Dear current tenant,
while I have enjoyed your lengthy stay in my womb I am writing to inform you that I will not be renewing your lease upon its expiration date. This does not, in any way reflect my opinion of you. It is merely a personal choice.
During your stay we've come to know one another with great detail and intimacy. Therefore, I feel I can speak candidly. For the most part I've enjoyed your presence. But, there have been times that you've shown a complete disregard for my hospitality. This seems to be a common occurrence these past few months, one that does not sit well with me.
Your late night dance parties have often hindered my ability to enjoy a good night's rest. Your constant protests of my food and beverage choices is unwelcome. And your demand for larger lodgings is out of my control.
I feel that it's within everyone's best interest if we just part ways, and soon, while we're still on agreeable terms. I realize that this sudden change in living arrangements will most likely be disagreeable with you, however, I have a solution. Rather than viewing this as an eviction notice, I suggest you view it as a relocation program. In exchange for giving me full rights to my body once more, I offer up a warm, comfortable crib located within close proximity to my own sleeping arrangements. In addition, I will also throw in two working boobies that you may feast upon any time you so choose. So, you see, this really is in no way an eviction notice. I hope you find this plan to your liking and I look forward to your moving soon. Real soon.
Sincerely,
Mommy, your current uterine landlord
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Sunday, May 31, 2009
An Apology To My Husband
To my dearest and ever loving husband,
do you remember when we were still dating? You would come to pick me up and inevitably I wouldn't be ready. I would pour you a drink and leave you to finish getting ready. I took great pride as well as pains, in choosing what to wear, how to do my hair, and where I should apply the perfume I had carefully chosen for the evening. I loved watching you watching me as I would walk back into the room. The way you would watch me all evening always made me feel special. I knew all my hard work while done in the name of vanity, had not been in vain.
During these past few years you've looked at me in many different ways. There have been looks of awe, anger, frustration, fascination, love, and sheer lunacy. The look I'd like to thank you for the most, however is for looking the other way. With only a few weeks left till Secondborn joins our ranks I often find it hopeless to spend the amount of time and energy I once did on making myself presentable. It's not as easy as it once was. It's certainly not as enjoyable. Let's face it, no amount of concealer is going to conceal the fact that I look as if I'm smuggling a watermelon. My issue isn't so much with what my body looks like, but what my body does. I left the land of Ladylike long ago. There's the burping that results in Firstborn asking each and every time, "You 'kay?" There's the belly and hiney scratching that occurs indiscriminately, whether it be in front of just you, or everyone in the supermarket. There's the ever present waddle that in no way resembles my once seductive sashey.
And then there's the pooting. The pooting that is fueled by my mostly produce ingested diet. The pooting that drives Firstborn to the other side of the room and causes much conversation while he and I are in public potties together. The pooting that I once would have been mortified by and try to lay blame on the dog or the newborn, is now so commonplace that I don't even notice. And by the look on your face, neither do you. You are either such a gentleman that you look the other way, or God has blessed you with some sort of pregnant hormone to block out all effects of mine.
So thank you, darling Hubby for looking the other way. I offer my sincerest apologies for all of my bodily offences for the rest of the pregnancy, labor, and delivery.
With all my love,
Your Affectionate and Flatulant Wife
do you remember when we were still dating? You would come to pick me up and inevitably I wouldn't be ready. I would pour you a drink and leave you to finish getting ready. I took great pride as well as pains, in choosing what to wear, how to do my hair, and where I should apply the perfume I had carefully chosen for the evening. I loved watching you watching me as I would walk back into the room. The way you would watch me all evening always made me feel special. I knew all my hard work while done in the name of vanity, had not been in vain.
During these past few years you've looked at me in many different ways. There have been looks of awe, anger, frustration, fascination, love, and sheer lunacy. The look I'd like to thank you for the most, however is for looking the other way. With only a few weeks left till Secondborn joins our ranks I often find it hopeless to spend the amount of time and energy I once did on making myself presentable. It's not as easy as it once was. It's certainly not as enjoyable. Let's face it, no amount of concealer is going to conceal the fact that I look as if I'm smuggling a watermelon. My issue isn't so much with what my body looks like, but what my body does. I left the land of Ladylike long ago. There's the burping that results in Firstborn asking each and every time, "You 'kay?" There's the belly and hiney scratching that occurs indiscriminately, whether it be in front of just you, or everyone in the supermarket. There's the ever present waddle that in no way resembles my once seductive sashey.
