Dear God....

So there are several posts I've been meaning to write for, oh, months and months, but I've been putting them off because I forget about them when I sit in front of a computer. Or I don't care. One of those. Anyway, I thought I'd finally do one of them now. Hooray for you!

So Peawhistle. She says awesome prayers. Greta keeps reminding me of this and has suggested that I blog about it for a while, so here we are. I would like to mention at this time that Dear Sweet Greta willingly left her own family on Christmas Eve with no notice to come and babysit my kids (the Husband was nowhere to be found) so I could race SweetPea to the emergency room that night. SweetPea is better, but I can never repay Greta for her kindness and selflessness. Five cheers for Greta and her amazing wonderfulness!

Anyway, before Peawhistle started eating her dinner that night, she said grace. Or rather her version of such. See, long ago when PW was learning how to pray and such, I told her it was OK if she told God how her day went because I was sure He was interested in her life, etc. Since then, her prayers have never been boring as a result. It should also be noted that regardless how much I've tried to direct her prayers since then, I've failed. I've tried for months to get her to ask for a blessing on the food; she refuses and will only announce in her prayer that she approves of it. Whatever. For a while in school they were learning the Chicken Soup With Rice poems for the months of the year (which she only occasionally got right), and she would treat Heavenly Father to a recitation each evening at dinner and before bed (two-for-one!). Here's how her prayer went the night Greta heard it:

"Dear Henry Father, thank you for the day, I had a great day today. I love the food. Now I'm going to tell you a December poem. In December I will beeeeeeeee, a baubled babble Christmas treeeeeeee. With soup bowls draped all over meeeeeee. Merry once, Merry twiiiiiiiiiice...Merry chick'n soup with rice! In the Jesus Christ Amen!" (She will continue to scream AMEN until everyone in the house has said it also. It's annoying.)

Now, usually the rhyming words were accompanied by claps, or on days she felt like it, scary faces. That lasted up through December (I guess they stopped teaching the poems in school or something) and now she just uses prayer time to relive the highlights of her day, followed by an airing of grievances with me, her mother. I guess if you're going to complain about how you're being parented by your mom, the guy to go to is God himself. But this is still better than praying for Spider-man's safety, which she used to do when she was little (I guess he could use some prayers), or thanking God for SpongeBob, which I'm sure she still secretly does. And honestly, don't we all? Bless you, SpongeBob.

*I would like to add on PW's behalf that when I have a migraine she always prays that I'll feel better, and all without prompting in any way. She's a sweet kid.

Stages of Pregnancy

Hey, remember when I used to write a humor column for the local parenting newsletter here? Yeah, well I stopped that. They stopped mailing it out to parents and started emailing it instead, so I called it quits. Writing the darn thing was too much effort to have it immediately sent to everyone's email trash. Take that, stupid environment-loving Technology!

So anyway, here's the last column I wrote for that, or at least the last one that I haven't posted here yet. I'll explain some things at the end, too, but obviously this is quite dated since it's about being pregnant. And I'm not anymore. Are we all on the same page now?

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We are taught in school that there are three stages of pregnancy. My husband and I have survived all three stages, three times now. We will not be enduring them again after this time as our minds and bodies can’t live through it again. Let’s review these stages, shall we? It’s fun!

Stage 1: the Age of Puking.

Ah, nausea. My, my how you manage to take over and deaden the soul! I hadn’t had many problems with nausea with my first two pregnancies, but this last one was determined to be different. The worst instigator of my puking habits happened to be my toothbrush. The first time it happened I was merrily brushing my teeth when out of nowhere I puked in the sink. Now, how lucky was that, right? I mean, the sink was right there. And what is this? A toothbrush with toothpaste already on it?? Why, that’s exactly what I need after puking! Perfect! And I proceeded to brush my teeth again, only to throw up in the sink again. After the fifth or sixth time of this happening in a row, I began to notice a pattern (I do have a college degree after all!). And that’s when I begged, with nasty breath, that I be medicated to the best of my OB’s ability.

Stage 2: the Age of Prosperity.

