Lame-O

Moving in four days. Packing constantly. Trying not to staple a certain whiny little Chicky to the wall while soothing babe in arms (no really, she's in my arms as I type this. Left arm almost completely asleep. Send help.) and simultaneously nursing said babe in arms while she goes through growth spurt from hell. Will update soon with pictures - because you really must see the mountain o' boxes taking up residence in my bedroom to believe if - when babe in arms going through growth spurt from hell starts sleeping again. In her own bed for more than 45 minutes at a time. For realz.

Until then, answer me this - How can one small family obtain so much crap in six short years of living? Guess I'll add figuring out that great mystery to my list of things to do. If I could find my list of things to do.

*sigh*

I wanted to nibble on her tummy but didn't want to risk waking her because she was FINALLY SLEEPING.

Out of the mouths of skinny babes

Scene: My bathroom.

Our heroine (that would be me) steps out of her shower after quickly washing off the sweat from that morning's power walk. The one where she pushed more than 40 pounds of child plus a big ass stroller up and down some tricky hills for a couple of miles.

Okay, not super tricky, and not necessarily bigger than your average hill, but they seemed that way to me.

Fine. They were probably no bigger than your average ANT hill. But to me they were my Everest.

Anyway...

Our heroine steps out of her shower and steps in front of the mirror to survey the damage her recent childbirth and crazed cookie consumption did to her once smokin' bod.

Okay, maybe not smokin', but definitely doable. If you catch my drift.

Anyway...

Next to her sits her three year old daughter. A vision in a cat hair covered t-shirt and that morning's breakfast still on her cheeks.

Woman [sighing and making faces at herself in the mirror while grabbing at her love handles and stomach roll]: I'm fat and I don't like it one bit.

Child [playing with cheap Mardi Gras-type beads while sitting on a pile of towels that need to be washed, chanting]: Fat Mommy, Fat Mommy. Fat Mommy, Fat Mommy. [pausing to assess] Yep, you're fat Mommy.

Woman: You're not supposed to agree with me. You're supposed to tell me you think I'm beautiful no matter what.

Child [thinking]: Hmmm. You're beautiful, Mommy.

Woman: Thanks, hon.

Child [dancing away]: And fat. No matter what.

Too much television isn't bad as long as it's educational. Right?

We're moving in two weeks. TWO WEEKS.

Oh my Christ.

So Chicky is spending a lot of time watching DVDs while I try to fit an entire room full of crap into two cardboard boxes. The way I see it, as long as she's zoning out in front of the boob tube she may as well be learning. Today at my other blog I've got a review for PBN of the "Meet the Sight Words", a DVD geared toward helping young kids learn how to read. You should check it out.

And now I will go back to frantically packing. Do you think I'll need bubble wrap for the cat?

Fear and Loathing in Barnes and Noble

I don't know when the day will come when I will know without a shadow of a doubt how to handle certain sticky social situations (try saying that three times fast) involving my kid and another child but I do know one thing - If I catch you physically assaulting my daughter I'm coming for you. So you'd better watch you ass.

And no, I don't care if you're only three years old.

Let's start from the beginning, shall we?

The weather here in the Northeast has been sucktacular this summer and as a result every parent has the same frenzied, haunted look that a person gets when forced to spend day after day stuck in the house with small, rabid little beasts with pointy teeth and sharp claws. Or as I like to call them, preschoolers. So yesterday when it rained yet again, I packed up the girls and went to our crappy weather destination of choice - our local Barnes and Noble.

I like hanging out at B&N. Not only are there new books to read to Chicky that I haven't read at least a gazillion times, magazines to peruse, and a Starbucks on site, but there's also scheduled story times for the kids and a germ infested train set to play with that every ankle bitter in a 20 mile radius has sneezed on. Legal stimulants, the ability to look over the latest People magazine without having to pay for it, and a decent case of bubonic plague all in one place. How can we go wrong?

Well, apparently I was not the only parent to have that idea. The place was packed with strollers and mobs of kids were running around high on cupcakes and freedom from the four walls of their home. It was a recipe for disaster but I was desperate.

