What I need is a pig's head and a stick

Captain's Log - Day 19:

We have been stranded in the "no school zone" for what seems like forever and yet still days away from any scheduled day camps that will bring necessary relief. The natives are getting restless.

The weather, I'm afraid, has not been cooperating. Dreary, gray skies threatening rain almost every day has forced us to be inside on most days. Four walls are starting to close in on us.

We have watched all our videos, been on multiple playdates, made high calorie treats with much sugar, and endured many tantrums and still, there is nothing to satisfactorily break up the monotony. In the middle of the night I hear sounds of tribal drums and then... Silence. An eerie silence occasionally broken up by sounds of metal on stone. Could it be weapons are being made?

Communication with the outside world is almost totally cut off by small people and their unreasonable demands for food and entertainment. When communication does become available, sheer exhaustion stops me in my tracks. I'm afraid soon I will be completely overwhelmed by their need.

I fear the end is near.

Send gin.

Could be worse. At least I don't worry about her chasing squirrels.

A few weeks before the end of Chicky's preschool year [*moment of silence for my sanity* Amen.] her teachers held their end-of-the-year parent-teacher conferences. Or as I like to call them, Learn What Your Child Is Really Like When You're Not Around To Give Them The Evil Eye.

Like the mid-year conference, Mr. C was not available to attend because of his crazy work schedule. So it was up to me to drag both children into school a little early - something that should never be required of me due to my love of sleep - and to sit in those tiny preschool chairs to face the Inquisition firing squad wonderful, sainted women who are in charge of my child two mornings a week.

While CC crawled around the room finding random toys to put into her mouth and Chicky worked on an art project...

- a feat I should have kissed the teachers' shoes for since I can't get Chicky to focus that long on anything, never mind making macaroni art or whatever it was. I wasn't really paying attention. What was that about my kid having a short attention spa... Ooh, shiny -

...Chicky's teachers told me all about the fantastic things my daughter has done this year - how they love that she always has a smile for everyone and the way she's eager to raise her hand to offer an answer during circle time. How she's always willing to try new things, loves running and jumping around the playground and that she's not only a very gracious playmate, allowing anyone and everyone to join whatever reindeer game she's playing, but if there's nothing going on that tickles her fancy she's just as open to going off on her own and making her own fun by herself.

I think I breathed an audible sigh of relief.

"That's so great to hear because at home she's like my shadow," I told her teachers. "I can't leave the room without her following me and I have to set strict individual play time away from me just so she'll touch the toys she owns."

And at that, I may as well have sprouted a second head, one that burst into the theme from Cats, because that's how her teachers looked at me.

"Really?" One of them asked. "That doesn't even sound like the same girl. She has no problem playing by herself here. She prefers to play with others but we will occasionally find her playing with some toys on her own."

*Head. Desk. Boom. Ow*

I understand that kids act differently when they're away from home. I do, I get that. But just today I quite literally locked Chicky out of the bathroom because I was fed up with being followed. Call me a Bad Mother. Whatever. I had just spent an hour begging her to play with the mounds of toys she owns.

Please, child, give me two seconds to breath. Don't make Mommy grovel.

Chicky is an extremely social kid who needs to with people. Constantly. She's most stimulated and in her element by activities that require two or more people, preferably ones that require physical acts. Which is great. Really. I mean, it could be a lot worse. She could be like me.

(For those of you playing along at home, that would be a person that fears people but loves her couch.)

(People. People who fear people. Are the loneliest people...)

(Whoohoo! Blogher is next month!)

(I think I just threw up in my mouth.)

(Anyway.)

But a woman has got to have a moment to herself from time to time. So yes, I do require she goes to her playroom alone to at least stare at the toys I have placed there for her enjoyment. I get that she's a social creature and I am only too happy to read books and play games and do puzzles and things like that until playtime is over, or until my legs fall asleep from sitting on the floor. Whichever happens first. But something has got to give.

Hey, you know what? Come to think of it...

Kind, friendly, eager to please, extremely social, very active, intelligent, hates to be without her family. That sounds familiar. Where have I heard that before?

Oh yeah.

Maybe I should have been more clear about who was the kid and who was the dog early on?

I Spy - mornings

I think I've figured out why writer's block is kicking my ass. My life? It is boring, hopelessly mundane and not inter....

zzzzzzzzzzzzz

Whoops, sorry about that. I fell asleep there.