Finally, your energy has returned, the puking medication is working on all fronts, people recognize you as pregnant rather than grotesquely obese, and your OBs are doing their best to inflict a heart attack as soon as possible. “You look great, Abby! Keep it up so you WON’T KILL THE BABY. Sure, yeah, you’re doing well just as long as you stay calm enough to NOT KILL THE BABY WITH YOUR RISING BLOOD PRESSURE. Why are you suddenly so upset? All you have to do is make sure you DON’T KILL YOUR BABY. Have a safe and NON-LETHAL DAY.”

This is also right around the time when your kids start to question you about where babies come from and why you and your partner would feel the need to introduce competition to them. I recall my five-year-old asking me one day who will take the baby out of my stomach once I got to the hospital. “The doctors will take her out.” “How will they take her out?” “With their hands.” “IN YOUR MOUTH?!?” and she laughed that hysterical, maniacal laugh she reserves just for me. While I was listening to her evil little laugh, it occurred to me that a baby coming out that end probably couldn’t hurt any more than the standard way we shove them out now.

Stage 3: the Age of Perpetual Senility.

I’ve come to look at this stage as being a window into the future of what I’ll be like 50 years from now. I’m but 33 at this moment, and yet I’ve already turned into a senile old woman who is suffering from complete and utter memory loss. The other day I got a phone call from a friend and she started out by saying, “So your mom’s coming to stay with you soon, huh?”

I gasped in amazement. “HOW did you know that??”

“Because you JUST sent me an email telling me that, like, two minutes ago, you dork.”

Sure enough, my email history did not lie to me, nor did my friend. “Oh, um, yeah, I vaguely recall that now (which is to say not at all).” Again, this happens frequently.

On several occasions I’ve gotten up in the morning, gone to the bathroom, looked in the mirror and declared with some shock and horror, “My GOSH I have really let myself go! When did I get so darn fat?!”, only to realize two seconds later that I’m in fact pregnant. I’m fairly certain I could be arrested for committing a multi-state armed bank robbery scheme and summarily convicted based upon numerous eyewitness accounts, plentiful DNA evidence, clear-as-day security video footage, and I wouldn’t have remembered a single second of it.

I’ve heard it said that our memories can only hold so much before non-essential information is expelled to make room for new data. This leads me to conclude that my baby is actually growing inside my skull, preventing any information from attaching itself to my brain at all. That huge lump on the front of my gut must therefore be the stores of fat that will see me through the long winter months ahead or something. Or at least that’s what the baby inside my head is telling me.

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Many thanks to Stephanie for proof-reading this piece. Apparently I went on and on and on and on in one section and she very kindly told me it was getting boring. The end result was far better due to her very wise warning.

About the puking. It was bad enough that when I'd throw up all the capillaries in my face and neck would burst (called "petechia" I've just discovered), leaving my face and neck completely purple. No, I am NOT exaggerating. It would eventually fade after about four days, but it was so embarrassing I never left the house unless I was going to the hospital to be put on fluids (yeah--like I was going to leave the house looking like a giant hickey? No thanks). So it was bad, hence the medication.

There is one more piece I started to write for the newsletter before I decided to quit. The columns had to be short and this one just plain didn't work as a short piece, so I buried it. If I ever resurrect it I'll let you know.

The Flattest Guest I've Ever Had

Dang, has it been a month already? Holy cow. Oh well.

Hey, so one of my friends has this nephew, see, and he's in grade school in Canada somewheres. His class is participating in the Flat Stanley Project where they mail out a Flat Stanley (based on the children's book), a journal, and see where he winds up before being shipped back home. So far Stanley has visited California, Arizona, Utah, Colorado, Texas, and Maryland (at right is a picture of him driving through Baltimore). Within the next week I will take Stanley to D.C. and to Arlington, VA.

Now, if any of you are familiar with the Canadian postal system, you know it is on par with that of a third world country. In fact, I'm fairly sure the "postal system" involves Canadians standing outside in a long line and just passing letters and packages between them. Therefore, Stanley has only about one more destination to make after here before he needs to be mailed back to Canada by the end of May.

