Tonight Andrew and I took the kids to look at Christmas lights. It's a BEAUTIFUL, cold night here in Anderson...the sky is black, the stars are brights, and damn it, I feel "Christmas-y."
Of course, the kids were wondering where their movie was (it's Ice Age and like the obviously TROLL parents that we are, we turned it off to look at the lights...do we SUCK or what?! Gee, I can't WAIT for teenagers...)
I decided to thumb around the radio to see if we could find some Christmas tunes. Not LAME, ear-bleed-eliciting "Country Christmas." Not yoddlerific, soul inspired, "let's-see-how-long-we-can-draw-out-this-note," modern Christmas music. But real, bells and strings traditional Christmas music. Ah yes, the stuff we grew up on.
During a commercial break, we heard an advertisment for "Princess Weddings." Apparently, Disney has teamed up with some kind of wedding dress/producing company to offer weddings with a Snow White/Belle/Ariel/Jasmin/Aurora(Sleeping Beauty)/Cinderella theme. The commercial highlighted a wedding in which the bride chose a "Belle" themed wedding dress. Nice. Classy.
I began to think about which Princess I most identified with. Certainly not Belle. Aside from the fact that I went on a first date that went HIDIOUSLY wrong during "Beauty and the Beast," (it was as if the movie was taking place in the very theater itself...) she's a brunette, and well, I'm not. Just as I was identifying most with Ariel (because she likes to sing, has "whatchamacallits and thingamabobs," hangs out with a gay crab named Sebastian (LOVE IT!), a fat friend named "Flounder" ("Animal House", anyone???) and totally ROCKS the clam shell bikini...I decided to ask ANDREW which Princess he MOST thinks I embody...
As I sat with a smirk of self-satisfaction, knowing he would clearly pick Aurora, for she is so sweet, and beautiful...blonde and likes to sleep a lot...or maybe Cinderella because Andrew is so sweet and would pick "The Princess of All Princesses" out to represent his lovely bride...he said...
"Wasn't Jasmin kind of a bitch in the beginning?" He asked?
Stunned...I replied..."Um well, yes...um...I don't know...I mean...she's a brunette...and well (I started to panic...after all, she DID own a pet tiger...SHIT)...uh...you know...WHAT??? WHAT??? Did you just say she was kind of a BITCH? What are you saying? What? I mean, she wears PANTS! She's the only Princess that wears PANTS. I am NOT a Princess that wears PANTS---" I was cut off...
"She was a bitch? Ok then, then that's you." Pause. Here's what went through my head...and then Andrew spoke again.
What?! Seriously? Is that TRUE? Am I really Jasmin? Do I have to wear PANTS?!
Next thought...Andrew said, "And those pants are more like pantaloons...there's a real "MC Hammer" thing goin' on."
CLEARLY the honest thoughts of a husband who is going on 10 years of marriage.
So what...so I sometimes listen to Vivien's "Disney Princess" CD and substitute the words, "I can show you my peesch..." for "I can show you the world" while lewdly gesturing at my crotch (out of sight of the children, of course!) So I work with gigantic guardian dogs, they HARDLY qualify as tigers. Ok, fine. They do. So what?
I suppose I need Princess Reform School. A place where they turn bitchy Jasmins into submissive, silent, bird-whispering Snow Whites...NAH! Insightful, insightful Andrew!
Which Princess are YOU?
Monday, January 21, 2008
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
A "Kidless" Morning...OR...Stalking Old Ladies at Goodwill
The adage goes: One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. A truth, if ever there was one, exemplified most often in a place called “Goodwill.”
I went into Goodwill looking for pet supplies. And I came out a changed person. There are two “Goodwill Superstores” in Anderson: the “new” one in the “acceptable” part of town; and the “old” one in the “shady” part of town. So shady, in fact, that I was told by first-person account, that under no circumstances should I visit the unsavory Goodwill unless I carried my “money” in either my “crotch” or “my bra.” True story. That being said, I choose the brand new Goodwill Superstore on the other side of town.
The store is big, beautiful and clean, in fact, it looks exactly like the store on the Goodwill commercial, complete with isles and isles of used clothing arranged (with care!) not only by size, but also by color! The resulting visual rainbow, combined with the super-bright fluorescent lights makes everything appear brand spankin’ new. It’s quite the illusion!
After my first “sweep” of Goodwill, I realized that there wasn’t a single item pet-related in the entire store. Unless you counted the rows and rows of pastel-colored sweatshirts with various cats, dogs, horses and other cartoon-y, sweetly demented looking animals embroidered on them, there wasn’t anything at all I could qualify as “pet supplies.” But, since my next stop (Belk, to buy a new bra) wouldn’t be open until 10 am, I decided to peruse the racks. After all, this was my first childless morning in over a month, and quite truthfully, I didn’t really know what to do with myself. The store was dead. The only other people were the sales clerk, two old ladies (who I decided were an 80 year old mom and her 60 year old daughter) and an older man, who was not with them. I listened as the younger old lady showed her mom some hunting-style pants she wanted. The mom thought they were “too big” but the daughter insisted that “she liked ‘em!” so into the cart they went. I even regarded them with a smile; their banter just went to show that once a mother and daughter, always a mother and daughter.
I walked aimlessly over to the “knick-knack” department, my inner monologue screaming at me to NOT purchase or bring home any useless junk. My Southern Living at Home addiction has made my house such that a single vase or trivet *may* cause my house to explode. Now, SLAH (as I like to refer to it) hardly qualifies as junk…but just the same, I really don’t need any more “stuff.” The older ladies lagged far behind me, so I could really take my time and look, without feeling like someone was breathing down my neck. And it was then, that I saw …
Just a few feet in front of me something caught my eye. It was two figurine-looking-things, and they appeared to be cats. Since everyone knows I can’t resist anything “cat” I (reluctantly disobeyed my inner voice telling me “NOOOOOOO!”) reached out and grabbed them. Once I had my hands on them, I realized that they were a sugar and creamer set, and they were in fact cats…standing erect…dressed in Victorian period clothing. The boy cat came apart at the waist, he was the sugar bowl. The girl cat was wearing a fancy bonnet which was open on top to pour cream. A pink bow on her bustle curved around to form a handle. They were so strange and tacky, but at the same time, seemed too nice to be in a place like Goodwill. One had a price of $0.75 and the other was $1.00. Even still, I put them back and continued to wander around. After my first, and what I thought would be my final loop around Goodwill, I impulsively decided to purchase the cat sugar and creamer. In the time it took to walk around, I had convinced my self that I love to collect things in pairs (I do have a small collection of sugars and creamers) and that they’d make a lovely (if not strange and tacky) addition.