Chicky and I shared a sandwich (that I ate most of), sat for storytime (that I did most of the listening to), did a craft (that I did most of) and paid for a book for me (what? I needed a reward for all that effort) and it was still raining outside so we headed back to the train set. In hindsight, I know that was a bad move. I should have steered her toward the picture books. But she wanted to play with the other kids and I needed a moment to soothe a squawking C.C.

The train area was overrun with boys which normally is great for Chicky as she's a pretty physical kid. But my girl was no match for one boy in particular. One her own age but much bigger than Chicky, my little peanut.

She had one train, he had five. She wanted to push her train around the track, he wanted her toy to add it to his stash. He grabbed at it, and Chicky - bless her little heart - would not let go. Not even when he dragged her in a complete circle around the train set. Thankfully there was a nice grandmotherly type there to intervene while I shushed C.C.

But where was the parent, you might be asking yourself? Because I know I was. More like, WHERE THE HELL IS YOUR MOTHER, YOU LITTLE SHIT.

No mom, just dad. Sitting right there in front of the action. Busy flirting with a young mother instead of watching his little bully.

Now I don't care if you're a mom or a dad. Parent your damn devil child. Don't sit there and pay more attention to the 20-something mom with the big tits.

I should have left then but I wanted to let the kid redeem himself. Besides, it's going to take a lot more than someone under three feet tall to run me off.

Yeah, bad idea.

Did the child learn? Uh, no. Did the dad take his eyes off the young mother's chest long enough to watch his kid? Of course not. Before I knew what was happening the boy had Chicky in a full on headlock. It seems like he reached across her body from over her shoulder to grab for the toy and Chicky, once again, would not let it go.

Uh uh, see? Now you've gone and pissed me off, kid.

I had to run across the dad's line of sight with a squealing infant in my arms to stop the little bastard boy from choking my daughter. The grandmother again stepped in to help since the father didn't even notice his son was about to asphyxiate another child.

And as I was reaching for the boy's arm to remove it from Chicky's tender throat she, being totally freaked out about the whole thing, picked that moment to push away from the kid, knocking him off balance and causing him to bump his head (lightly, I swear) into the shelves behind him. I'd be lying if I said I didn't take some perverse satisfaction in that.

Oh right, like you wouldn't?

The kid whined a little that his head hurt and still his father couldn't take his eyes off the woman's cleavage to see what had just happened. That was it, I was done. And I wasn't the only one. Three other parents, including the grandmother, took their kids away from the train set and away from the bully. Apparently, he had been a real monster even before we got there. All that was left was the dad with boobs on the brain and the owner of said breasts and their two children.

I try not to be a helicopter parent because I want Chicky to learn to work certain things out for herself. And Chicky has certainly had her fair share of timeouts from being too rough with other kids. I'm not the world's best parent and I screw up a lot, so I'm not trying to pass myself off as Super Mom. But I wasn't put on this earth to parent another person's kid. So when kids could potentially be harmed I have to step in, whether it's my kid doing something wrong or someone else's. There's no question about it. It could have been a dicey situation, the dad could have taken issue with me disciplining his kid (because I did tell the boy before he bumped his head and before he had removed his arm from my Chicky's neck that what he was doing wasn't right and was hurting her) if he had paid attention for even a second and saw what went down. Instead he ended up looking like a bigger boob than the ones owned by the young mother whose pants he was trying to get into.

And she had a ring, dude. I guess he's just not that observant about anything.

Paris in training

I took the girls for a walk around the neighborhood the other day. Chicky insisted on bringing an old cell phone of mine and a stuffed dog in a cloth purse she received for her birthday from one of my well-meaning relatives. With those accessories and her over-sized sunglasses she drew a lot of interesting looks from our neighbors.

It's all cute now, but if she tries to leave the house without underwear I'm going to have to lay the smack down.

Still can't convince him he's not the baby of the family anymore

Fisher will always be my first baby, but if he doesn't stop looking at the pacifiers and the stuffed toys with lust in his eyes I'm sending him to military school.

I'm pretty sure Mama never told me there'd be days like this

C.C. is passed out in front of me, all scrunched up in her car seat under a blanket that is slightly more fragrant than I'd like it to be, wearing a long sleeve shirt on this warm summer day and newborn pants that don't really fit.

This was not the outfit I put her in before we left the house today.

No, the other one matched. It fit. It was goddamn adorable, okay?

Then I took her to see the doctor.