And then there's the pooting. The pooting that is fueled by my mostly produce ingested diet. The pooting that drives Firstborn to the other side of the room and causes much conversation while he and I are in public potties together. The pooting that I once would have been mortified by and try to lay blame on the dog or the newborn, is now so commonplace that I don't even notice. And by the look on your face, neither do you. You are either such a gentleman that you look the other way, or God has blessed you with some sort of pregnant hormone to block out all effects of mine.
So thank you, darling Hubby for looking the other way. I offer my sincerest apologies for all of my bodily offences for the rest of the pregnancy, labor, and delivery.
With all my love,
Your Affectionate and Flatulant Wife
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Googer Hurts, Mama
Firstborn ran up to me one day last week with his finger outstretched and waving wildly. He kept repeating this phrase: "Googer hurts, Mama. Googer hurts."
I racked my brain desperately trying to figure out what part of my beloved Firstborn might be ailing him. I reached for his hand and held it for a closer inspection. And there it was, on the very tip of his finger. A booger, or as my son was saying, "Googer".
"Does the 'googer' hurt or does your nose hurt from retrieving the 'googer'?"
"Googer hurts, Mama. Googer hurts."
That's all I could get out of him, besides the 'googer'. A lot of things hurt him these days. At his two year wellness check up last week I had to ask the doctor if he thought Firstborn might have a urinary tract infection. Every time he went pee-pee in the potty he would tell me his pee-pee hurt. The urine analysis was negative. Turns out our little "googer getter" now understands the concept of hurts and owies but not to its fullest extent.
I waddle a lot these days. A combination of gaining 33 pounds and being less than five weeks from my due date, I suppose. I also hold the bottom of my back often. And sometimes, if all the forces of pregnancy are really wanting to pull a good one over on me, the hiney will ache from the occassional hemmeroid as well. Firstborn approached me one afternoon as I was waddling down the hall with one hand on my lower back and the other on my hiney. I'm pretty sure I was giving a good bellyachin' moan too. My sweet child ran behind me and kissed my hiney. "You 'kay? No hurt, Mama."
"No hurt. Mama all better now. Thanks."
I racked my brain desperately trying to figure out what part of my beloved Firstborn might be ailing him. I reached for his hand and held it for a closer inspection. And there it was, on the very tip of his finger. A booger, or as my son was saying, "Googer".
"Does the 'googer' hurt or does your nose hurt from retrieving the 'googer'?"
"Googer hurts, Mama. Googer hurts."
That's all I could get out of him, besides the 'googer'. A lot of things hurt him these days. At his two year wellness check up last week I had to ask the doctor if he thought Firstborn might have a urinary tract infection. Every time he went pee-pee in the potty he would tell me his pee-pee hurt. The urine analysis was negative. Turns out our little "googer getter" now understands the concept of hurts and owies but not to its fullest extent.
I waddle a lot these days. A combination of gaining 33 pounds and being less than five weeks from my due date, I suppose. I also hold the bottom of my back often. And sometimes, if all the forces of pregnancy are really wanting to pull a good one over on me, the hiney will ache from the occassional hemmeroid as well. Firstborn approached me one afternoon as I was waddling down the hall with one hand on my lower back and the other on my hiney. I'm pretty sure I was giving a good bellyachin' moan too. My sweet child ran behind me and kissed my hiney. "You 'kay? No hurt, Mama."
"No hurt. Mama all better now. Thanks."
Friday, May 22, 2009
Monday- Pull Head Out Of Hiney
I hate to be that person who not only neglects their blog, but writes a blog to apologize for said neglect. But, this afternoon I am indeed that person. The past three weeks have been really busy with Hubby's parents coming to visit, Firstborn's second birthday, and the planning and replanning of his party. Not only was I super busy, but it seems my endless energy is now finding its way to an end. I suppose that's to be expected since I'm only six weeks away from due date. I have had several ideas for new articles and hope to find the time sometime within the next week to finally commit them to the blog. So...for those emailing me nasty little notes about my blog neglect, message received. I'm writing it on my calander: Monday - pull head out of hiney and get busy confessing.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Pass The Gas, Please
I'm craving one of my favorite southern meals: meatloaf, stewed potatoes, pinto beans, and cornbread. It's what's on the menu tonight. I'm even considering jacking this up a notch by adding broccoli and cheddar to the cornbread. The only thing missing at the moment would be fresh sliced tomato, but I'm too much of a tomato snob to enjoy one from the local big box market. But soon, very soon they'll be coming into season and I'll be able to hit my local produce stand up for one of those juicy Better Boys or Big Berthas.
Most likely this is a mundane topic for some of my dearly devoted. Those of you who know me though, know of my love for all things food. Factor in the pregnancy and you'll find that food occupies a good 78% of my thinking. So it was of no surprise when this menu came to me in a dream early this morning. I woke slobbering and smacking with anticipation for the deliciousness that awaited me.
