Empty

My head is full.

My head is full of phlegm and to-do lists and firing synapses of lightning and thunder. But right now, mostly phlegm.

My head is full of memories I try to beat back with metaphorical witch brooms and fabulous high heeled shoes I wish I owned.

My head is full of "There's no place like home".

My head is full of home.

My head is full of things I need to teach my children - be kind, be respectful, be courteous, be yourself. Just be.

My head is full of "Just Be's". Busy, busy, busy Be's.

My head is full of random trivia. Trivial nothings and sweet trivia's and whispered chocolate covered, candy coated, misty water colored trivia.

My head is full of need. The need for speed. Also, the need for chocolate. I wish my head was full of chocolate.

My head is full of nonsense, nonsensical non sequiturs.

But my head is not full of words to make sentences. Words to string together in coherent ways in which to convey messages. My head is full of words that float around my head, like someone shook a dictionary into my open skull and the words are now suspended in the gelatinous mass of my brain. Like pineapple chunks in a Jell-O mold. But more delicate. And more beautiful.

My head is full of beautiful Jell-O/word dessert.

Anyone got a spoon?

What's next? Brimstone?

Hi there.

*waving*

So, how was your Memorial Day weekend?

Oh, mine? Thanks for asking (my readers are so considerate). It wasn't bad. A cookout with friends, planted some herbs, shoveled some ice. You know, typical end-of-May activities.

What? Yeah, I said "shoveled some ice". Did you catch that? Let me repeat it then.

We SHOVELED SOME #$%&*@ ICE.

Let me back up.

On Sunday there were weather reports of a storm coming. Nothing major, just some thunder and lightning, a few late day showers. No biggie. Mr. C and I had cleaned up the yard that morning and planted all those herbs that were sitting in little pots in the driveway forever and we had no plans for that evening other than soaking our sore muscles, so I decided to run out to the market before the threatening dark clouds opened and soaked my Twinkies healthy organic fruits and vegetables before I could stuff them down my throat serve them to my family.

On the ride home I could see impressive bolts of lightning rip through the sky. Cool, I thought, I love summer storms. I would have driven around a little to get the best view of the light show but I had all that ice cream healthy organic food in the back of my car.

Ten seconds after pulling into the garage, this happened:

(click the pictures for full effect.)

That's where we were planning on soaking aforementioned sore muscles. Yeah, that didn't happen.

And this is where we were thinking of eating our hot dogs healthy organic fruits and vegetables. *sigh*

Not the biggest of the hail balls, but impressive anyway.
Heh, "hail balls". Balls. Heh.

Watch your step, it's a squidge slippery there.

Can you see the herbs I planted? Me neither.

Oh dear. Basil? Can you hear me? Are you under there somewhere?

Ah! I can't feel my toes!

Aaand that's why we let our kid walk out there with no shoes on. Who's Mom of the Year? Right here, baby.
Eh, it helped her to forget the thunder and lightning, the house being pelted with ice balls (heh) and the screaming. I couldn't help myself.

It also helped her forget that I had left this outside. It's my Mother's Day present. She planted the flower and painted the flower pot just for me. Mother. Of. The. YEAR.

I thought the ice storm of '08 was bad but there's nothing like a good old fashioned hail storm to make you feel this big [middle and index finger centimeter apart, maybe less]. But I can happily say that most of the herbs made it through, there were no bad dreams that night and, best of all, no major damage to our home. I wish I could say the same for my back but I can't because we spent the next day cleaning everything up again.

F*ck you, Mother Nature. Grab a rake, will ya?

Lopsided

I think I can say with almost 100% certainty that CC is now officially weaned.

*throws salt over shoulder*

*knocks wood*

*beats on a rabbit's foot with a horseshoe*

After ten months of exclusive breastfeeding and then slowly and painstakingly trying to get her to accept a bottle on a regular basis, it's time.

My goal with CC was one year, which is two weeks from now, and I will admit that date is purely selfish. I'm done. I'm ready to have my breasts back, though admittedly much more beaten and battered than they were a year ago, and I want to wear a bra with no snaps on the cup. I want to tuck in a shirt if the mood should strike. I want to not have a small, rabid badger hanging from my nipples by her teeth.

Yeah, CC is a biter. Moving on.

I have to admit though, it happened a lot more quickly than I imagined it would. I figured she'd fight me for months, so I started a couple of weeks ago in preparation for going to Blogher in July. It must have coincided with a growth spurt because my supply didn't seem to be enough for her and she finally realized that taking a bottle? Not such a bad thing after all. Did you know milk came out of these things? Lots of it? Who knew?? You'd think we were holding out on her.