So instead of fighting it, I'm going to embrace it (Viva la Boring Ass Life!) with a little thing I call "I Spy".

What's that? There's already a game called "I Spy"? I didn't say I was original, I said I was boring. Catch up, will ya?

Every Friday I'll post a picture of something I see, a snippet out of my life. You should do it too. It'll be super duper fun! Really!

What?

Oh don't even pretend you don't like to see into people's lives. I know you look into darkened windows at night while driving through your neighborhood. You probably even sit in your bedroom at night with your camera pointed at your next door neighbor's windows. Or maybe that's just me?

Um, moving on.

The point of the project, lambs, is to make the mundane interesting. Play along. Take a picture of something, anything, that you see and describe it, then leave a comment here with a link to your "I Spy" post. Give us a glimpse of your life. It will be fun. I promise. Pinky swear. At the very least, it will give you an excuse to post something. Some might call it phoning it in, but I call it "desperate times/desperate measures".

So go ahead, grab your camera and take a picture of something. I'll wait.

C'mon, it's not brain surgery. Just take a pictures. Any picture.

Or I could do it for you. I have a long lens. Ahem.

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

Mornings at Casa de Chicky:


French press, coffee mug, blueberry/lemon muffin I baked yesterday next to used tissues because CC and I are sick. Phlegm and baked goods, two great tastes that go great together.

Twitter open on my laptop. I'm the only one in the world who still uses the actual Twitter platform.

Baby bib, Cheerios, a bowl of fruit.

This is what my mornings look like when we have nothing better to do. Muy exciting, no?

Good times never seemed so good

CC,

I blinked and then you were one.

I know it's cliche, I know every parent says it, but where did the past year go? It seems like I just had you but it also seems like you've always been with us. You just have that way about you, I suppose.

There are so many things I want to remember about your first year because you're so utterly enjoyable, but because you're the second child I've really let the ball drop on the whole documenting your first year of life thing. Sorry about that. It's not intentional. Honestly, we've been spending more time living which leaves less time for writing. And it's not like I don't try to take pictures of you, I really do. You just never sit still long enough so I've ended up with two hundred pictures of the back of your head.

But see? Here's a cute picture of you. It was taken before you could crawl away from the crazy lady and her flashy camera-thingy.

And it's not like there haven't been plenty of milestones to record - First crawled: six months. First word: HI! (capital letters, exclamation point), used often and regularly. Number of teeth: sweet Jesus, baby girl, you went into this week with an impressive seven teeth (and I do mean impressive, you could gnaw through the piano leg if I let you) but then this week you cut two molars at the same time. You can slow down because I'm still not sharing my steak with you - because there have been plenty to keep us busy.

Then there are the little things they don't leave spaces for in those books - how you love to dance and sing, how you manage to engage complete strangers in marathon games of peek-a-boo, how you're so very small but incredibly mighty for someone your size.

How you will amuse yourself for hours with nothing but a paper towel roll, a shoebox and an Advil bottle with a quarter in it stopping every once in a while for a quick cuddle or to blow kisses to me across the room.

Or how you love your sister even though she tries her best to make your life unpleasant (And for the record, she loves you too. She just doesn't know it yet).

And how, when frightened or unsure or just in the mood for a little love, you cling to me like a capuchin monkey, fingers holding onto my shirt for dear life while you giggle while I kiss your cheeks, until you feel comfortable enough to literally throw yourself out of my arms at whatever catches your eye.

That's how your first year has been spent, throwing yourself at whatever interests you regardless of consequence. I like that about you.


But the best part about the last year can be summed up by this: When sitting in your high chair you eat your meals with your right foot propped up on the tray. Never the left, always the right. And the first time you noticed it you were all, "Hey, look at That. How did That get there? Wow, I didn't know I had That! That has got to be the coolest thing I've ever seen. Mom, did you see That? Isn't That the best?? I really like That. I think I will sit with That next to me at every meal."

And that is what you did, still do, pretty much every meal for months. Among the things I will miss as you grow older, that is one of the most important. Your ability to find pleasure in the most mundane, the most simple, and the most obvious things we usually miss. I love That about you.

All my love,

Mama

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.)

This has got to be a record

93 degrees. In APRIL. I'm too hot to come up with something witty to say about that. But I do know this, Al Gore is pissed right now. Vindicated, but pissed.