Everything was going swell at her two month appointment. She was smiling and cooing at the doc. I was told developmentally she's doing spectacularly and she's growing like a weed. Yes, everything was going along swimmingly until...

Until she got her foot caught under the protective paper on the exam table and it scared the holy hell out of her and she began screaming at the top of her lungs for a good five minutes straight until I was able to finally calm her down. Five torturous minutes where the doctor looked at my baby and me like one of us had sprouted another head.

That was fun.

But wait! There's more.

Then they gave her the two month vaccines. Then she screamed bloody murder for a good fifteen minutes because they stuck needles in her tender thighs. Chubby baby thighs suitable for snacking on, not sticking sharp things into.

FOUR freaking needles. In my sweet baby's adorably chubby, very tasty, extremely sensitive, thighs.

As if the screaming and the crying and the gulping of air - because the hysteria, oh my Christ, the hysteria - wasn't enough, I had the brilliant idea to try to nurse her to calm her down.

Well, what would you have done?

My sweet, chubby, tasty, high sensitive and now hysterical baby decided that screaming was easier without a tit in her mouth so she screamed whilst trying to gulp down a very strong gush of milk, until she finally tore her wee head away, letting fly a gusher-like stream of breast milk that would make the caretakers of the fountains at the Bellagio proud, and in her own way told me to GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME, YOU CRAZY BITCH. LET ME SCREAM. Better yet, LET ME DIE.

And just when I was about to call to the doctor to get a sedative - for me - C.C. got eerily silent and...

Projectile vomited all over the exam room.

Think Linda Blair, but cuter.

Fortunately, I came prepared so I had a burp cloth and a bib in my free hand and was ready to catch any spit up. Unfortunately, this was not spit up and the flimsy material could do nothing to stop the gusher of spew.

Meanwhile, during the screaming and the thrashing and the choking and the crying and the hurling, Chicky was dancing around the room, standing on chairs, crawling on the sink, yelling for crackers and water and stickers and CAN WE GO HOME NOW?? I WANT TO GO HOME NOW. I WANT TO GO HOME. RIGHT. NOW!!!

Indeed, can we go home now?

Uh uh uhhh, not so fast.

First I had to clean up the floor, then I had to clean up the baby, then I had to hose down my hands and arms, and then I had to go rummaging around my humongous bag for a fresh set of baby clothes that apparently I packed when C.C. was four days old.

My apologies to the nurse who had to clean up the rest so I could get my children the hell out of there before someone mistakenly called the proper authorities because they thought they heard hara-kiri going on in the next room.

That was three hours ago and C.C. has been passed out ever since. She smells and her clothes don't fit and the blanket she's laying under is kind of gooey, but she's sleeping peacefully and she will wake with no memory of the torture her mother and doctor put her through.

I, however, am wondering if it's too early to submerge myself in a vat of gin.

And don't even get me started on what happened while Chicky was supposed to be sleeping in her room just now. It involves fecal matter and I just don't want to go there.

Make that an extra large vat of gin.

Now I will reward myself with some of that chocolate

First, I can't think of anything to write about. Then, I'm all over the internet yappin' away.

Today I'm blogging at not one, but two blogs other than my own. First up, I'm over at the New England Mamas talking about my own secret place to get the best homemade chocolates (Mmm, homemade chocolate. Mmm...) and then I'm over at my friend Sarah's blog pinch hitting for her while she's off having an actual vacation. Damn her.

And for all my New England readers, don't forget we're having a contest at the NE Mamas. Share with us your secret spaces or hidden gems and you just might win something. Uh huh. That's right. Spill it.

After I rest up from all this writing business, I'll start working on your questions. You're waiting with baited breath, I can tell.

Cancer, Cancer. Whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when it comes for you?

I've had this post kicking around for a couple of weeks, but with Lisa's news yesterday this seems like a good time to post this.

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When I was pregnant with C.C. I had an appointment with a genetic counselor because, in the prime of my life at age 35, I was classified as a woman of "advanced maternal age" and I hadn't yet decided if I wanted to go through amniocentesis.