The question is, where should he go? Is there anyone out there who would like to have Stanley in their home for a week to show him around? It doesn't have to be spectacular. One person just raked leaves with him, another took him on a school field trip. My friend took him snow tubing, and I have taken him sightseeing. Whatever floats your boat. You just write a couple of sentences about your town in the journal, maybe include a photo or two of Stanley doing something with you, and you're done.

So, would anyone like to have him for a week?

Like Two Ships, Passing in the Night

I hope that if there's one thing you've learned from faithfully reading my blog, it's that the only way to go grocery shopping is in an unkempt, unshowered state of disarray. You do this, of course, because you have raced out the door as early in the morning as you can to avoid seeing anyone you know at the store. This guarantees that you will see someone you know at the store. Now, if the person you see is a good friend, you can feel free to mock that person openly and perhaps start taking things from their cart and surreptitiously moving them into your own to lessen your walk-around time at the store. However, if you barely know this person--say, an acquaintance from church who you've only had normal, polite, and very brief conversations with, and half the time you can't even remember her name, this is the person you will run into in your unshowered and hair-sticking-out-one-side state. Because of this, she will be dressed perfectly with nary a hair out of place. When you get home, you will also note with despair that you've been walking around with mascara flakes on your cheeks all morning. Perfect! Now let's shop!

I will now outline how to deal with this type of person whilst in the store:

1) Aisle the first: since she will see you first and alarm you with her presence, you will be caught off-guard to the point of being unable to recall her name until long after you've left the store. So a politely awkward "Oh! Hello...there!" will do just fine. Smile brightly as you quickly move on from one another to continue your shopping.

2) Aisle the Second: you run into Lady X yet again, and you realize with growing horror that you both are at the beginning of your shopping experience, you both move at an equal pace, and you're both shopping in the same aisles at the store. You now know that you will be seeing her in every aisle for the rest of your shopping day.

3) Skip aisles three and four in an attempt to get in a different pattern from your new shopping mate, only to note later that she's had the same brilliant idea.

4) Race through the dairy section to get ahead of her, only to nearly run over her offspring upon exiting at the yogurt wall.

5) Aisle the Fifth: Quickly formulate a reason to speak to her since it's becoming obvious you cannot avoid her to save your life, i.e., think of something to say to her, stupid. Again smile brightly, act normal for once, and say, "Soooooo...is your husband in the Army?" She seems delighted that you've saved the day, however briefly, by stabbing at the engulfing awkwardness with some attempt at regular conversation. "No, Air Force." "Oh, I see." 30 seconds of silence ensue while you realize that you failed to think of any follow-up questions to your newly invented conversation. You ask a few more fool questions before both of you tire of the made-up attempt at being friendly and you just sort of aimlessly walk away from her as she gratefully runs in the other direction.

6) See her scoot down Aisle Six, and slyly move to Aisle Seven, hoping to backtrack after she's left. When you go to turn against traffic to go to Aisle Six, be sure to ram into her cart going in the opposite direction. Apologize profusely while she assures you she's fine. Be half grateful you managed to find another excuse to say something a normal person would say, despite the fact it's becoming increasingly obvious to this woman that you're anything but normal.

7) Run to Meats, turn to see her coming, and grab as many random packaged beef products you can before she overtakes you. Run away.

8) Confident that you're now ahead of her, take your merry time down the bread aisle and make for your getaway at check-out, but not before yet again, nearly running into her on your way out. Smile ever so briefly while making as little eye-contact as possible. Her own motivation to fake a smile has vanished, and she pretends she no longer knows you. Totally fine with you.

9) Check out and run to your car. Pray for death before next Sunday.

This Is Your Brain Exploding

See, most people would watch the following and think, "WOW. That is amazing!" And then there's me, who thought, "WOW. I'm going to vomit!" I'm clearly incapable of handling the greater picture. Shocker for most of you, I'm sure.

(half of this is cut off if you're look at my blog, so click on the video again to watch it full screen)

I think I have to go throw up my brains now.

