new pair of pants and have to go commando but the pants are this rough denim and it's really uncomfortable and you walk around for the rest of the day like you have a stick up your arse way...

Anyway.

My nomination for this month is by a dear friend who just happens to wear the occasional mumu, which is hilarious if you knew how wee she was and the thought of her wearing that much fabric makes me laugh and laugh and laugh...

Anyway.

I nominate Motherbumper and her post You'll See That Life is a Frolic and Laughter is Calling for You...

Not only is it funny but now we all have the Three's Company theme song in our heads. Oh happy happy.

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


Queen of the Shake Shake awarded Marinka from Motherhood in NYC

Whee All The Way Home awarded Not Calm

Oh, The Joys awarded The Blogess

Holly awarded Friday Play Date

Write On Yo awarded Heavy On The Caffeine

Major Bedhead awarded Movin Down the Road

Fairly Odd Mother awarded Dysfunctional Housewife

Mama Bub awarded Swistle

Assertagirl awarded Jonniker

Let the Dog In awarded Whopping Cornbread

Can't Remember Diddley awarded Irregularly Periodic Ruminations

Rimarama awarded Halushki


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As always, if you want to know the rules (the rules, the RULES) GO HERE.

The greatest story ever told. So far.

I was picking Chicky up from preschool one day before the Christmas break, waiting in the hallway with the other parents also waiting for their rugrats, when the door opened and instead of Chicky being shuttled through the door and into my waiting arms her teacher gestured me inside the door. Which, in my opinion, is rarely a good thing.

Her teacher looked at me for a moment, seemingly trying to find the right words, and then in a hushed tone she asked, "Are you and your husband adopting a baby?"

"Uh, no."

"You're not adopting a baby boy from China?"

What the hell? "No. Definitely not." At this point I could feel the nervous, crazy laughter bubbling in my throat. If this story didn't have a happy ending, things were going to get ugly.

"I didn't think so," she said, relieved. "But Chicky had us so convinced that you were adopting a little boy. She even had a name for him. Donnie, I think."

Donnie? Okay, this is weird. I continued to stare at her teacher because I didn't know what else to do.

"I was talking with Ms. L and Ms. S (her other teachers) and she told us all the same story," she continued. "You were going to China to adopt a baby, but I thought that was weird because you just had a baby (gesturing to CC in her car seat) and that's a big trip so I figured you would give us a heads up about that..."

I stood there shaking my head, maybe grunting every few seconds. I don't know, the whole thing is a blur. All I knew was that my little girl, the one who I tell people will win an Oscar by her sixth birthday, had concocted this elaborate story about a baby boy from China named Donnie that we were adopting - though I think the word she used was "getting", as in "We're getting a new baby brother, his name is Donnie, and he's in China." - and she was so convincing she had all three of her teachers believing her story.

I didn't know whether to be concerned or to immediately sign her up for acting classes. When I got Chicky home from school we had a long discussion about telling stories and the difference between playing make believe and lying, which she completely dismissed.

That girl of mine has the most wonderful imagination. She has invisible friends and makes up elaborate situations for them. It gets a little frustrating when the world of imagination and the world of reality get blurred and I need to sit her down and figure out if what she's telling me is real or fiction, because Chicky really knows how to sell it to the point that I have to wonder if she's convinced herself her stories are real, but I want to make sure she continues using that noggin of hers in this way. It's entertaining.

The funny thing about Chicky's stories is that they're not fanciful in any way. There are no fairy princesses, fairy tales, or fairies. Every story is based firmly in real life. Take the adopted baby brother story - before CC was born, Chicky was convinced we were having a boy. She wanted a baby brother very badly, to the point that when we told her it was a girl she refused to believe it for awhile. And then last summer we spent a good deal of time watching the Beijing Summer Olympics. Baby, boy, China. Don't ask me where the name Donnie came from. We don't know anyone named Donnie. Maybe she's been listening to the New Kids?

I'm charmed by her stories, I want her imagination to grow and grow, but most of all I want her to get really good at story telling/acting so that I don't have to work in my old age. Better get her into those acting classes, maybe some writing classes, ASAP.

Housecleaning

I should have made a New Year's resolution to update this blog more. Sure, I would have broken it almost immediately but at least I would have given some sort of consideration to this poor space. My last post was my 600th. Six Oh Oh. As in "Oh oh my CHRIST. The things I could have been doing with that time". I mean, holy shiteballs. I could have built and ark and personally overseen the conception and birth of every pair of animals to load on to it. Not that I would have wanted to but you get the idea.

I have, however, updated Operation Get Happy. What can I say? Happiness has been on my mind and my kids have been on my nerves. Guess who gets the special treatment?

Also, Jess and I are still looking for nominations for the latest ROFLs. We're posting the nominees on Friday. Why not last Friday when they were supposed to be posted? Well, how much work did you get done between Christmas and New Year's? Yeah, thought so. So get off my back and send me a funny post you read from the MONTH OF DECEMBER. Send it to Chicky Chicky Baby [at] hotmail [dot] com. Thankyouverymuch.

Now I need to go clean my bathroom, which hasn't been done since around post number five hundred and forty seven.

**added** There's a blogger's roast of Tanis, the Redneck Mommy, over at Cynical Dad. I may or may not have written I was all upset because I haven't seen the woman naked yet. I may or may not have given up on that cause. I may or may not need to get out more.

I can haz happy?

So.

I sort of started a new blog, which makes it exactly not at all different from the other blogs I've started in that I'll probably get overwhelmed and run away from it screaming in about 3 months. Or not. I'm fickle.

See, it's about finding my happy. I seem to have lost my happy and I'm setting out to find it with nothing but a blog, a dream, a pith helmet and maybe some ass-less chaps. Now I know what you're thinking - the pith helmet has little to do with finding my happy. But if you're so inclined you're welcome to follow along in my new endeavor to find my happiness again. And here's the fun part (and by fun, I mean totally wackadoo), I'm going to try to find my happy without prescription drugs. I'm a rebel that way.

Maybe I'll even stop referring to my depression as "My happy", but I doubt it.

Oh, the link. Yeah that would be good, wouldn't it?

Here it is: Operation Get Happy.

And before you start laughing at me for the lame title, remember I'm fragile and unmedicated. Tread lightly and at your own risk, because I may not be on meds but I do have knives and a mean throwing arm.