There was nothing in my or Mr. C's family history that caused any alarm for our yet unborn baby but while mapping out my family history red flags popped up for me. A bunch of red flags. Big, crimson ones that didn't have any cute welcomes beckoning to me like "Eat Here. Early bird specials, including dessert, starting at just $7.99", "Half price apps. after 7pm", not even my favorite "Half price drink specials Tues. and Weds." or "99 cent draughts". Just scary red flags with the word "Cancer" written on them in big block letters.

My mother died of colon cancer four years ago. My grandmother, my mother's mother, died of ovarian cancer, a related form of disease, last year. And years ago my Gram's half sister died from breast cancer, a cancer related to ovarian. It was like following a daisy chain. Unfortunately, I'm the half hitch and from the looks of things I'm barely hanging on. One tug and the whole thing will let go, metaphorically speaking.

Metaphors make the cancer easier to take, didn't you know? Follow the yellow brick cancer trail! Follow the yellow brick cancer trail! Follow, follow, follow, follow...

I had my own brush with cancer ten years ago. I had an aggressive form of the HPV virus and within a year I went from clean pap smears to Oh my CHRIST. Get thee to a doctor NOW or you'll get THE CANCER.

I was treated. Cells were removed. My feet were in the stirrups more times than I'd like to remember but everything worked out fine. Unfortunately, this diagnosis coincided with my mom finding out her cancer was progressing faster than had hoped and major surgery had just been scheduled for her. It was a dark time in my life.

My mom was diagnosed with colon cancer when she was just 44 years old and since there is a genetic link, doctors told my sister and me that we would have to start being tested when we reached the age of 35, or roughly ten years before the age my mother was diagnosed. Let me tell you, I'm not looking forward to some physician I don't know shoving a camera up my butt to have a look see but I'm going to do it. I have to.

But before then I have another appointment with a genetic counselor in September. We'll chat, maybe talk about the good old days when my mom's insides were being ravaged by cancer and about my grandmother who refused to be tested even though her oldest daughter died a horrible death at a ridiculously young age.

I'm not sure but if you research my last name you may find it's English for "Ostrich who sticks his head in the sand because if you don't know bad things are coming then they'll just go away. LA LA LA LA LA".

After that, who knows? Maybe they'll recommend genetic testing to determine if I'm, in fact, predisposed for the big C. And that, my friends, scares the beejebus out of me.

I'll get tested. I'll go every year if I need to. I'll drink that vile liquid that will clean my insides out better than Roto Router on a clogged toilet (Oh the symbolism!). I'll bitch to my doctor that I will not have any of those other tests that are only good about 10% of the time and just put on the pith helmet already and grab your pick ax because it's time to go SPEELUNKING! I'll fight with insurance companies who probably don't want to pay for this procedure for someone my age. I'll do all of that...

But do I really want to know, really, truly know, that the damn cancer is coming to get me? Would you? How much information is too much? If you were me, would you take a cue from my dear, ostrich-like grandmother and not want to know anything or would you face it head on?

Ha! I scoff in the face of cancer! HA HA HA H... *cough* *gag* *whimper*

Would you willingly get a test that would tell you as definitively as possible that if the screenings fail (which they don't usually) you'll end up with this disease? And if you did, what would you do with the information?

I may be a heathen but I know when someone needs my prayers

Whether or not you are familiar with Midwestern Mommy, please go to her blog and leave her a comment or send her an email with your thoughts and prayers. She just found out she has cancer - either colon or lymphoma, she wasn't sure at time of posting - and though she's trying to put on a brave face, joking about the inevitable weight loss, she desperately needs your best wishes.

And please, even if you're not a church goer, say a prayer for her family as well, especially her beloved husband and her adorable little boy (and hell, for her dog too!). They need all the support they can get during this difficult time.

Ask me a question and I'll tell you no lies. Unless you want me to.

Oh hey, lookie here. I've got a blog. I should probably write something, eh?

Um...

This is the first time in my blogging career (and I use that term VERY loosely) that I've been at a total loss for words. Maybe it's because I missed Blogher this year. Or it might have something to do with that new baby of mine. Or maybe it's all the energy that is required of me to keep watch over my two children. Because you never know when Chicky will try to love C.C. so much that her little head pops right off.

I know this is lame, and I know I've done it before, but I need a small push to keep writing. So ask me anything and I'll be as honest as I possibly can. Any questions you've ever had about me just ask away. I'm an open book. Want to know about me in high school? Anything about my childhood? Musical preferences? Embarrassing stories (be specific please)? Favorite sexual position?