When I returned to the knick-knacks, I inadvertently walked past the cats, at first, and found myself in the children’s toy area with the old ladies. So I retraced my steps, but they weren’t there. “Now, I KNOW they are here, I was just HOLDING them, just holding them as the little old ladies were…” and it hit me. “THOSE TWO LITTLE OLD BITCHES!” I hatefully thought! They saw ME looking at them (mistake #1), wondered what fascination they held, since they had obviously caught my “fake blonde, designer jeans, Tiffany necklace, Lulu Guinness purse” attention, and well, I obviously know style when I see it (hardy-har-har…), saw me put them back (mistake #2) and swooped in as soon as I was out of the area. Since I am an educated woman, I felt the need to test my hypothesis by spying (yes, spying) on their cart. Sure enough, down past the knick-knacks, in the children’s toy area, were the two old ladies…and sitting on top of a pile of books in the section of the cart a child can sit, were MY two cats. I was furious. Livid. At myself. How could I have let them go so easily? I had them in my hands, and lost them, just like that. And I couldn’t help but be both angry and envious of the two women, they saw my joy and fascination, and swooped in for the kill. Clever girls. I was so pissed, I actually considered the ramifications of just grabbing the sugar and creamer out of their cart. Could I get arrested? Would they keep a file-photo of my under the counter at Goodwill and refuse to serve me? After 1 second of obvious insanity, logic prevailed and the saying, “finders keepers, losers weepers” haunted me. I was a weeping loser, who CLEARLY needed to get out of the house more often and away from the kids.
I decided, in my moment of clarity, to tail the old bitties around the store. Why? I’m not really sure. I guess it was my disbelief that they actually picked up treasure, and hope that they would come to their own senses and realize that an 80 year old woman doesn’t really need kitty cat sugars and creamers. Oh damn, yes they do! They are the typical demographic for such items!!! What was I going to do? I’m sure that if I had been dressed to go running that day, the ladies would have thought I was fixin’ to rob them. Everywhere they went, I stayed a few feet behind. I mean, what if in their OWN moment of weakness, they decided to put MY items back? The hype of the situation was started to make my heart race, and I started to get “nervous sweat.” It was time for me to take a deep breath and realize that all of this nonsense was over something I didn’t even intend to buy in the first place. It wasn’t like I had “lost” something, because I never really had them. I needed to take another lap around Goodwill and take some deep breaths.
After chastising myself for this colossal waste of time, I decided to leave. With keys in hand, I headed for the door. And in order to get there, I had to pass the women as they checked out. I tried not to look, because I didn’t want to get upset (?!) all over again, but I had to, I had to look. And to my surprise, I didn’t see the cats anywhere! Had they already been rung up? It didn’t look like it, the semi-opaque Goodwill bag seemed too flat to contain breakables. A quick glace at the cart revealed nothing but books and that lame pair of hunting pants. I pivoted in place and headed to the knick-knacks. Had my hard work, determination and perseverance paid off? Did they have a change of heart? Did they see the crazy lady stalking them…knowing that I knew they had pecked off my treasures mere seconds after they left my hands and were afraid I would be waiting for them in the parking lot??? It didn’t matter, because the sugar and creamer were nowhere to be found.
The ladies checked out and left, and the older man checked out after them. I grabbed the clerk and asked, “Did those two old ladies buy anything with cats on them? Anything ceramic? Like a sugar and creamer!?”
“No, nope, just some books and clothes…”
“Then she must have hid them from me!” I exclaimed before I could stop myself, and thoughts of the “file-photo” banning me from Goodwill appeared in my thoughts again.
“What?”
“Oh, um, well, I was looking at these cats, and I put them back, and they came and snatched them, and I think, uh…”
No. It couldn’t be. I am never this lucky…In a bin next to the register holding handmade, crocheted, needle-pointed “stuff” for sale, were the sugar and creamer…ousted from the old lady’s cart at the eleventh hour. Had I not waited around and stalked like a damn crazy fool, I never would have seen them again.
I stopped talking and ran over the bin, grabbed the cats (one in each hand), raised them above my head like the Title Belt in a boxing bout, looked towards the sky and announced…
“VICTORIOUS!!!”
The Goodwill clerk seemed genuinely amused. And not like the confused, awkward amusement a “normal” person gets from watching someone who is clearly “not right,” but the actual joy of witnessing someone find a treasure at Goodwill. I paid cash for my treasures and smiled the biggest, most pleased smile. Although I was a bit embarrassed about my concern for my sugar and creamer, I was a) just happy to be happy b) glad that my biggest problem that day seemed to revolve around a $1.75 set of feline-inspired serving ware and c) that for once in a Blue Moon, something worked out for me. And hell, isn’t that what we ALL hope for each and every day?
The clerk wrapped my cats in newspaper and carefully placed them in a bag. We both agreed that they were even MORE of a treasure since they now have their own “story.” I went on to Belk, bought a bra and a dress (also treasures in their own right) and came home. When I got home, I noticed that their price tags had the date “1-2-08” on them. One the day of their purchase, they had only been at Goodwill 2 days. I washed my kitties, cleaned them up and set them out to dry. And for the rest of the day, I giggled as I passed by them in the kitchen.
All in all, it was a great lesson, both regarding thrift store shopping and for life, in general. I learned that when you go to Goodwill, you get a cart. Period. When you see something that you are even REMOTELY interested in, grab in and put it in your cart. Then wander around the store and think about it. Chances are it doesn’t cost much, and if you get home and you don’t want it, sell it on eBay. My Aunt bought an art print at a thrift store for $0.50 and sold it on eBay for $50.00. I also learned to hold on to what you have while you have it, because in an instant, by no fault of your own, it may be gone. And if you’re lucky enough to get it back, don’t ever let it go again! I learned to find the humor in the absurd situations in life (like harmlessly spying on two old ladies in Goodwill), and that sometimes problems that SEEM like problems at the time (like harmlessly stalking two old ladies at Goodwill) allow us to appreciate our many blessings, and to hope and pray we never know what REAL problems feel like. And every time I look at these two guys, I’ll be thankful for second chances.
I went into Goodwill looking for pet supplies. And I came out a changed person. There are two “Goodwill Superstores” in Anderson: the “new” one in the “acceptable” part of town; and the “old” one in the “shady” part of town. So shady, in fact, that I was told by first-person account, that under no circumstances should I visit the unsavory Goodwill unless I carried my “money” in either my “crotch” or “my bra.” True story. That being said, I choose the brand new Goodwill Superstore on the other side of town.
The store is big, beautiful and clean, in fact, it looks exactly like the store on the Goodwill commercial, complete with isles and isles of used clothing arranged (with care!) not only by size, but also by color! The resulting visual rainbow, combined with the super-bright fluorescent lights makes everything appear brand spankin’ new. It’s quite the illusion!
