Tuesday

Anne suggested that I sterilize the drama and post it. Oh, would that it could be sterilized. I'm kind of thinking of taking it to the Basement. If I do that, I'll let you know via secret diaper message (By the way, funnest hack ever. Wait 'til the daycare teachers get a load of my next supply of Cruisers!).

Also, my new t-shirt arrived today! And also also, I'm feeling a little better about the whole blawging thing. It's just that the t-shirt is cute, and it reminds me that not all online journalists (I've grown to really hate that 'b' word) are attention whores. Take you, for instance. You are definitely NOT an attention whore. If you were, I'd kick your ass.

Much Eye-Rolling Is Taking Place

How ironic is it that I've begun another blog just in time to start having weird feelings about having a website in the first place?

There's Big Drama going on in the family. Not in the immediate family, but in the family. It's large, and it's not something that I am even close to being at liberty to write about here in a public space. But I can say that it is fucked up and I'm pretty damned perturbed about it.

For the last few days as The Big Drama™ has unfolded, I have become increasingly agitated by any and every person whose demeanor even hints at attention-seeking. I am sick of attention seekers. I am sick of people who do and say things just to illicit a reaction from others. I am sick of people who do stupid and bad things just to get some damned attention.

And this afternoon, that disdain began to spread to attention seekers here in the almighty Blogosphere. As I read some sites that I hadn't visited in a while, I remembered why I visit them so rarely. It's because they get on my nerves with each of their individual flavors of attention whoring.

But then really, aren't we all looking for some kind of attention just by putting our words and pictures out there for everyone to see? I'll go ahead and say it: Yes. I enjoy the attention that I gain from my silly little website. But how arrogant and superficial is it that I peck out the mundane insignificant details of my life and actually expect someone to give a shit? Why don't I just get over myself and go wash the dishes already?

Because I like writing to an audience, I guess.

And I really hate doing the dishes.

How-To Tuesday, Briefly Resurrected

From one of my favorite real-life mom friends, yet another reason to love rice:

For a baby who has diarrhea and who is so over rice cereal that he gags anytime it comes near his lips, try rice water:

1. Boil about 1/4 cup rice in about a quart of water with a pinch of salt.
2. When the rice is cooked, remove from heat and drain, reserving the water.
3. Do whatever you want to with the cooked rice, but no matter what you do, DO NOT POUR THE WATER DOWN THE DRAIN! Instead pour it into a separate container.
4. Add a touch of sweetener (Just a touch! Too much sugar or corn syrup or xylitol will cancel out the effectiveness of the rice starch).
5. Serve warm or cooled in a cup or bottle.
6. Think solid thoughts.

For more starch (and more firming power), you can blend the entire contents of the pot--rice and water--to make a thicker liquid. You'll probably have to add more water to acheive a drinkable consistency, though.

I started Al on this yesterday evening, and for the first time in five days of stomach virus hell, I changed a poop diaper that nearly resembled something close to normal this afternoon.

Confession: I'm really lame.

I feel the need, the need to clarify. Oh, my god, did I just write that? Hmmm, it appears that yes, indeed I did. Moving on.

So yeah, I listen to the Jared Leto band. Well, if by "listen to" you mean "heard a few songs on Squizz that I really liked and decided to commit them to my computer's harddrive."

As the Mr. and I were driving down the road the other day, some talk show dudes mentioned that Jared Leto had a little accident while he was singing with his band. They speculated that the problem was that he dove into the crowd without first making sure that there would be someone there to catch him. The gist was that really, he should give up on his little singing aspirations because pretty much noone likes 30 Seconds to Mars anymore than they did when the band first started out.

Me: 30 Seconds to Mars? Jared Leto's in that band? Dude, I actually like that band.

The Mr.: And that right there proves the point.

Seven's Heaven. And I'm a dork.

I’ve been tagged by the super-hip MotherBumper, she who proclaims that she is currently in violation of multiple fashion laws. To that, “WHATEVER,” says I. Because come on, I’m not buying it? Are you? OK, now that that’s settled, on to the task at hand:

Here’s what I’m supposed to do:

List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what they are. They must be songs you are presently enjoying. Then tag seven other people to see what they’re listening to.

Are you ready for this? Because I’m not sure you are ready for the um, not-so-thought-provoking tunes that are banging around in my head these days.

Número Uno: “Paralyzer” by Finger Eleven. Man, I luhve this song. It makes me want to lose 12 pounds, put on make-up and totally non-mom apparel and head to a bar and dance my ass off. It is that good for me. In fact, I love it so much that I added it to my MySpace page. (Yes, that link is to Finger Eleven’s MySpace, and yes, I did just admit to having my own MySpace. Please still like me).