Now, I like warm weather as much as the next person but this is a little ridiculous. The only thing that makes it tolerable is that ice cream is mandatory for keeping cool on days like these. It's true, look it up.

Sometimes I don't know if I should wind my a*s or scratch my blog.

Two things -

First of all, thank you to everyone who left a comment on my last post. General consensus seems to be "Hey, dumbass. Call the cops already. [exaggerated eye roll]" But you didn't actually use the word "dumbass" and I appreciate that. A slight nudge feels a lot better than the proverbial boot to the butt. Less foot treads to wipe away, too.

I've been talking this over with Mr. C - who thinks I'm being paranoid - and a couple of neighbors we recently met - who seem to think I'm only being slightly paranoid - and we're going to call the authorities and have them check things out. I'll let you know how things work out.

And since you were all so generous with your opinions...

(I know what you're thinking, "Gimme a break, she's going to ask for more advice. The woman can't scratch her own ass without the help of the internets." And for the record, I can hear you.)

A looong time ago, my fabulously smart and insightful readers (and did I mention, you look fantastic today? Have you been working out?) came up with a list of names for my now-defunct dog training blog. Sooo.... *looking around coyly* I was hoping you could help me out again.

You see, I'm trying to get my own private dog training business up and running but the problem is this, I can't for the LIFE of me think of a decent name. I can train your dog to fetch you a beer from the fridge but coming up with a business name? Not too good in that department.

I've got one kicking around that sounds fine, I suppose. Want to hear it? You know you do.

The Family Dog.

How does that grab you? Yeah, I feel the same. Not bad but I don't know if I'm sold on it, not 100% anyway. And I needed to see it through your eyes before I settled on it so thoughts on that name are very much appreciated. BUT if you have one better - and I know you do because you're intelligent and creative and you look great in those jeans - I would really love to hear it.

The slant to my business is general dog training with basic behavior modification if necessary, but my main focus will be on families. I want to get the entire family involved and interested in caring for the family dog (hence the name I came up with) including the kids. I want my business to be very family friendly. And have I said "family" enough already? Family.

So, here's my criteria for the name:

- Must sound good said aloud - For example, on the phone "Hello, [business name]" It has to be snappy and not too cutesy because I hate cutesy.

- Must be searchable. So "dog" or "dog training" or the like should be in the title.

- Must look good on a business card.

I don't really have much to offer in return except my undying love and free dog advice, but that's something right?

Right?

Besides, you helped name my baby so a business name should be gravy.

(Please don't make me beg. It's not pretty.)

(Also, gravy. Mmmm, gravy.)

*Dong Dong* ? *Doink Doink*? *Bong Bong*?

Let's say you live in a house near a wooded area and that house - and wooded area too, duh - are in a cool climate experiencing a cold, rainy spring. And you're going a bit stir crazy because you've been spending too much time in the house due to cold. And rain. And because you're a bit of a hermit. So you while away much some of that time staring out the windows and sighing.

Still with me?

So let's also say, while staring out the windows, you've noticed some strange activity going on near the woods - Cars parked outside your house, people walking into the woods, often alone, on those aforementioned cold, rainy days, and you're pretty sure they're not going hiking. Mainly because they're not wearing appropriate walking-in-the-rain clothes but also because they look a little shady. But what do you know? You only leave the house when you absolutely need to so the only "shady" you know is from Law and Order. [insert sound effect here]

Following so far?

Also, cars are driving into the woods at odd hours of the night and you know, at least you're pretty sure from previous experience *cough-usedtogoparkinginthewoods-cough*, they're not going out there to party. They drive in and then drive out fairly soon after, and then another car drives in and out and then another. Lather, rinse, repeat.

(Note to self: Wash hair tomorrow.)

(Big day tomorrow, chicklets. Big.)

(Washing my hair aaaand... That's about it.)

(BIG)

And you really wish they would stop doing this because instead of standing at the window with your nose pressed to the glass you could be watching reality television sleeping acting like a 36 year old instead of an 86 year old doing something productive that would require you to not be attached to the window.

And then, on a particularly cold and a very rainy day, you happen to see a young man pull up in his car and park in front of your house. He gets out, pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt and walks into the woods. Interesting. This is after a night of in and out and in and out (the cars, you pervs, this has nothing to do with what was going on inside the house). Pretty soon after he walks out and back toward his car, possibly holding something but you can't tell because the windows are fogged up from pressing your nose to the glass it's pretty far away and you need glasses need glasses.