After my first “sweep” of Goodwill, I realized that there wasn’t a single item pet-related in the entire store. Unless you counted the rows and rows of pastel-colored sweatshirts with various cats, dogs, horses and other cartoon-y, sweetly demented looking animals embroidered on them, there wasn’t anything at all I could qualify as “pet supplies.” But, since my next stop (Belk, to buy a new bra) wouldn’t be open until 10 am, I decided to peruse the racks. After all, this was my first childless morning in over a month, and quite truthfully, I didn’t really know what to do with myself. The store was dead. The only other people were the sales clerk, two old ladies (who I decided were an 80 year old mom and her 60 year old daughter) and an older man, who was not with them. I listened as the younger old lady showed her mom some hunting-style pants she wanted. The mom thought they were “too big” but the daughter insisted that “she liked ‘em!” so into the cart they went. I even regarded them with a smile; their banter just went to show that once a mother and daughter, always a mother and daughter.
I walked aimlessly over to the “knick-knack” department, my inner monologue screaming at me to NOT purchase or bring home any useless junk. My Southern Living at Home addiction has made my house such that a single vase or trivet *may* cause my house to explode. Now, SLAH (as I like to refer to it) hardly qualifies as junk…but just the same, I really don’t need any more “stuff.” The older ladies lagged far behind me, so I could really take my time and look, without feeling like someone was breathing down my neck. And it was then, that I saw …
Just a few feet in front of me something caught my eye. It was two figurine-looking-things, and they appeared to be cats. Since everyone knows I can’t resist anything “cat” I (reluctantly disobeyed my inner voice telling me “NOOOOOOO!”) reached out and grabbed them. Once I had my hands on them, I realized that they were a sugar and creamer set, and they were in fact cats…standing erect…dressed in Victorian period clothing. The boy cat came apart at the waist, he was the sugar bowl. The girl cat was wearing a fancy bonnet which was open on top to pour cream. A pink bow on her bustle curved around to form a handle. They were so strange and tacky, but at the same time, seemed too nice to be in a place like Goodwill. One had a price of $0.75 and the other was $1.00. Even still, I put them back and continued to wander around. After my first, and what I thought would be my final loop around Goodwill, I impulsively decided to purchase the cat sugar and creamer. In the time it took to walk around, I had convinced my self that I love to collect things in pairs (I do have a small collection of sugars and creamers) and that they’d make a lovely (if not strange and tacky) addition.
When I returned to the knick-knacks, I inadvertently walked past the cats, at first, and found myself in the children’s toy area with the old ladies. So I retraced my steps, but they weren’t there. “Now, I KNOW they are here, I was just HOLDING them, just holding them as the little old ladies were…” and it hit me. “THOSE TWO LITTLE OLD BITCHES!” I hatefully thought! They saw ME looking at them (mistake #1), wondered what fascination they held, since they had obviously caught my “fake blonde, designer jeans, Tiffany necklace, Lulu Guinness purse” attention, and well, I obviously know style when I see it (hardy-har-har…), saw me put them back (mistake #2) and swooped in as soon as I was out of the area. Since I am an educated woman, I felt the need to test my hypothesis by spying (yes, spying) on their cart. Sure enough, down past the knick-knacks, in the children’s toy area, were the two old ladies…and sitting on top of a pile of books in the section of the cart a child can sit, were MY two cats. I was furious. Livid. At myself. How could I have let them go so easily? I had them in my hands, and lost them, just like that. And I couldn’t help but be both angry and envious of the two women, they saw my joy and fascination, and swooped in for the kill. Clever girls. I was so pissed, I actually considered the ramifications of just grabbing the sugar and creamer out of their cart. Could I get arrested? Would they keep a file-photo of my under the counter at Goodwill and refuse to serve me? After 1 second of obvious insanity, logic prevailed and the saying, “finders keepers, losers weepers” haunted me. I was a weeping loser, who CLEARLY needed to get out of the house more often and away from the kids.
I decided, in my moment of clarity, to tail the old bitties around the store. Why? I’m not really sure. I guess it was my disbelief that they actually picked up treasure, and hope that they would come to their own senses and realize that an 80 year old woman doesn’t really need kitty cat sugars and creamers. Oh damn, yes they do! They are the typical demographic for such items!!! What was I going to do? I’m sure that if I had been dressed to go running that day, the ladies would have thought I was fixin’ to rob them. Everywhere they went, I stayed a few feet behind. I mean, what if in their OWN moment of weakness, they decided to put MY items back? The hype of the situation was started to make my heart race, and I started to get “nervous sweat.” It was time for me to take a deep breath and realize that all of this nonsense was over something I didn’t even intend to buy in the first place. It wasn’t like I had “lost” something, because I never really had them. I needed to take another lap around Goodwill and take some deep breaths.
After chastising myself for this colossal waste of time, I decided to leave. With keys in hand, I headed for the door. And in order to get there, I had to pass the women as they checked out. I tried not to look, because I didn’t want to get upset (?!) all over again, but I had to, I had to look. And to my surprise, I didn’t see the cats anywhere! Had they already been rung up? It didn’t look like it, the semi-opaque Goodwill bag seemed too flat to contain breakables. A quick glace at the cart revealed nothing but books and that lame pair of hunting pants. I pivoted in place and headed to the knick-knacks. Had my hard work, determination and perseverance paid off? Did they have a change of heart? Did they see the crazy lady stalking them…knowing that I knew they had pecked off my treasures mere seconds after they left my hands and were afraid I would be waiting for them in the parking lot??? It didn’t matter, because the sugar and creamer were nowhere to be found.
The ladies checked out and left, and the older man checked out after them. I grabbed the clerk and asked, “Did those two old ladies buy anything with cats on them? Anything ceramic? Like a sugar and creamer!?”
“No, nope, just some books and clothes…”
“Then she must have hid them from me!” I exclaimed before I could stop myself, and thoughts of the “file-photo” banning me from Goodwill appeared in my thoughts again.
“What?”
“Oh, um, well, I was looking at these cats, and I put them back, and they came and snatched them, and I think, uh…”
No. It couldn’t be. I am never this lucky…In a bin next to the register holding handmade, crocheted, needle-pointed “stuff” for sale, were the sugar and creamer…ousted from the old lady’s cart at the eleventh hour. Had I not waited around and stalked like a damn crazy fool, I never would have seen them again.
I stopped talking and ran over the bin, grabbed the cats (one in each hand), raised them above my head like the Title Belt in a boxing bout, looked towards the sky and announced…
“VICTORIOUS!!!”
The Goodwill clerk seemed genuinely amused. And not like the confused, awkward amusement a “normal” person gets from watching someone who is clearly “not right,” but the actual joy of witnessing someone find a treasure at Goodwill. I paid cash for my treasures and smiled the biggest, most pleased smile. Although I was a bit embarrassed about my concern for my sugar and creamer, I was a) just happy to be happy b) glad that my biggest problem that day seemed to revolve around a $1.75 set of feline-inspired serving ware and c) that for once in a Blue Moon, something worked out for me. And hell, isn’t that what we ALL hope for each and every day?
The clerk wrapped my cats in newspaper and carefully placed them in a bag. We both agreed that they were even MORE of a treasure since they now have their own “story.” I went on to Belk, bought a bra and a dress (also treasures in their own right) and came home. When I got home, I noticed that their price tags had the date “1-2-08” on them. One the day of their purchase, they had only been at Goodwill 2 days. I washed my kitties, cleaned them up and set them out to dry. And for the rest of the day, I giggled as I passed by them in the kitchen.