As I was soaking and rinsing my beans it occurred to me, however, that this meal was going to hurt me. Between the heartburn and the gas, there's no doubt in my mind I will be rolling on the floor miserable a good half hour after consumption. Ordinarily this meal might sting for a brief time, but I would soldier on. I'd forgotten to consider my on board companion might not enjoy the in flight meal as much as myself. Well, little girl, you best buckle up. You're about to experience some slight turbulence. Mama needs her comfort food.
Most likely this is a mundane topic for some of my dearly devoted. Those of you who know me though, know of my love for all things food. Factor in the pregnancy and you'll find that food occupies a good 78% of my thinking. So it was of no surprise when this menu came to me in a dream early this morning. I woke slobbering and smacking with anticipation for the deliciousness that awaited me.
As I was soaking and rinsing my beans it occurred to me, however, that this meal was going to hurt me. Between the heartburn and the gas, there's no doubt in my mind I will be rolling on the floor miserable a good half hour after consumption. Ordinarily this meal might sting for a brief time, but I would soldier on. I'd forgotten to consider my on board companion might not enjoy the in flight meal as much as myself. Well, little girl, you best buckle up. You're about to experience some slight turbulence. Mama needs her comfort food.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
He Said, She Said
The following conversation took place this morning as my husband I watched a pair of finches building a nest in our Boston fern on the deck.
"Typical male", I said as the female was doing all the nest building and the male sat below pigging out in the feeder.
"He was probably kicked out for not doing it right", said Hubby. " 'No! That's not where that leaf goes. It goes over here."
"Well, that sounds about right. He probably wasn't listening the first five times she told him where and how to do it."
"What was that?"
"Never mind, I'll just do it myself."
"Typical male", I said as the female was doing all the nest building and the male sat below pigging out in the feeder.
"He was probably kicked out for not doing it right", said Hubby. " 'No! That's not where that leaf goes. It goes over here."
"Well, that sounds about right. He probably wasn't listening the first five times she told him where and how to do it."
"What was that?"
"Never mind, I'll just do it myself."
Monday, April 6, 2009
Some Days Are Better Than Others
Some days are better than others. We all know this. But when stuck in the middle of one of those days it's difficult to see past the poop on your carpet, or whatever else may have come your way. So I suppose there was no great reason for me to be surprised when the words "GO GET IN YOUR CRATE" were issued from my lips last week. The surprise came as I realized I was yelling them at my son, and not our dog.
Firstborn turns two next month and we've been working on potty training the past two weeks. We've actually been "potty teaching" for some months, but it's been in the past two weeks that the proverbial light bulb went off deep within him. And with the weather warming up it's made potty training much easier. He's been going bare bottomed, and loving it too, I might add. His floor potty is placed in the living room atop several old towels as well as in front. I'm absolutely amazed by the boy's arc and aim. I can see now that I will be fighting a constant battle with keeping a clean bathroom in the future.
The first few days I baby gated him into the living room so as to contain any accidents. Each time he pee-pees in the potty he gets a jelly bean. After a few days the gate came down. I'm proud to say we've only had four, maybe five "uh ohs". The third "uh oh" I'm sure was done on purpose just to see if he could vacuum it up with his play Dirt Devil. It seems he may have inherited my love of vacuuming.
He's doing quite well with the pee-pee portion of potty time. It's the poopy that gives him fits. Like most boys he would rather poop in his diaper. The problem is that he doesn't like to wear diapers anymore. So when he needs to "see a man about a horse" he does this crazy, tribal dance. He'll run to the potty and sit. He'll hop up grabbing his hiney. Then he'll run in circles while whining, "hurts, Mama, hiney hurts". Then he'll sit again, only to repeat the whole dance. I ask him if he would like to put a diaper on and he'll utter a very pained, "yeah". Sometimes he avoids the whole tribal dance and just brings me a diaper. No sooner will I have him strapped in and he's finishing up business.
One day last week we were having an especially whiny morning. I don't know who started it, but when either Firstborn or myself wake in a whiny mood it tends to be contagious. I was sitting on the couch when Firstborn began his poopy dance. I was determined that this time the kid was going to poop on the potty, so I didn't offer him a diaper. He danced around the living room half a dozen times and then sat on his potty.
"Alright," I thought to myself. "That's more like it." He sat and sat. He sat some more. It had been over twenty minutes since the beginning of the "poo poo limbo" and I needed to go potty as well. I'm pregnant, it had been twenty minutes, you know the equation: pregnant + the recommended 60 oz of water/daily = peeing every 15-20 minutes.