So consequently, I'm in a bit of pain. Not to mention she favored one breast over the other... and I'll leave the rest to your imagination. And for the record, you're disgusting. Stop thinking about my boobs.

With Chicky I didn't have an end date in mind, I figured we'd go as long as we could and that would be that. However, she was very different from her little sister in that she took a bottle at five months. The weaning happened naturally, organically (if you can call it that, using non-BPA free plastic bottles), and over much time and on her first birthday, when we were down to one nursing session a day, she simply pushed me away, gestured to her crib, and went to sleep. That was, in fact, that.

If I had known then it was the last time I would have tried to remember it all. I was much more sentimental about the whole process with Chicky. With CC, I'm more practical and I think it's because she has always been so practical in her approach to nursing. She never really nursed for comfort and toward the end she barely nursed for sustenance. She's just not interested in working for it or sitting still long enough because there are places to go, people to see and other, more dangerous things to put in her mouth.

But my baby girl is a creature of habit. I would bring her to bed and we would have to sit down and have a little nummy nummies session (for the record, I never called it nummy nummies, I'm just sick of writing "nursing"). She would lay there biting and chewing and hitting (she was always a hitter as well as a biter and next week I'm signing my almost one year old up for kickboxing classes. By three she should be ready for Ultimate Fighting.) and then she'd freak out because my let down was too slow for her liking. Almost every day it was the same. It's no wonder I was ready to be done with this breastfeeding thing.

However, I do feel like I should be as sentimental about the whole business of weaning CC as I was with Chicky. She's my last baby. No more feeding a little person from my bosom. No more sweaty head in the crook of my arm while little hands flutter around my chest. I don't think I even got any pictures of me nursing her...

Okay, now I'm weepy. Also, leaky. And I smell like cabbage.

What I said about not being nostalgic about weaning? Disregard please.

The Ultimate Struggle

"Mommy, I wanna *mumble mumble mumble* -uggle."

"Huh?"

"I wanna *mumble mumble mumble* -uggle."

"What?"

"I. Wanna. *mumble mumble* -UGGLE."

"I'm sorry, hon, but I have no idea what you're saying."

"I wanna do that." Points to the DVD player.

"Okay first, chew and swallow that snack in your mouth before you talk. It's dangerous and kind of annoying. And second, are you asking for a movie?"

Swallows, "No. I wanna do the Struggle with you."

"The Struggle? What's the Struggle?"

"That." Exasperated sigh. Points. "I wanna do jumping jacks. The Struggle. I wanna do that with you."

"Jumping ja... Do you mean the Shred?"

"Yeah! That. I wanna do that with you. The Struggle."

Only a four year old is going to beg to work out with Jillian Michaels. I, on the other hand, begged off. Needless to say, being a Shredhead didn't work out for me. (But it worked for a lot of other people! Yay!)

I need something different. Anyone have a suggestion for me? Because getting my expanding ass into the jeans I'm wearing right now? That was a struggle.

Say hello to my little friend (it's not really my friend but the title is catchy. I just can't place where I've heard it before. Yes that was sarcasm)

Chicky brought home a little someone the other day. She wasn't aware this little guy had followed her home which is good because he's a little goth and a real wannabe blood sucker and hhe's a little young to deal with that type. The little guy didn't have a name so I was going to name him Edward, but he's not sexy in the least. He's really, really creepy. So instead, I'll call him...

A TICK!

(Click it, I dare you.)

OMFG! It's a TICK. Eww. EWWWW. A TICK. We found a TICK on MY BAAY-BEEE. The world is GOING TO END. A TICK. GAAAAHHHH.

(Those of you from other parts of the country other than the northeast might not know about the dangers of deer ticks and Lyme disease - actually, it's all over the place now so maybe you do. Whatever. It's freaking scary so keep reading anyway. It's important.)

We pulled this little sucker out of Chicky's hair where it thankfully was just crawling around. It hadn't latched on yet.

Then, a couple of nights ago, I was petting the cat when I felt something on her ear. Yep, a tick. I screamed and yelled for my husband who came running in with a What?? What's wrong?

I just pulled a tick off of Nina's ear!

So what do you want me to do?

Uh, I don't know. I just freaked out. Kill it. Flush it. Hit it with a rock just GET IT OUT OF MY BED.

And let me tell you about the other ticks I've found since then....