All in all, it was a great lesson, both regarding thrift store shopping and for life, in general. I learned that when you go to Goodwill, you get a cart. Period. When you see something that you are even REMOTELY interested in, grab in and put it in your cart. Then wander around the store and think about it. Chances are it doesn’t cost much, and if you get home and you don’t want it, sell it on eBay. My Aunt bought an art print at a thrift store for $0.50 and sold it on eBay for $50.00. I also learned to hold on to what you have while you have it, because in an instant, by no fault of your own, it may be gone. And if you’re lucky enough to get it back, don’t ever let it go again! I learned to find the humor in the absurd situations in life (like harmlessly spying on two old ladies in Goodwill), and that sometimes problems that SEEM like problems at the time (like harmlessly stalking two old ladies at Goodwill) allow us to appreciate our many blessings, and to hope and pray we never know what REAL problems feel like. And every time I look at these two guys, I’ll be thankful for second chances.
Monday, March 5, 2007
The Rotating Bed
The Rotating Bed
March 5, 2007
We have rotating beds. Sounds sexy, doesn't it? Well, sexy circa 1974, but sexy nonetheless. But actually, there is nothing sultry about our rotating beds. Nothing at all. Not even a little bit. My mother coined the term "rotating beds" when she was visiting us last. Big Daddy and I were discussing who was going to sleep where and with whom on that particular evening and my mother laughed, "You guys and your rotating beds!" I was horrified. Horrified that she was, in fact, correct. I had been in complete denial that we hardly ever sleep in the same bed twice, around here. We DID have rotating beds. Not the Austin Powers "do I make you horny?" circular revolving bed, more like sleepy-time musical chairs.
At bedtime, our house is kind of like the game "Clue." "It's Daddy, in Max's room, on the floor," or "Mommy, in the office, on the couch." A favorite of everyone's seems to me "Max in Mommy and Daddy's room, in between Mommy and Daddy." Poor Vivien, being crib-bound, stays the same each night, "Fifi LaRue, in her crib, sleeping like an angel-baby." Hence, the revolving bed.
You LITERALLY (or as Madonna would say with her faux British accent "LIT'RALLY) do not know who you are sleeping with on any given night. Sounds sexy again, doesn't it? But trust me, ain't nothing sexy about being wedged in between two obese cats, a toddler and a snoring adult (no offense Andrew.)
This phenomenon happens so frequently in our home, that we no longer use the phrase "rotating beds," rather we have dropped the "s" thus changing the adjective to an entity…The Rotating Bed. We could discuss "The Rotating Bed" theory. Or "The Rotating Bed" experience or, still better, "The Rotating Bed" experiment. "Well take 2 seemingly normal, functional adults and then throw them into the water with sharks---er---um---into the night with a very snuggly, lovable 4 year old who loves his Mama…" That's right, people. At my house, there's no sleep till Brooklyn.
What happens is…Max will wake up in the middle of the night and decide to come down stairs to our bedroom. He has to walk down a hallway, go down some stairs to a landing, go down some more stairs to the first floor, turn 180 degrees, go down another hallway, turn right and enter our room. It's kind of a trek for a little kid in the middle of the night, I guess. He'll get into bed, but them I am wide awake wondering if he's ok, sick, etc. Andrew will start snoring (again, no offense) and either I'll "boot" him out, as we call it ("I can't believe I got booted last night") or I'll move and go sleep on the couch in the office, where I can close the door and relax. Occasionally we'll "trade" with Max when he comes down; one of us will go up to his bed to sleep. Sometimes, if Max is sick, Andrew will sleep in Max's room with him. Sometimes Max falls asleep in the office, wanting then to be carried to his bed. There is also a Queen sized bed in the guest room and a pull out couch in the playroom. Do the math.
I know that some of you have expressed an interest in visiting. Just keep in mind that, although we have a perfectly wonderful guest room, complete with its own full bath, you may end up "sleeping" with one of us. Or Max . Or Vivien . And you may end up in some random bed. And you can count on the cats, for sure.
March 5, 2007
We have rotating beds. Sounds sexy, doesn't it? Well, sexy circa 1974, but sexy nonetheless. But actually, there is nothing sultry about our rotating beds. Nothing at all. Not even a little bit. My mother coined the term "rotating beds" when she was visiting us last. Big Daddy and I were discussing who was going to sleep where and with whom on that particular evening and my mother laughed, "You guys and your rotating beds!" I was horrified. Horrified that she was, in fact, correct. I had been in complete denial that we hardly ever sleep in the same bed twice, around here. We DID have rotating beds. Not the Austin Powers "do I make you horny?" circular revolving bed, more like sleepy-time musical chairs.
At bedtime, our house is kind of like the game "Clue." "It's Daddy, in Max's room, on the floor," or "Mommy, in the office, on the couch." A favorite of everyone's seems to me "Max in Mommy and Daddy's room, in between Mommy and Daddy." Poor Vivien, being crib-bound, stays the same each night, "Fifi LaRue, in her crib, sleeping like an angel-baby." Hence, the revolving bed.
You LITERALLY (or as Madonna would say with her faux British accent "LIT'RALLY) do not know who you are sleeping with on any given night. Sounds sexy again, doesn't it? But trust me, ain't nothing sexy about being wedged in between two obese cats, a toddler and a snoring adult (no offense Andrew.)
This phenomenon happens so frequently in our home, that we no longer use the phrase "rotating beds," rather we have dropped the "s" thus changing the adjective to an entity…The Rotating Bed. We could discuss "The Rotating Bed" theory. Or "The Rotating Bed" experience or, still better, "The Rotating Bed" experiment. "Well take 2 seemingly normal, functional adults and then throw them into the water with sharks---er---um---into the night with a very snuggly, lovable 4 year old who loves his Mama…" That's right, people. At my house, there's no sleep till Brooklyn.
What happens is…Max will wake up in the middle of the night and decide to come down stairs to our bedroom. He has to walk down a hallway, go down some stairs to a landing, go down some more stairs to the first floor, turn 180 degrees, go down another hallway, turn right and enter our room. It's kind of a trek for a little kid in the middle of the night, I guess. He'll get into bed, but them I am wide awake wondering if he's ok, sick, etc. Andrew will start snoring (again, no offense) and either I'll "boot" him out, as we call it ("I can't believe I got booted last night") or I'll move and go sleep on the couch in the office, where I can close the door and relax. Occasionally we'll "trade" with Max when he comes down; one of us will go up to his bed to sleep. Sometimes, if Max is sick, Andrew will sleep in Max's room with him. Sometimes Max falls asleep in the office, wanting then to be carried to his bed. There is also a Queen sized bed in the guest room and a pull out couch in the playroom. Do the math.