I could hear Firstborn as I was making my way back to the living room. "Poo Poo! Poo Poo!" I hurried. I certainly didn't want him trying to empty the potty by himself. I guess there was no need to hurry after all. I entered the room as my son had a handful of poop and was about to place it into the potty. Oh, and there was more on the carpet. *Sighs* Some days are better than others.
The rest of the day followed much in the same fashion. I had a lengthy to do list, but was making no headway with it. Every time I turned around I was either cleaning up a new mess or disciplining. The straw that broke the camel's back came at the end of the day. I was trying to make supper and fold laundry while Firstborn was playing in his room. As I emerged from the laundry closet I looked across the room to see that he was washing my sliding glass door with his baby's blanket. I knew in an instant there was only one place he could have gotten the water to wet that blanket as thoroughly as he did, the potty.
I took the blanket away and swatted his bottom all in one motion. With my right arm I pointed down the hallway. And as if I was having some out of body experience I heard myself yell, "GO GET IN YOUR CRATE."
The dog, who had been sleeping soundly, jerked her head up. Her look said it all, "What did I do?" Firstborn cocked his head to one side and began to giggle hysterically. And with that so did I, because after all, aren't some days better than others?
Firstborn turns two next month and we've been working on potty training the past two weeks. We've actually been "potty teaching" for some months, but it's been in the past two weeks that the proverbial light bulb went off deep within him. And with the weather warming up it's made potty training much easier. He's been going bare bottomed, and loving it too, I might add. His floor potty is placed in the living room atop several old towels as well as in front. I'm absolutely amazed by the boy's arc and aim. I can see now that I will be fighting a constant battle with keeping a clean bathroom in the future.
The first few days I baby gated him into the living room so as to contain any accidents. Each time he pee-pees in the potty he gets a jelly bean. After a few days the gate came down. I'm proud to say we've only had four, maybe five "uh ohs". The third "uh oh" I'm sure was done on purpose just to see if he could vacuum it up with his play Dirt Devil. It seems he may have inherited my love of vacuuming.
He's doing quite well with the pee-pee portion of potty time. It's the poopy that gives him fits. Like most boys he would rather poop in his diaper. The problem is that he doesn't like to wear diapers anymore. So when he needs to "see a man about a horse" he does this crazy, tribal dance. He'll run to the potty and sit. He'll hop up grabbing his hiney. Then he'll run in circles while whining, "hurts, Mama, hiney hurts". Then he'll sit again, only to repeat the whole dance. I ask him if he would like to put a diaper on and he'll utter a very pained, "yeah". Sometimes he avoids the whole tribal dance and just brings me a diaper. No sooner will I have him strapped in and he's finishing up business.
One day last week we were having an especially whiny morning. I don't know who started it, but when either Firstborn or myself wake in a whiny mood it tends to be contagious. I was sitting on the couch when Firstborn began his poopy dance. I was determined that this time the kid was going to poop on the potty, so I didn't offer him a diaper. He danced around the living room half a dozen times and then sat on his potty.
"Alright," I thought to myself. "That's more like it." He sat and sat. He sat some more. It had been over twenty minutes since the beginning of the "poo poo limbo" and I needed to go potty as well. I'm pregnant, it had been twenty minutes, you know the equation: pregnant + the recommended 60 oz of water/daily = peeing every 15-20 minutes.
I could hear Firstborn as I was making my way back to the living room. "Poo Poo! Poo Poo!" I hurried. I certainly didn't want him trying to empty the potty by himself. I guess there was no need to hurry after all. I entered the room as my son had a handful of poop and was about to place it into the potty. Oh, and there was more on the carpet. *Sighs* Some days are better than others.
The rest of the day followed much in the same fashion. I had a lengthy to do list, but was making no headway with it. Every time I turned around I was either cleaning up a new mess or disciplining. The straw that broke the camel's back came at the end of the day. I was trying to make supper and fold laundry while Firstborn was playing in his room. As I emerged from the laundry closet I looked across the room to see that he was washing my sliding glass door with his baby's blanket. I knew in an instant there was only one place he could have gotten the water to wet that blanket as thoroughly as he did, the potty.
I took the blanket away and swatted his bottom all in one motion. With my right arm I pointed down the hallway. And as if I was having some out of body experience I heard myself yell, "GO GET IN YOUR CRATE."
The dog, who had been sleeping soundly, jerked her head up. Her look said it all, "What did I do?" Firstborn cocked his head to one side and began to giggle hysterically. And with that so did I, because after all, aren't some days better than others?
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