Hey, wait! Come back! Where are you going?

Okay, I'm sorry. I won't talk about ticks anymore.

I'm totally lying. TIIIIIIICKSSS.

*shudder*

I can't even tell you how many common dog ticks I've pulled off of my dogs and other's dogs in the past. Hundreds. Hundreds and hundreds, and they've never freaked me out. But these are worse. These carry disease that make you horribly sick and then your arms and legs spontaneously fall off and then your head explodes the end.

Okay, not really but a deer tick bite left untreated could really mess you up. Oftentimes, people carrying the disease don't have the tell-tale bullseye bite mark and then the flu-like symptoms they complain about go undiagnosed.

The problem is, deer ticks are so small that by the time you notice them the damage might be done. So I've been obsessively checking the girls for teeny, tiny little specks of black that might be ticks but also just might be dirt. Every nook and cranny gets a thorough inspection. Nobody is pleased with me right now because the procedure can be a little... invasive. Ahem.

Now every time I feel a little tickle on my skin I'm all, It's a tick! OMG, it's a TICK!!

Every speck on the floor, A TICK. It's A TICK! We're all going to DIE!!

Coincidentally, May is Lyme Disease Awareness Month because this is when the little blood suckers become really active and therefore, really dangerous.

I won't get into the specifics of how Lyme disease works, you can read about it here if you want to know more (and you should).

Want to know how to remove a tick safely if you find one on you? Read about that here.

One piece of information I found particularly interesting, when going outside in tick infested areas (AKA, my freaking yard) apply 20 - 30% DEET even on children as young as three months old. I know some people have a problem putting DEET on their kids, but I think I'm willing to take that risk.

Especially...

Especially since I stopped writing this post to put Chicky to bed and before putting on her pajamas I did my check. And there, in her fine blond hair, was a tick.

(Oh. Mah. GAWD. A FREAKING TICK. Am losing my mind.)

And it was imbedded. I have no idea how long it had been there since I didn't check her head last night but it wasn't full of blood and we got everything out. Still, I'm freaking out a little.

Okay, a lot. I'm freaking out a lot. And tomorrow I'm sizing the girls for their very own, personalized bubble. Covered in DEET.

*shudder*

Cookie Puss - the only slightly less edible kind

The writer's block is lifting. I know, you're thrilled. Try to contain yourself.

So why am I not writing? Uh... I actually have quite a bit to blog about now but there are big things brewing (Big, people. BIG) and I just don't have the time to write anything of any substance.

So instead - BABY PICTURES!

(Otherwise known as, Jesus, this woman has enough time to take pictures of her kids but not enough time to write? And to you I say, Yeah.)

Have you met my baby? I call her Cookie Puss.

Heavy emphasis on the cookie...


... Not that the rest of her isn't delicious too, because I have never known a baby to be this yummy.

Tell me you don't have the urge to stick your face into that roll between her cheeks and her neck and live there for awhile and I'll call you a puppy kicking/grandma slapping/baby hating fascist. And then I'll demand that you smell her because she smells like cookies too.

Believe me, one whiff and you'll be turned into a powerless puddle of goo in her little hand. I'm relieved this blog isn't scratch and sniff because I don't want to be included in the downfall of the American economy. Bailouts, bad loans, greedy corporations and cookie scented baby cheeks. Come to think of it, never mind. She doesn't really smell that good. Nothing to see here. Move along...

(More baby cheeks for me. Nom nom nom.)

(Also, am shameless Mommyblogger type shamelessly using cute baby as a shameless ploy to get out of writing anything of substance. Shameless. And I could really give a damn.)

(Big things, people. BIG.)

I hate Mother's Day and I don't think I'm the only one

I hate Mother's Day.

There, I said it. I hate this damn "holiday". I hate being reminded that my mom isn't around anymore. I hate every PR pitch about it that finds its way into my inbox (but I do take a perverse satisfaction out of deleting each and every one without even opening them. Take that, suckas.). I hate the media blitz surrounding this upcoming Sunday. I hate the television commercials with the happy smiling family and the "You rock, Mom!" recordable greeting cards. I hate going into a Hallmark store and being assaulted with colorful drawings of tulips and sappy sentimental reminders to "Remember Mom!!" with multiple exclamation points. I even hate the exclamation points because they're associated with the sentiment. And I generally like exclamation points. But this week I'd like to forget that bit of punctuation exists.

Yeah, that's hate for you.