I know that some of you have expressed an interest in visiting. Just keep in mind that, although we have a perfectly wonderful guest room, complete with its own full bath, you may end up "sleeping" with one of us. Or Max . Or Vivien . And you may end up in some random bed. And you can count on the cats, for sure.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Mother of the Year: "Taking" A Haircut
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Mother of the Year: What Happens When They "Take" A Haircut Current mood: drained
It all started as "normally" as any other day. The babes woke up, came down and snuggled in bed with me. We ate breakfast and I was making arrangements to leave for Vivien's haircut when the phone rang. It was my buddy (and hairstylist) informing me that she was under the weather and wouldn't be at work today! Poor thing! It was no big deal since the life of a stay-at-home mom is one of leisure and I am able to reschedule things pretty easily. However, as I was looking in my planner I realized that I had NO time to get Fifi La Woo Woo's hair "did!" On top of that, Max was looking like a wild, mountain man. One of those guys who wears a bear-pelt as a vest, has a string of non-descript (but vaguely human) looking teeth as a necklace and digs a hole in the ground with a bone to poop in. The kind of guy who thinks squirrel tastes "pretty good" but gopher is "the best!" Max's hair was longish, curly and unruly, so I decided to bite the bullet and take them somewhere, anywhere for a haircut (just this one time, Jessica! Hope you're feeling better!!!)
I called a random salon from the phone book and they were able to see us...in fifteen minutes! I summoned the strength to gather the kids up, change a diaper, pee-pee Max and throw some books and various other items of entertainment in the car and we were off!
Max sat very well and watched Vivien "take" a haircut (as he calls it...kind of like "take" a picture, or "take" a dump.) She did exceptionally well, too, and it turned out SO cute. Picture "Scout" from the movie version of "To Kill a Mockingbird" or as my mother calls it a "square" haircut, because it frames her face like a square.
Max was (as always) very engaging and animated during his haircut, and I do believe he was quite smitten with Courtney, the adorable, blonde stylist. We all remained silent when he pointed to a picture of her on the wall with her boyfriend and shouted "Look, Mommy, it's YOU!" Because, clearly I was 10 years older and 10 lbs heavier than her. And we shared that same moment of silence when another stylist came over to ask Courtney a question, maybe 5-10 years older than Courtney, and Max screamed "Miss Courtney, it's your MOMMY!"
When the smoke cleared and the dust settled, after the three of us barged on the scene like a lovable tornado...the kids looked great! Cleaned up, shaped up and shipped out!
Then, later on that evening, the REAL party began...
I was upstairs in the playroom with the kids and I decided it was about time to start thinking about dinner. I headed downstairs and was making ready my ingredients when I discoverd I was out of Bisquick! A short call to the neighbors solved that, but at the tail-end of the conversation I could hear Vivien whining upstairs..."Mama...mama..." She had been whiney and clingy ever since waking up from her nap too soon and to be honest, she was downright on my last nerve. So, I took my time getting back upstairs. I was greeted by Vivien holding her tongue and kind of spitting and licking the air. I knew something wasn't right. Something was WRONG.
"Max! What did Vivien get in her mouth?" I queried, wondering where I would put my "Mother of the Year" trophy. There's nothing like asking your 3 year old what your 2 year old put in her mouth. Like I said, "Mother of the Year."
"Yeah, Mommy, I gave Vivien a HAIRCUT..."
My eyes grew into saucers..."What did you use, Sweetpea, to cut Vivien's hair?"
"Your scissors!" He exclaimed, holding them up with pride.
I had been using the scissors for gift wrapping and thought that they were safely out of reach on top of a toy shelf. I thought wrong. Mother of the Year.
"Ok, You may NOT use scissors without Mommy and you may NOT cut Vivien's hair again..." I was very calm. He wasn't trying to hurt her and he didn't know the scissors rule. He uses scissors at school and he was just immitating what he witnessed earlier in the day...Vivien getting a haircut.
Now, cue the "Psycho" music...
My attention was then focused on Viv. Where had he cut? I didn't see any hair missing...OH MY GOD...I had just spied a five-inch-long CLUMP of Vivien's gorgeous, thick, auburn hair on the carpet...Wait, it's all over her back, too....oh, no, there's more...
I gathered it up and secured it in a baggy as "evidence." I tend to overexaggerate ("really?") so I needed some proof. But the weird thing is, I've checked her over and over again, and I cannot, for the life of me, figure out where Max took this chunk of hair from. She still looks like "Scout." Her 'do is still a "square."
And Max *may* have found his future profession, although I'm sure Andrew is still rooting for "racecar driver."
Mother of the Year: What Happens When They "Take" A Haircut Current mood: drained
It all started as "normally" as any other day. The babes woke up, came down and snuggled in bed with me. We ate breakfast and I was making arrangements to leave for Vivien's haircut when the phone rang. It was my buddy (and hairstylist) informing me that she was under the weather and wouldn't be at work today! Poor thing! It was no big deal since the life of a stay-at-home mom is one of leisure and I am able to reschedule things pretty easily. However, as I was looking in my planner I realized that I had NO time to get Fifi La Woo Woo's hair "did!" On top of that, Max was looking like a wild, mountain man. One of those guys who wears a bear-pelt as a vest, has a string of non-descript (but vaguely human) looking teeth as a necklace and digs a hole in the ground with a bone to poop in. The kind of guy who thinks squirrel tastes "pretty good" but gopher is "the best!" Max's hair was longish, curly and unruly, so I decided to bite the bullet and take them somewhere, anywhere for a haircut (just this one time, Jessica! Hope you're feeling better!!!)
I called a random salon from the phone book and they were able to see us...in fifteen minutes! I summoned the strength to gather the kids up, change a diaper, pee-pee Max and throw some books and various other items of entertainment in the car and we were off!
Max sat very well and watched Vivien "take" a haircut (as he calls it...kind of like "take" a picture, or "take" a dump.) She did exceptionally well, too, and it turned out SO cute. Picture "Scout" from the movie version of "To Kill a Mockingbird" or as my mother calls it a "square" haircut, because it frames her face like a square.
Max was (as always) very engaging and animated during his haircut, and I do believe he was quite smitten with Courtney, the adorable, blonde stylist. We all remained silent when he pointed to a picture of her on the wall with her boyfriend and shouted "Look, Mommy, it's YOU!" Because, clearly I was 10 years older and 10 lbs heavier than her. And we shared that same moment of silence when another stylist came over to ask Courtney a question, maybe 5-10 years older than Courtney, and Max screamed "Miss Courtney, it's your MOMMY!"
When the smoke cleared and the dust settled, after the three of us barged on the scene like a lovable tornado...the kids looked great! Cleaned up, shaped up and shipped out!
Then, later on that evening, the REAL party began...