Do you think this has anything to do with my gut-wrenching reaction to icebergs? (See, it's not the tops that freak me out so much--it's the bottoms that make me want to crap my pants.)

P.S. This commercial also makes me want to crap my pants, but in a totally funny way, not a creeped-out way.

They're Baaaaaaaaack

I've been remiss in posting this story, mostly because I keep forgetting it until it shows up in my nightmares. So there's that.

Several, several months ago The Husband (and Melissa's husband as well, I later found out) was excited to watch one of his favorite programs on PBS (or MPT as it's know here), Maryland Outdoors, or Outdoors Maryland. Whatever. Something not inside. So anyway, he was all sorts of thrilled to get to watch it again, and judging by our TV schedule, it should have been on when he tuned to that channel. And yet, it wasn't on. What was you might ask?

The one, the only, Celtic Man. YES, that intrepidly stupid group of singing and assumedly drunken Irishmen who couldn't emote their way out of a paper bag. What are the odds that not only was The Husband's show not on as promised, but it was superseded by this, the most unintentionally entertaining musical group of all time?

Oh, but wait, it gets better! Not only was Celtic Man performing at that time, but at the very moment we tuned in, Creepy, Leering, Future Public Sex Offender Guy was singing. No, not his signature "Ride On" piece, but...wait for it...the man who looks every moment as if he's going to crack your skull open and eat his Coco Crispies out of it was singing "Every Breath You Take." NO, I CERTAINLY AM NOT KIDDING. The creepiest stalker singer on earth was singing the creepiest stalker song ever written. It's like he reads this blog and does it out of spite or something.

Don't believe me? It's right on their fricking youtube channel.

And for our added amusement, some totally random dancer dances on stage while he awkwardly haunts her from his perch. Why doesn't he just sing with a hockey mask on while he's at it? Now THAT I'd pay to see.

It's the Little Things

I've been talking about this recently with friends and I decided I simply had to share it here. One of my favorite things in the world to do is yell at children. I am not kidding. It actually puts a smile on my face. I'm smiling just thinking about all the kids I've gotten to yell at within the past week. Does this make me a bad person? What are the odds I care?

Let me be more specific: I enjoy yelling at older children. I don't yell at young children. For one, it doesn't phase them, and when it does, all they do is bawl. And then I feel bad, which is the opposite personal reaction I'm going for. After all, the goal is to brighten MY day. I honestly am quite nice to the little ones (unless they're related to me, in which case all bets are off). I even politely and sweetly ask them to be kind to each other so Jesus will be happy and we can all feel happy warm thoughts and blah blah blah. See? I'm nice to little kids.

But older kids? The ones who know better? The ones WHO HAVE IT COMING? The ones I never liked even when I WAS a kid? Oh my goodness, there is nothing in this beautiful world that gives me greater joy than to point out, VERY LOUDLY that they DO know better and they TOTALLY have it coming.

Take church for example. You'd think with the bishopric and God and everyone staring at me that I would not take joy in yelling at the older kids. Oh, but you'd be wrong. Lisa wasn't in church this week. For some reason she makes me feel guilty for yelling at them. That's why I wait until she's gone. I always have to do it lots to make up for all the times she is there, so the Senior Primary got several heapin' helpins of my Very Loud Voice this past Sunday. I know you don't believe me, but I am still absolutely giddy thinking about it. I have so few true not-so-guilty pleasures in this life that I revel in them when I can get a hold of them.

Did I ever tell you about the best job I ever had? While I was pregnant with Peawhistle I had a job at our apartment complex's swimming pool as a Pool Chick. I tested the water, I checked pool passes, I cleaned the bathrooms, I cleaned the pool each morning. All OK tasks. But the thing that made it all worthwhile? You guessed it. Yelling at all the children. And boy, was I given many an opportunity to do so. Shoot, I even got to yell at ADULTS! A rare treat indeed! Now those jerks REALLY should have known better! I gave those individuals a taste of swearing thrown in to show my disdain for their stupidity. But yelling at the kids was the best part. And better yet, I got to yell at them with their parents right there! Can you even imagine my utter bliss?? It's like getting to yell at kids AND their parents at the same time! I defy you to name a better job than that!