Número Dos: “Thriller” by Michael Jackson, mainly because of this video (thanks to Jennster). Sadly, I did not learn the Thriller dance back in ’83 when it would not have been absurd for a 12-year-old tween to do such a thing. However, I think I will learn it now, regardless of my current 36-year-old status. What’s more, I think I will teach it to my 3^rd graders, just for fun.

Número Tres (and why am I counting in Spanish? Beats me.): “Everything” by Buckcherry. I first fell in love with Buckcherry seven years ago in Southern California. I saw them in concert that same year, and have continued to love them ever since.

#4: “Electric Worry” by Clutch. Not really much to explain here. Bang, bang, bang, bang, vámonos, vámonos.

#5: “More Than a Feeling” by Boston. I bought the band’s self-titled album when I was a kid. I guess I had heard some of their music on the radio and decided to spend some birthday money on the cassette. I listened to that tape incessantly, although I wasn’t sure what to make of the band’s urges to their audience to practice vegetarianism. My uncle was a cattle-farmer, we lived in Texas, and beef was its own food group in our household. I often thought about that cassette jacket and my childhood dismay that what?—some people don’t eat meat?—when I myself became a vegetarian in my adult years. The news of Brad Delp’s suicide last week got those Boston songs rattling around in my head and on my computer again. “More Than a Feeling” is one of my favorites.

#6: “From Yesterday” by 30 Seconds to Mars. I just realized last week that Jared Leto fronts this band. Yeah, I live under a rock, or in everyday language, East Texas. Wow, who knew? Oh, you knew? Anyway. I dig the song, and I really dig the video. That’s about it.

#7, and completely out of rhythm with the rest of this list: “These Days,” by Rascal Flatts. I know! You’re laughing, aren’t you? Well, laugh away, because this is my #1 go-to song for lifting a funk. Our nephew used to sing this song with the sweetest 5-year-old voice I’ve ever heard, and I can still imagine him singing when I hear this song. It just evokes lots of good feelings and images. Besides, what would a song list from a girl from Texas be without at least one country tune, right?

And now for the almighty tags:

Erika, Isabel, Lizzy, Mrs. Squirrel, Soleclaw ,Kristin, and Karla

My very own tag disclaimer: If you have been tagged by me and think this is a really lame thing to do, then that’s OK! Really! While I love being tagged, I hate imposing content on other people.

Lunch

Maggie Mason probably woudn't approve, but I thought it was definitely worth sharing.

When the Right Word Says It All

Alex, like most 1-year-olds, has a very limited vocabulary. We've got Duice! (juice), Bah! (ball/toy), Dada! (daddy), Maaaahmaaaah! (see Duice!), and Uh-oh! (Oops, I dropped my cup/cookie/book/toy/dinner/etc. Also, Hey Ma! Watch me throw my cup/cookie/book/toy/dinner/etc. on the floor!).

This afternoon, Al had an opportunity to exercise his mad vocabulary skills. He vomited again after his afternoon nap, and this time it was pretty damned impressive. The poor kid heaved and tossed soy milk and toast all over the kitchen floor. When he was finally done, he had but one thing to say:

"Uh-oh!"



Uh-oh, indeed.

Slight Change of Plans

Here's what I had planned for today:

1. Drop Baby off at "school."
2. Pick up some coffee from Starbucks.
   
3. Come home. Lie on couch and watch television.
4. Go for a run.
5. Have a long shower, a pedicure, lunch.
6. Read and respond to emails.
7. Watch more television.
8. Pick up Baby.
9. Relax with Baby and The Mr.
10. Freshen up a bit.
11. Head out for yummy dinner.

Here's what today has looked like so far:

1. Wake at 3:15am to puking baby.
2. Change sheets (actually the Mr. did this part), clean up Baby and self.
3. Go back to bed for another few hours.
   
4. Email baby's school to let them know he wouldn't be attending today.
5. Do puke laundry.
6. Try to coax baby into drinking some Pedialyte.
   
7. Make baby toast. Make self toast.
8. Change runny poop diaper.
   
9. Dress baby.
10. Dress self.
11. Try to coax baby into drinking some Pedialyte.
12. Clean kitchen.
13. Change runny poop diaper.
    
14. Chase baby around house.
15. Try to coax baby into drinking some Pedialyte.
16. Chase baby around backyard.
17. Read and reply to about 1/2 of emails while baby plays with the Mr.'s computer.
18. Have a mediocre roast beef and cheese sandwich.
    