Okay, scratch that last one. I don't want to bore you all to death.

I need ideas or this blog will slip away from me while I'm busy trying not to duct tape Chicky to the wall.

So, what do you want to know about me? Anyone? Bueller?

Ooh, ooh! I've got a question. Can you come over here and wipe my butt?

She's got the whole world in her hands

With both my mom and my grandmother gone I don't have too many people left to remark on how my kids may look like me or like someone else in my family. It would be nice to have someone who can say with some authority that Chicky has my nose or Caroline has my eyes. My aunts were both pretty young when I was born and my Dad is just not one of those people who remembers those types of things, especially when there are much more important things to remember. Like Frank Zappa lyrics. My mother in law is always quick to compare Chicky or C.C. to people in her family or my father in law's clan but always seems to forget that I did have a part in creating these children and they did not spontaneously appear from a drop of her son's sperm. I'm not looking for an award but a little credit would be nice.

When she was a baby I always thought Chicky looked a great deal like Mr. C. Random people, nice old ladies especially, like to stop me in stores to let me know that she's the spitting image of me but I don't see it. When C.C. was born, though I saw a great deal of my husband in her, I knew immediately that this child was going to take after the women in my family, my sister, mother and grandmother especially. She really reminds me of my mom. So much so, in fact, that while counting her fingers and her toes I took note of her fingernails, her long nail beds and the spindly length of her fingers, and thought, Her hands look exactly like Mom's. I don't need anyone else to agree with me. Others can compare her to a living or dead relative but this is proof at least to me that she did come straight from my vagina.

So, you're headed to Blogher without me.

No I'm not going to Blogher. Yes I'm very sad about this. I'm tired of receiving invitations to parties that I won't be attending. I'm missing the wonderful women I met last year who will either be attending the conference or the BFF get together. Instead I'll be packing up my house because we're moving at the end of August or I'll be sitting on my couch with a newborn attached to my breast. Or maybe I'll be trying my best not to scream at the three year old who pushes me to madness each and every day. Sounds like a good time, doesn't it?

But pouting does not become me. I genuinely want everyone who is going to have a great time, even if I won't be there to share it with you. For you newbies here's a few words of advice: Try not to drink too much because there will be cameras EVERYWHERE (in other words, do as I say not as I do) and drop your guard a little to let in a new friend or 30. Don't forget your swag and your business cards and feel free to pack that extra pair of hot shoes or cute skirt because you won't be alone in your over-packing. And remember that your self perceived awkwardness is just that. You'll be in very good company so smile and shake hands or hug or squeee or do whatever you told your new friends you would in their comments. And fer chrissake, have a good time and have a drink for me.

Me? I already told you what I'll be doing. I'll also be thinking about my Gram and mourning the loss of her. I'm not trying to be a downer. Instead I'd like you to really appreciate the opportunity you have before you. Enjoy every minute to the fullest even if you're completely overwhelmed because as soon as you get on that plane to go home you'll be missing the experience that is Blogher.

In the meantime I'll be sitting here patiently waiting to hear who drank too much, whose shoes were the cutest, who was nicer/nastier/goofier than expected, and all the other news you all will be sharing from San Francisco. And there's always next year. Oh yes, there is next year so drink your fill now because in '09 you'll be fighting me for it.

Love to you all.

*Smooches*

We interupt this heathen moment...

... to let you know about my latest review of Tiny*Prints personalized cards for the Parent Bloggers Network.

Go there, go there now.

I will now go back to hiding from the inevitable lightning strike.

And instead of casino chips you get The Father, Son and Holy Ghost

Chicky: "Mommy, is that a castle?!"

Me: "No, Hon. That's a church."

Chicky: "A church? What's a church?"

Me: "Uh..."

Mr. C: "Uh..."

Me: "That's where people go to... Uh..."

Mr. C: "Yeah, that's where they go to... Um..."

Me to Mr. C: "Oh God, how do I explain praying to her?"

Chicky: "Do they go there to play games?" Praying/Playing. Whatever.

Mr. C: "Yes! They go there to play games. Lots of fun mind games. And if you play the game correctly you get to go to heaven."

Chicky: "Oh. I don't think I like those kinds of games."