I was upstairs in the playroom with the kids and I decided it was about time to start thinking about dinner. I headed downstairs and was making ready my ingredients when I discoverd I was out of Bisquick! A short call to the neighbors solved that, but at the tail-end of the conversation I could hear Vivien whining upstairs..."Mama...mama..." She had been whiney and clingy ever since waking up from her nap too soon and to be honest, she was downright on my last nerve. So, I took my time getting back upstairs. I was greeted by Vivien holding her tongue and kind of spitting and licking the air. I knew something wasn't right. Something was WRONG.
"Max! What did Vivien get in her mouth?" I queried, wondering where I would put my "Mother of the Year" trophy. There's nothing like asking your 3 year old what your 2 year old put in her mouth. Like I said, "Mother of the Year."
"Yeah, Mommy, I gave Vivien a HAIRCUT..."
My eyes grew into saucers..."What did you use, Sweetpea, to cut Vivien's hair?"
"Your scissors!" He exclaimed, holding them up with pride.
I had been using the scissors for gift wrapping and thought that they were safely out of reach on top of a toy shelf. I thought wrong. Mother of the Year.
"Ok, You may NOT use scissors without Mommy and you may NOT cut Vivien's hair again..." I was very calm. He wasn't trying to hurt her and he didn't know the scissors rule. He uses scissors at school and he was just immitating what he witnessed earlier in the day...Vivien getting a haircut.
Now, cue the "Psycho" music...
My attention was then focused on Viv. Where had he cut? I didn't see any hair missing...OH MY GOD...I had just spied a five-inch-long CLUMP of Vivien's gorgeous, thick, auburn hair on the carpet...Wait, it's all over her back, too....oh, no, there's more...
I gathered it up and secured it in a baggy as "evidence." I tend to overexaggerate ("really?") so I needed some proof. But the weird thing is, I've checked her over and over again, and I cannot, for the life of me, figure out where Max took this chunk of hair from. She still looks like "Scout." Her 'do is still a "square."
And Max *may* have found his future profession, although I'm sure Andrew is still rooting for "racecar driver."
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
When a G-String Catches You In It's Tractor Beam
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
When A G-String Catches You In It's Tractor Beam Current mood: contemplative
Girls, let me share two bits of advice:
1: If and when you decide to put on a G-string...be sure that your pants provide proper coverage in the back in a multitude of positions (standing, sitting, bending over and the like)
2: If and when you decide to wear low-rise jeans (which I highly recommend, they are both comfortable and flattering...a 12 inch long fly should have died with the 70's) please be sure that your underwear choice provides at least some kind of mystery as the appearance of your derriere.
I was at Panera in the mall, not long ago, taking a break from shopping for the perfect holiday dress (that I never found) when I was surprised by a horrifying display. It seems the 30-ish mother at the table in front of me, directly in my line of vision, decided to squat down to put her 15 month old baby boy into his umbroller. She, herself, was there with her own mother, and the three of them together made me miss my mother...they looked like the perfect little shopping party.
I was eating alone, so I had no where else to look, really. The young mother looked average enough. She was wearing semi-dressy clothes and I could tell that she thought she looked pretty hot-to-trot for having such a young kid. I can tell you, she was neither hot nor to-trot. Like I said, she was "average." (Here's where I sound like a total bitch, but oh well, that's my job, it's what I do....) She was clearly fighting a "pear" shape and although her top half was moderately attractive in a black waist length sweater, styled hair and decent make-up, she had squeezed her bottom half into some black dress pants that probably fit "ok" pre-baby, but now...well, she was squeezed in (Oh, I sound awful...) I can say this because I, myself, now prefer any kind of pants with the word "stretch" in the title. Like "Old Navy Stretch Denim." I noticed these fine details as she sashayed off to the bathroom leaving Junior with Grandma.
I was about half-way into my Fandango salad when they were packing up to leave. And that's when Mom SQUATED right in front of me, tenderly (and SLOWLY) securing Junior in his stroller. I saw a flash of flesh, so being the hedonistic troll that I am, I glanced up. I should have kept eating. The soup and salad should have satisfied me enough, but no, I looked. The thing had me like Medusa, I was instantly turned to stone and couldn't move...The thing, was a G-String and a whole LOTTA behind...
It seems that when Mom bent down, her pants went too, revealing a black G-string. Not a thong. At least a thong would have provided some relief, some kind of coverage "back there." No, this was a piece of string around her hips and a piece of string up her bum. And it looked like it was about to cut her in half like a ripe apple.
I saw things that day that only her doctor and husband should have seen.
The G-string was like a light house beacon...both calling me in closer and warning me to stay away...to stay far, far away, lest I meet my demise on a rocky bluff.
I managed to break my stare long enough to turn around to see who else she was flashing. But it was just me. Me, and my Fandango salad (hold the oranges) and my chicken noodle soup. Should I tell her that half of her bottom is seeping out from her pants? I mean, I WAS trying to eat, after all. And this wasn't just a tiny inch of "butt cleavage" which is kind of cute sometimes...no, this was, like, 6 inches of full on crack. I mean, I couldn't even look down to the pants/G-string junction for fear that I would see full-on orafice. Seriously. It was THAT bad. How can you not FEEL when you've dropped your drawers? I mean, they weren't around her knees or anything, but Jeez Louise, surely she MUST have felt a draft. I've bent over in low-rise pants before and I know the "limit" before tattoos start being pointed out. I'll never forget my son's delight the first time he discovered a butterfly on Mommy.
It's one thing to flash your G if you look like Giselle, or in the privacy of your own home, but to put it out there in Panera, it was just too much. And then, just as fast as the pants when down, Mom stood up and the G-string disappeared deep, deep (probably DEEP from what I saw, or as the song goes "so deep, so deep, it put her ass to sleep...") into her nether-region. I smiled as she left and I watched the threesome walk out the door. Mom was sashaying again. I reevaluated my own undergarmets and felt very confindent that although my panties were most likely peeking out from the back of my OWN pants at that very moment, I'm quite sure that no one saw China and no one saw France. All they saw were my underpants.
When A G-String Catches You In It's Tractor Beam Current mood: contemplative
Girls, let me share two bits of advice:
1: If and when you decide to put on a G-string...be sure that your pants provide proper coverage in the back in a multitude of positions (standing, sitting, bending over and the like)
2: If and when you decide to wear low-rise jeans (which I highly recommend, they are both comfortable and flattering...a 12 inch long fly should have died with the 70's) please be sure that your underwear choice provides at least some kind of mystery as the appearance of your derriere.
I was at Panera in the mall, not long ago, taking a break from shopping for the perfect holiday dress (that I never found) when I was surprised by a horrifying display. It seems the 30-ish mother at the table in front of me, directly in my line of vision, decided to squat down to put her 15 month old baby boy into his umbroller. She, herself, was there with her own mother, and the three of them together made me miss my mother...they looked like the perfect little shopping party.