I've sat down this week to try to write at least 10 different posts about Mother's Day and they all went straight into the trash after the first few painful lines. I've tried to write one post in particular, even working on four or five drafts of a story I feel needs to be written, only to put it aside to revisit at another, less brittle time. Mostly I've just skulked around the internet or avoided it, and other forms of communication, all together until I can act less like a person you'd like to jab with a pointy stick. That should happen sometime on Monday.... Maybe. I make no promises so have your pointy sticks ready just in case.

While I spent this week sighing and sulking I got to thinking - I can't be alone in my hatred for Mother's Day, can I? There must be others out there who feel the same. I cannot believe I'm the only one because, dude, that would be bad.

So I decided to start an online I Hate Mother's Day support group. Mostly to make myself feel better but also, because I love you. Yes you, over there throwing darts at that FTD florist mailer.

How about it? If you hate Mother's Day for ANY REASON let me know in the comments. And please leave your reason for hating it. Maybe your husband buys crap gifts, or no gifts at all, for you and you're pretty close to shoving him in front of a bus. Maybe your wife makes a ridiculously big deal about being honored and you'd like to shove her in front of a bus. Maybe your mother is a shrew and it kills you to suck it up and play nice for one day out of the year and you'd like to.... You know. Bus. Shove. Splat.

(All metaphorically speaking, of course. We at Chicky Chicky Baby do not endorse the shoving of loved ones in front of buses. Sub-compacts, maybe. But not buses.)

Whatever the reason, leave it here and I'll keep an ongoing link list of those (or do it anonymously, this is a safe place) who dare to say:

"I hate Mother's Day and I'm not going to take it anymore!!"

Hey there, I just used exclamation points. I must be feeling better already.

(Even if you slightly dislike Mother's Day, you can share that too. Misery meet company, company meet misery. Aw look at that, they're hitting it off already.)

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

Wow, who knew so many of you hated Mother's Day?

Hello to all of you who Googled "I Hate Mother's Day" and found yourself here. You're in good company so even if you don't feel like leaving a comment (and I know you're there, I can see you. Hi! *waving*), pull up a seat and grab a cup of joe (It's dark, strong and slightly bitter - just like I like my men) because there are a LOT of us.

As promised, these are the people (so far, it's not too late to join the party) who had no problem declaring their hatred for Mother's Day, not including the bunches of commenters who decided to be anonymous (Hey, they have their reasons. I don't judge.):

Misconceptions about Conception
The New Girl
Jodifur
The Redneck Mommy
Flutter
My Bliss
Outdoor Dogs
Amber
Foop

And these are the ones who are just kind of "Eh, whatever. Sometimes it sucks, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes I have trouble deciding what I want for lunch":

Red Headed Wonder
Southern Domestic Goddess
All Things BD
A Moment Captured
KittenPie
Write From Karen
Barking Mad
Spinning Yellow
BOSSY

This will gross out at least 50 percent of my readers. But I'm okay with that.

Oh, honey. I know what you're thinking. Please don't do it.

I'm begging you, PLEASE don't do what I know you're about to do.
I mean, I could stop you myself, but you need to learn some self-control, babycakes. That and I don't feel like leaving the couch right now.

To the untrained eye she looks like she's giving him a kiss. But her mama knows what she's really doing is checking to see if he tastes like chicken.

I'm guessing he doesn't.

How you doin' there, hon? It looks like you've got a little something in your mouth.

Yep, right about there. I could help you clear all that dog hair out of your mouth but Mama's a little busy recording this for posterity. You'll understand when you have your own kids someday.

I hope there aren't too many of you who are greeting your guts right now...
(Like my friend Liz. Hi Liz!)
...but a mom does what a mom has to do. And when CC comes home from a night of teen binge drinking and is tangoing with the toilet I'll pull out these pictures and ask her, "I bet that tastes a lot better than when you chewed on the DAMN DOG." And then I'll laugh and laugh.

Oh, c'mon Fisher. Get a sense of humor, will you? That was funny. It's nothing personal. I'm sure you taste delightful but I'm not going to be finding out any time soon.

Caption this - Here Kitty

Have you ever gone through your photo files looking for a specific picture only to find one that makes you go, Huh?



I have no idea what is going on here. All I know is that when I took this picture (and for the record, I don't even know why I took it) we had just gotten back from taking Jabba the Cat to the vet because she had an infection over her eye. Hence the cone. But if you have any idea feel free to share it with the rest of us.

Please, caption this picture!

(Also, the writer's block? It has eaten MAH BRAIN. Halp. Need new brain - STAT.)