Me: "I won't argue with you there, kid."

Because after a few sleepless nights a woman starts to hear things

Psst. Hey. You wanna break me out of this straight jacket? Put down that camera, will ya? What am I, a burrito? For crying out loud, I'm a baby fer chrissake. Stop laughing! What, am I here to amuse you? Sure, you think this is funny now but wait until you see what I've left for you in my diaper. Let's just say it's not something you'll want to photograph for the ol' baby book. Yeah, who's laughing now?

And don't even get me started on where you can stick that pacifier.

I'm forever blowing bubbles...

... Pretty bubbles in the air.

Chicky takes her bubbles very seriously. And I want to french kiss the person who thought to put soap in a bottle along with a wand to make the most simple - and yet the most addicting - pastime ever. Not just that, but it's something that I can do one handed. Score.

So to recap: Chicky is happy because she's doing something she loves, I'm happy because we're out of the house enjoying the sunshine, and C.C. is happy because she's not left alone in her swing while I try to cease Chicky's whining because she's booo-ooorrred and, Mama, put the baby down, put her down, put her doooo-ooowwnn. It's a win-win for everyone... Except for C.C.'s future therapist who would have been able to pay his kids' way through college solely on the poor girl's need to work out her abandonment issues at the hand of her older sister. Though I would explain to her one day that if there were no bubbles, time with a therapist would be much better than throwing money at a proctologist.

Okay, so maybe, just maybe, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today

To the asshat woman who parked her humongous SUV mere centimeters away from my not quite as humongous so therefore totally socially acceptable SUV in the parking lot of the playground when there were at least 20 other empty spots you could have taken, including the six on the other side of your car, but you chose not to because I was parked in the only shady spot in the parking lot and you thought you could back your gas guzzler next to my only slightly better on gas but not really but I feel superior anyway car, obviously trying to bogart my cool air on this 85 degree day for your brat kid who pushed my angel okay not an angel but as far as you know she's a goddamn cherub child when they both went for the stairs to the slide and your kid was older and bigger and less attractive than mine and should have known better and you didn't even say anything to your devil's spawn little girl about how she should act like less of a little prick more appropriately on the playground, you shithead, and then you gave me a look of death when my baby started screaming and I tried to wheel my carriage out of the playground and maybe drifted into your breathing space and then I couldn't get my older kid or my big postpartum ass but even though I had a baby four weeks ago it's still smaller than yours myself in the car without contorting our bodies into positions that should only be seen in pretzels just to get into our car because your tank car was so damn close to mine and by the time we finally were all packed up I was covered in boob sweat and both kids were screaming so that I swore under my breath at you that I would find out where you lived and would leave weekly flaming bags of dog shit on your front steps,


I opened my door into the side of your car and I left a nice dent in the side of it. And I don't feel even a little bit bad about that. Have a nice day, bitch.

Not very appetizing

This is what I found on my kitchen table after putting Chicky down for a nap just now:


Hmmm.

Well, I guess it gives new meaning to the phrase "She's really got a stick up her ass".

You don't suppose she's trying to tell me something, do you?

The left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing

Don't blame me if i don't post often. Blame She Who Must Be Held ALL THE TIME.

It took me at least a half an hour to type this with one hand because a certain someone refuses to be put down. Ever.

Yes, I have a sling and I use it constantly and yet, there's something about the sweatiness of my bare arm that lulls my child to sleep. Nothing says comfort like second hand body wetness.

There are more hours than I wish to admit that I find myself carrying this girl just to stop her from screaming. I think she's still pissed off about being evicted from my uterus. Not only was she ten days late but she also came out with the umbilical cord wrapped around her leg three times and once around her waist. I'm only surprised she didn't come out shouting "ATTICA! ATTICA! ATTICA!"

One good thing about toting around a baby: My biceps are going to look amazing by the end of the summer. But if I don't watch myself, since I tend to carry her in the crook of my left arm, I'll start looking like Reggie from Lady in the Water with one well muscled arm and one, um, not.

This may work for M. Knight but that look does nothing for this Chicky.

So if you don't hear from me as often for the next few weeks it's because I'm physically tied to this little human being.

She's snoring so maybe I can put her in her swing for awhile. Wish me luck. Or, at least, wish me stronger muscles.