So Lisa, thank you for missing church this week. I missed your funny self indeed, but with you gone I was allowed to engage in my favorite past time. And to Greta's husband, many thanks to you for giving me an excuse to yell at the not-so-little tots. BEST SUNDAY EVER.

God Loves a Peanut

So it appears Stephanie was right, I was totally making everything up. OR SO SHE'D LIKE TO THINK.

I just got a call from Peanut's allergy doctor (well, one of them anyway). She said his endoscopy looked wonderful with nary a eosinophil to be seen. She also called with his latest allergy testing. Of every allergen he's come up positive for in the past, he is now negative for all of them except for cashews and pistachios. Milk and sesame didn't even register, while peanut has fallen below the positive allergen line. IT'S A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE. Seriously though, IT'S A FRICKING CHRISTMAS MIRACLE. Now, his doctor warned me not to get too excited and start shoving peanut butter down his throat. No problem, we don't have any anyway. She said people can test negative for something and still have a clinical reaction to it upon exposure. So we are to proceed as if he were still allergic to these things, avoiding them as much as possible. However, the likelihood of him actually dying now is pretty slim (well, for peanut, milk, and sesame anyway--gotta still avoid those tree nuts). Plus, he can still have serious GI reactions to these things, particularly milk, which is notorious for producing severe GI issues in the allergic crowd. But not LIFE-THREATENING issues, which is what has given us all ulcers for the past year and a half. He likely still has an oral allergy to apples and pears, and a GI allergy to soy, which sucks, but hey, we can live with that. So can he--literally.

So it would appear that he is outgrowing his life-threatening allergies, including very possibly cashews and pistachios, whose numbers have dropped since the last time. He's still young, things can still change, albeit very unlikely that they would, so we still have to be careful.

But do you have any idea what this means for us in the next few years? He will be able to go to church. He can go to the playground. He can touch a grocery cart handle. We can go out to eat again. He can go to a baseball game. He can sit with other kids at the school lunch table. He can have a cupcake at school parties. He can go on an airplane. He can visit my family. He can go on a mission. Someone will actually want to marry him. The deadly toxins they warned us he would not outgrow are disappearing. I can't even convey how happy I am right now. I'm so relieved I could cry and feed my kid peanut butter. Well, maybe just the first one.

Yes, Master

Last night I dreamed Morgan Freeman and I were super tight friends. Or at least I thought we were, despite the fact he was thoroughly convinced my name was "Igor."

See? Tight.

Is This Thing On?

The following conversation just happened this evening. No joke.

Me: Peawhistle, please finish cleaning up the toys so I can get you a quick bath before bed.

Peawhistle: OK Mommy.

[five minutes later she comes upstairs]

Me: OK kiddo, go brush your teeth, pee in the potty, but don't put your PJs on yet because I need to give you a bath first.

PW: What?

Me: Brush your teeth. Pee in the potty. Don't put on PJs.

PW: But I thought I was going to have a late bath.

Me: You ARE. That's why I don't want you to put on pajamas yet.

PW: No pajamas?

Me: NO. PAJAMAS. YET. BATH. FIRST.

PW: [blank stare]

Me: Go!

PW: (pause) Am I having a late bath?

This went on for some time so I'll spare you the incredible tedium. But MY GOSH. At least this wasn't as bad as this afternoon when the following occurred:

Me: OK PW, what do you want for lunch?

PW: [blank stare]

Me: PW, what do you want for lunch?

PW: [blank stare]

Me: WHAT DO YOU WANT FOR LUNCH??

Kid you not, she stares at me like I'm speaking Elfish; she's utterly fascinated that I'm trying to communicate with her, but there is ZERO comprehension on her end.

This is an all-day thing and my head hurts just from trying to interact with her so I don't even know how to end this, so I'll just stop typing. There.

*Oh, and I apologize for re-instituting word verification. I'm getting sick and tired of all the spam I've been getting lately and having to go back and delete it. So I'll just torture you all instead, cool?