Then he gets into another car that you hadn't noticed because you momentarily tore yourself away to attend to your children. They, the young man (who couldn't have been more than 18) and the driver of the new car, sit for a minute then drive off only to return 15 minutes or so later. Not that YOU WERE COUNTING OR ANYTHING.

So you get your camera and start taking pictures. Evidence is always good right? Proof that you're not a crazy old bat is better.

You don't want to be that person. You know? That person? The one who ruins the fun of the local youth, but these comings and goings are a little suspicious and they're happening too close to home. Literally.

Do you do anything or do you just chalk it up to watching too much Law and Order and start getting out of the house more?

That dweam within a dweam

Yes, I still have writer's block. So when I saw that Julie had done this meme about our spouse's I decided to steal the idea and run with it.

And for the record, I hate the term "spouse". I prefer "Love Sponge".

Besides, the poor guy gave me two beautiful babies, the least I can do is showcase him on my blog. Which is something I would do more often but he's shy. It's kind of cute actually.

Plus, the meme was done by Dooce. And apparently it's making it's way across the internet. And I am a lemming! Which way is the cliff?? Let's jump!

So here you go - The Couples Quiz. Mawwiage...

What are your middle names?

Mine is Lynn. *Yawn* Moving on. Mr. C's is Sewall. He's a direct descendant of this guy. He may have famous ancestors but at least mine weren't responsible for killing innocent women. So there's that.

How long have you been together?

We met in June of 1999 and started dating some months after that. There was this teeny tiny thing about me being married at the time that sort of got in the way...

Moving on.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?

It was more than a few months. I honestly don't remember. No really, I'm being serious. What are you insinuating?

Who asked whom out?

It kind of happened organically but let's just say it wasn't me doing the pursuing.

How old are each of you?

We're both 36 but I'm a couple of months older. And he never let's me forget it, the bastard.

Whose siblings do you see the most?

My sister, definitely. We'd love to see his sister more often but she and her family live half way across the country. It's a bummer because I really like her.

Which situation is hardest on you as a couple?

Ooh, tough one. I'd have to say his work schedule. Between his traveling for business and the need for him to be completely wired to work 24/7, it puts a bit of a strain on our relationship and, more importantly, on the girls. But we do our best when we are together to make the most of our time. We fail a lot, but we're trying.

Did you go to the same school?

How do I put this? Hell-to-the-NO. Our schools couldn't have been more different.

Are you from the same home towns?

See above. I can't stress that Hell No enough. If I can compare our towns to alcohol - His hometown is a 1939 Macallan Scotch. Mine is Schlitz.

Who is smarter?

He is. But if you tell him I said that I'll stab you with a jagged, rusty Schlitz can.

Who is the most sensitive?

When it comes to that icky love stuff, he is. When it comes to puppies and kittens and injustices in the world, I am.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?

Eat out? What is this thing "eat out"?

If I had to pick one place, I'd say the local tapas place. We love tapas. And sangria. And tapas with sangria. And sangria with sangria.

Where is the furthest the two of you have traveled as a couple?

Tuscany.

Who has the craziest exes?

I think I answered that already.

Who has the worst temper?

I scream, yell, throw things and have broken at least one piece of furniture in my day. He hardly ever raises his voice. I win!! Whoohoo!!

Who does the cooking?

I married him because he's a fabulous cook and I can burn water. Now he's too busy with work and I'm doing all the cooking. We use the microwave a lot.

Who is the neat freak?

I always say that as long as he has a clear path from the bedroom to the bathroom to the kitchen to the TV and out the door he wouldn't notice if there were dead bodies stacked 5 feet high on either side. So I guess I'm the neat one in the relationship. I would notice them at 3 feet high.

Who is more stubborn?

He would say I am but I have no idea what he's talking about. NO. IDEA. And you won't be able to convince me otherwise.

Who hogs the bed?

He does. But mostly because he's bigger than me and harder to push.

Who wakes up earlier?

Mr. C, definitely. I would sleep until 3pm if you let me.

Where was your first date?

He took me to a driving range. *Insert inappropriate sexual metaphor here*

Who is more jealous?

I'd say we're equal on that one.

How long did it take to get serious?

Moving on...

Who eats more?

He does but I'm a bigger snacker.

(And right now he's reading this and bitching about my metabolism. Suck it up, buttercup. Heh.)