I was eating alone, so I had no where else to look, really. The young mother looked average enough. She was wearing semi-dressy clothes and I could tell that she thought she looked pretty hot-to-trot for having such a young kid. I can tell you, she was neither hot nor to-trot. Like I said, she was "average." (Here's where I sound like a total bitch, but oh well, that's my job, it's what I do....) She was clearly fighting a "pear" shape and although her top half was moderately attractive in a black waist length sweater, styled hair and decent make-up, she had squeezed her bottom half into some black dress pants that probably fit "ok" pre-baby, but now...well, she was squeezed in (Oh, I sound awful...) I can say this because I, myself, now prefer any kind of pants with the word "stretch" in the title. Like "Old Navy Stretch Denim." I noticed these fine details as she sashayed off to the bathroom leaving Junior with Grandma.
I was about half-way into my Fandango salad when they were packing up to leave. And that's when Mom SQUATED right in front of me, tenderly (and SLOWLY) securing Junior in his stroller. I saw a flash of flesh, so being the hedonistic troll that I am, I glanced up. I should have kept eating. The soup and salad should have satisfied me enough, but no, I looked. The thing had me like Medusa, I was instantly turned to stone and couldn't move...The thing, was a G-String and a whole LOTTA behind...
It seems that when Mom bent down, her pants went too, revealing a black G-string. Not a thong. At least a thong would have provided some relief, some kind of coverage "back there." No, this was a piece of string around her hips and a piece of string up her bum. And it looked like it was about to cut her in half like a ripe apple.
I saw things that day that only her doctor and husband should have seen.
The G-string was like a light house beacon...both calling me in closer and warning me to stay away...to stay far, far away, lest I meet my demise on a rocky bluff.
I managed to break my stare long enough to turn around to see who else she was flashing. But it was just me. Me, and my Fandango salad (hold the oranges) and my chicken noodle soup. Should I tell her that half of her bottom is seeping out from her pants? I mean, I WAS trying to eat, after all. And this wasn't just a tiny inch of "butt cleavage" which is kind of cute sometimes...no, this was, like, 6 inches of full on crack. I mean, I couldn't even look down to the pants/G-string junction for fear that I would see full-on orafice. Seriously. It was THAT bad. How can you not FEEL when you've dropped your drawers? I mean, they weren't around her knees or anything, but Jeez Louise, surely she MUST have felt a draft. I've bent over in low-rise pants before and I know the "limit" before tattoos start being pointed out. I'll never forget my son's delight the first time he discovered a butterfly on Mommy.
It's one thing to flash your G if you look like Giselle, or in the privacy of your own home, but to put it out there in Panera, it was just too much. And then, just as fast as the pants when down, Mom stood up and the G-string disappeared deep, deep (probably DEEP from what I saw, or as the song goes "so deep, so deep, it put her ass to sleep...") into her nether-region. I smiled as she left and I watched the threesome walk out the door. Mom was sashaying again. I reevaluated my own undergarmets and felt very confindent that although my panties were most likely peeking out from the back of my OWN pants at that very moment, I'm quite sure that no one saw China and no one saw France. All they saw were my underpants.
Monday, December 4, 2006
Max's New Slang i.e Why He's Cooler Than You
Max's New Slang a.k.a Why He's Cooler Than You Current mood: cheerful
Ok, fine. Maybe he's not cooler than you. (Maybe he is.) Max has invented his own slang word and I am so excited to use it!
Max is 3 years old. He's always been funny (or rather, we've always laughed at him...it's really not the same thing...). He's also always been cool. Even when Max was a newborn in the hospital, he exuded coolness. The nurses had to put him under the bililights due to jaundice and to protect his eyes they gave Max some itty-bitty foam sunglasses. Just like Fonzie. Ayyyy.
Being 3, Max's speech and word usage is sounding more and more "adult." We've never been ones for using "baby talk" or one word sentences ("Milk? Milk?") and we never "signed" to him. Subsequently, Max knew his entire alphabet and numbers through 20 by the time Vivien was born, when he was 21 months old. I know, it sounds nerdy, not cool, but I'm getting to that.
I talked to my mother on the phone last night, and she playfully ended a few of her thoughts by saying "check." And that's where Max's slang comes in. My mom observed that Max likes to close his thoughts or wants by saying "check." When she pointed that out to me, I realized that he does, in fact, use the work "check" the same way one might use "word" to punctuate a point. Like "Man, this pizza is fantastic! Word!" It's as if to say, "that's right, my friend, tell it like it is."
Today, Miss Fifi LaRue would NOT take her nap. She was totally overtired from a long morning of errands and just wanted to be held, so I decided to bust out the rickshaw (why do I keep calling it that?!) I mean, jog stroller and take my kids (a combined weight of close to 60 lbs.) on a walk. On the way home, I instructed Max to go directly up to the playroom so I could attempt to put Vivien down for a nap. His reply? "Go upstairs to build a race track. Check."
That's when I knew he had invented his own slang and was cooler than me. I can't even think of the proper way to use "check" but I'll figure it out. Isn't that the point of having kids? So that they can teach you the ways to stay young and hip and in touch with pop culture? I'm sure he heard it somewhere used on Dora or Diego (that seems to ring a bell...) but he's taken it and made it his own. The very way slang evolves.
So, he may not really be cooler that you (but he may be!) and he's DEFINATELY cooler than me (if you could see what I'm wearing right now, you'd agree. Let's just say it involves hot pink old-lady slip on bedroom slippers covered in swirly candy...Old Navy circa SEVERAL years ago...). His little personality is forming and growing so fast right now, it's such a joy to watch and to be around. In the mean time, I'll just keep trying to keep up with him...it would be great to hear his friends say "Max, you have the coolest Mom!" Check.
Ok, fine. Maybe he's not cooler than you. (Maybe he is.) Max has invented his own slang word and I am so excited to use it!
Max is 3 years old. He's always been funny (or rather, we've always laughed at him...it's really not the same thing...). He's also always been cool. Even when Max was a newborn in the hospital, he exuded coolness. The nurses had to put him under the bililights due to jaundice and to protect his eyes they gave Max some itty-bitty foam sunglasses. Just like Fonzie. Ayyyy.
Being 3, Max's speech and word usage is sounding more and more "adult." We've never been ones for using "baby talk" or one word sentences ("Milk? Milk?") and we never "signed" to him. Subsequently, Max knew his entire alphabet and numbers through 20 by the time Vivien was born, when he was 21 months old. I know, it sounds nerdy, not cool, but I'm getting to that.
I talked to my mother on the phone last night, and she playfully ended a few of her thoughts by saying "check." And that's where Max's slang comes in. My mom observed that Max likes to close his thoughts or wants by saying "check." When she pointed that out to me, I realized that he does, in fact, use the work "check" the same way one might use "word" to punctuate a point. Like "Man, this pizza is fantastic! Word!" It's as if to say, "that's right, my friend, tell it like it is."
Today, Miss Fifi LaRue would NOT take her nap. She was totally overtired from a long morning of errands and just wanted to be held, so I decided to bust out the rickshaw (why do I keep calling it that?!) I mean, jog stroller and take my kids (a combined weight of close to 60 lbs.) on a walk. On the way home, I instructed Max to go directly up to the playroom so I could attempt to put Vivien down for a nap. His reply? "Go upstairs to build a race track. Check."