Who does the laundry?

If it wasn't for his work shirts and the close proximity to the bathroom, I don't think he would even know where the laundry room was.

Who's better with the computer?

Since he works in the computer industry I would have to say him.

Who drives when you are together?

He does and I bitch the whole time. Good times, good times.

See ya Blondie...

... Hello Red.

Tune in next week when I get bored again and dye it blue. On a related note, I think I may need a hobby.

So I sing a song of love

Chicky -

Today you are four.



I want to write so much to you. I want to tell you all the ways you've grown this year right before my eyes, but it happened so fast I didn't notice you had changed from a baby into a little girl until it had happened. I want to put every important moment down here for you to read later, but I can't. It's overwhelming. Just like I can't go back and relive all those moments again. They've gone and we can't get them back but that's alright. This next year of your life should be about moving forward and embracing changes. I think we both can handle it now.

Besides, there are parts of the last year that neither one of us want to relive.

This year has been a toughie, I'm not going to pretend that it hasn't, and you've taken the brunt of it I'm afraid. Our family of three became four, we left the only home you knew and moved to another one and you started school all in the span of a few months. That's a lot for someone your age to take and the transition wasn't exactly seamless. But we're starting to settle into this new life and not a moment too soon.

You and I have been at odds with each other for the past year. We haven't seen eye to eye on pretty much anything since before you turned three and I think I know why. It can be summed up in two lines of a song, a song I used to play when you were a baby while I walked you around the kitchen trying to calm you down, trying to calm myself down, tears in my eyes and hugging you so tightly, willing peace into your body -

"And you're so much like me. I'm sorry."

I know the song is from a father to his son, but I think it captures how we are, you and me, today and for the rest of our days together. How do I know, since you're only just four? I just do. I'm your mom, I know things. You'd know that if you stopped to listen to me once and awhile, but you don't. You've got your own mind, but you've got my stubbornness and my temper. Sorry about that.

We are two peas at war with each other in the same small pod, both wanting our own space and yet pulling each other back again to snuggle together in the safety of our zippered pouch. That push and pull is what frustrates me. I'm never pulling when you're pushing. You're never pushing when I pull. I'm pretty sure it frustrates you too. From the amount of tantrums and time outs we have in this house, I'm almost certain frustration is your number one emotion these days.

For the next year you need to know one thing - I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm going to pretend that I do until I figure things out and I'm going to mess up a lot but I'll get better at this parenting gig eventually. That won't make any sense to you until you've had your own kids but I feel it's important to state it for the record. I'm doing the best I can and I apologize for all the rest.

(Half of what I say is meaningless, but I say it just to reach you...)

Because you, my sweet girl, are wonderful and you deserve only the best but instead you got me.

For you I will be better. For you I will try to learn patience and understanding. I will try to push aside my insecurities so I can help become a strong and secure person. I'll try to learn to let go. I'll even try to let you decorate the cupcakes with as many sprinkles as you want but I'm not promising anything.

I'll try. I am trying. For you.




Happy Birthday to you, my big girl.

I love you,

Mama

Isn't it ironic? No really, is it?

In my last post I was all - Hurrah breastfeeding! Fuck 'em all if they can't stand to see a woman's breasts used for what nature intended and not airbrushed within an inch of their life and splashed all over the covers of Maxim magazine, today we nurse like no one is looking! Am self-righteous breastfeeding zealot! And I thumped my chest like a male gorilla looking to impress his female.

*thump, thump, thump*

But today I do a 180 and praise the heavens that my child is finally doing this:


Sweet jaheebus, that is my baby holding a bottle to her mouth with a smile on her face. After 10 looong months she is finally letting a synthetic nipple pass her lips and giving my very real ones a much needed break. She is not weaned so I can still play earth mama breastfeeder...

*thump, thump, thump*

... But now I can give her to Mr. C. and tell him he can feed her for a change. Mama's boobs need a nap.

*thump, zzzzzzz*


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

This is how our adventures in weaning started a few months ago. It wasn't pretty. Adorable, but not pretty. Scrumptuous and edible, but not pretty. I wanted to put her whole head in my mouth and chew it like a Skittle, but not pretty.


(Also, Avent? *making the universal symbol for telephone with my hand* Call me. My baby is I am available for sponsorship. Am also shameless.)


Adventures in Weaning from Chicky Baby on Vimeo.