That's when I knew he had invented his own slang and was cooler than me. I can't even think of the proper way to use "check" but I'll figure it out. Isn't that the point of having kids? So that they can teach you the ways to stay young and hip and in touch with pop culture? I'm sure he heard it somewhere used on Dora or Diego (that seems to ring a bell...) but he's taken it and made it his own. The very way slang evolves.
So, he may not really be cooler that you (but he may be!) and he's DEFINATELY cooler than me (if you could see what I'm wearing right now, you'd agree. Let's just say it involves hot pink old-lady slip on bedroom slippers covered in swirly candy...Old Navy circa SEVERAL years ago...). His little personality is forming and growing so fast right now, it's such a joy to watch and to be around. In the mean time, I'll just keep trying to keep up with him...it would be great to hear his friends say "Max, you have the coolest Mom!" Check.
Friday, December 1, 2006
A Special Day
Friday, December 01, 2006
A Special Day Current mood: grateful
Picture it. Fairfax, Virginia, 2002. It was Sunday and was hurrying home from Gettysburg, Pennsylvania where my parents had a second residence to treat a kitten at my, then, place of employment, The Cat Hospital of Fairfax. The kitten was all grey and Andrew named her Mia, because she meowed constantly, and it sounded like "Mia, Mia....MIA!" I was THIS CLOSE to adopting her. She was staying at CHOF until she was well enough to be adopted (later, and by two AWESOME guys (partners! LOVE IT!) who gave her the BEST LIFE EVER!)
And...I had this feeling. SOMETHING made me drive to the Rite-Aid across the street and buy a pregnancy test. My "menses" (because I am too immature to say "period" GROSS!) wasn't due for a few days, but I just had this hunch. I took the test in the CHOF bathroom, in the office space that I had so many fantastic memories and now had one more to add to the list...A big, fat, positive pregnancy test! Andrew was on business in Chicago, so I called my mother first!
I recall, very clearly, that after I saw that second line appear indicating a positve result, it hit me in the gut, like a ton of bricks, that he was a boy. I felt that way the entire pregnancy, and I cried right on the ultrasound table when my feeling was confirmed. I knew he was a boy. My boy. My good, sweet baby boy.
I called my doctor that day because I was on some medication for abdominal cramping pre-pregnancy and I wanted to make sure it didn't hurt the baby. And let's face it, I'd had some drinks. She assured me that it was so early in the pregnany, but to stop taking the meds. And I, of course, stopped drinking (believe it? Or not, but I did!) But the best thing she said was "Oh, how special, you're finding out the first day of Advent.") I'm not exceptionally religious, but it felt so comforting to hear that. It reminded me of opening an Advent calendar when I was young. My mother always had an Advent calendar for us.
Four weeks later I found myself in the emergency room following a minor one car (mine!) accident on the Dulles Toll Road coming home from pet sitting in Annandale Christmas day. The weather conditions changed in the blink of an eye and I found myself stranded, pregnant and helpless. The next day, I started to bleed and I thought for sure he was gone. But when the ultrasound technician peeked inside...there he was, in all of his "peanut" glory, heart beating like crazy. My boy. And he was mine.
We didn't find out his gender until weeks later, but I knew then as I know him now.
Tonight we spent time reading books, his favorite (The "noises" book, during which he gets to make every sound known to man) and mine "The Kissing Hand which I can't EVER get through without crying! And now he is sleeping soundly with his "blankie" and "mommy's blankie" which is an old (OLD!) afghan from my parent's house that he thinks he is "borrowing" from me.
I'm not going to lie. I'm not perfert and my kids DO get on my nerves sometimes, in fact, today was an especially hard day. But today, this first day of advent, I am so grateful to have Maxwell, my boy, my special, sweet boy. And he's mine.
Currently listening : You Are My Flower By Elizabeth Mitchell Release date: By 14 May, 2002
A Special Day Current mood: grateful
Picture it. Fairfax, Virginia, 2002. It was Sunday and was hurrying home from Gettysburg, Pennsylvania where my parents had a second residence to treat a kitten at my, then, place of employment, The Cat Hospital of Fairfax. The kitten was all grey and Andrew named her Mia, because she meowed constantly, and it sounded like "Mia, Mia....MIA!" I was THIS CLOSE to adopting her. She was staying at CHOF until she was well enough to be adopted (later, and by two AWESOME guys (partners! LOVE IT!) who gave her the BEST LIFE EVER!)
And...I had this feeling. SOMETHING made me drive to the Rite-Aid across the street and buy a pregnancy test. My "menses" (because I am too immature to say "period" GROSS!) wasn't due for a few days, but I just had this hunch. I took the test in the CHOF bathroom, in the office space that I had so many fantastic memories and now had one more to add to the list...A big, fat, positive pregnancy test! Andrew was on business in Chicago, so I called my mother first!
I recall, very clearly, that after I saw that second line appear indicating a positve result, it hit me in the gut, like a ton of bricks, that he was a boy. I felt that way the entire pregnancy, and I cried right on the ultrasound table when my feeling was confirmed. I knew he was a boy. My boy. My good, sweet baby boy.
I called my doctor that day because I was on some medication for abdominal cramping pre-pregnancy and I wanted to make sure it didn't hurt the baby. And let's face it, I'd had some drinks. She assured me that it was so early in the pregnany, but to stop taking the meds. And I, of course, stopped drinking (believe it? Or not, but I did!) But the best thing she said was "Oh, how special, you're finding out the first day of Advent.") I'm not exceptionally religious, but it felt so comforting to hear that. It reminded me of opening an Advent calendar when I was young. My mother always had an Advent calendar for us.
Four weeks later I found myself in the emergency room following a minor one car (mine!) accident on the Dulles Toll Road coming home from pet sitting in Annandale Christmas day. The weather conditions changed in the blink of an eye and I found myself stranded, pregnant and helpless. The next day, I started to bleed and I thought for sure he was gone. But when the ultrasound technician peeked inside...there he was, in all of his "peanut" glory, heart beating like crazy. My boy. And he was mine.
We didn't find out his gender until weeks later, but I knew then as I know him now.
Tonight we spent time reading books, his favorite (The "noises" book, during which he gets to make every sound known to man) and mine "The Kissing Hand which I can't EVER get through without crying! And now he is sleeping soundly with his "blankie" and "mommy's blankie" which is an old (OLD!) afghan from my parent's house that he thinks he is "borrowing" from me.
I'm not going to lie. I'm not perfert and my kids DO get on my nerves sometimes, in fact, today was an especially hard day. But today, this first day of advent, I am so grateful to have Maxwell, my boy, my special, sweet boy. And he's mine.
Currently listening : You Are My Flower By Elizabeth Mitchell Release date: By 14 May, 2002
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