19. Finally give in and let baby have 3 ounces of soy milk because he will not stop reaching for the refrigerator and whining.
20. Pray for no soy puke.
21. Put baby down for nap.
22. Hear baby wake from nap. Change HUGE runny poop diaper.
23. Wipe down changing table with disinfectant. Spray baby's room with Oust. Start a load of diarrhea laundry.
    
24. It's only 3:30? Geez...
    

So, yeah, things haven't gone quite the way they were planned. And isn't that always how it is with babies?

My mother and I have been exchanging emails for most of yesterday and today. The Mr. and Al and I are going to have dinner with her and my stepdad tomorrow night. It's a tradition: Every year around this time, we get together for dinner, and my mom tells the story of my birth. She tells how she was in labor with me for 18 hours, how her regular doctor wasn't on call that night, and that if it hadn't been for "Dr. Buddy" (I shit you not, his first name was Buddy), we both probably would have died that night. Yesterday, she sent me an email with the play-by-play of that day 36 years ago. Things didn't go the way she planned that day and night. But isn't that always how it is with babies?

Today is my birthday. I love my birthday. I have never been and I don't think I ever will be one of those women who wants to forget or ignore the day. And now that I am a mother, my own mother's story about the day I was born means even more to me. I can begin to understand the enormity of what she feels for my brother and me and how my birthday--her anniversary of becoming a mother--is special to her.

Today I planned to be self-absorbed and lazy. I have been neither (although one could argue that blogging is an exercise in self-absorption). That is just fine by me.

This is a true story.

At 3:15am, I woke to nothing in particular. My body has grown accustomed to semi-alertness at this hour, as this is usually the time that Al grunts or whines or, if he's feeling unusually verbal, demands, "Duice!"

But he was quietly and warmly nestled against my back. The Mr.'s foot rested beneath my own--we still find ways to connect during the night. All was still. All was quiet.

I turned over to face Al. By the dim shimmer of the nightlight, I could make out his button nose, his perfect pink lips, slightly parted as he breathed the quiet rhythm of a baby's sleep. Dark eyelashes rested upon his soft round cheeks.

Once again, I felt lucky that we had stumbled onto the decision to share a family bed. I smiled at the thought of the Mr.'s and my ongoing joke--that Baby sure is sweet to let us sleep in his bed. Had Al been in his crib, I would have merely returned to sleep, only to miss this magical vision of my son's perfect, angelic face in the wee hours before dawn.

I closed my eyes, and breathed in his breath--that breath that, while no longer the essence of milk and infancy, is still the sweetest aroma I know. We breathed together, nose to nose, in and out, until I felt the warm blanket of sleep begin to envelope me.



And then he puked.

Progress Report

I have actually managed to get some shit done. I had planned to do some yard work yesterday, but yeah, not so much. See, I totally forgot to factor in a very large assignment that was due for my Library Science course. Instead of playing in the dirt, I spent an hour at our local public library, and then another two hours pecking away at a paper chock full of bullshit about the virtues of available encyclopedias in our little hillbilly library.

By two in the afternoon I finally submitted that piece of crap (I've noticed that the instructor hardly reads our papers, so you think I'm going to labor over a 10-point assignment? Pshaw.) and headed out for a walk. I did the three miles, but there was no running or jogging, even. I'm a wuss.

I showered, did a glycolic peel (more on that at a later date), and got dressed again.

Oh, did I mention that Al has been going to daycare this week? Because hello? Would I be able to actually DO any of this with him here? Noooo, because I'd be building block towers for him to knock down and blowing bubbles in the backyard and letting this house and my homework and my skin rot.

Anyway, I picked him up and we came back and got going on my closets*. I saved the closets for when Al was home because there is nothing that that boy loves more than throwing clothes here and there and dragging old pajama bottoms throughout the house. He and the Mr. looked on while I knocked out a shoe-holder thingy that the previous owners had had installed that was 1) worthless and 2) taking up precious space where shelves could be residing. Then I boxed up all of the items that will never ever fit this ass again and put all of the remaining articles back, only this time in an organized manner.

Today, I set out to replace a few basics, and I shopped the day away. Alone. It rocked.

Yeah, that's me modeling my new jeans and pants and cool bermuda shorts.
You're totally buying that, right?

Not pictured: Many very boring undergarments

Tomorrow I will exchange some shoes (because I, the dummy, didn't double-check the box that the woman brought from the back--the black leather floor model was my size, and I already knew they would fit--so I didn't realize that she had sold me a pair of black patent pumps. GAH! The last time I wore patent leather was when I was 6, so yeah, those babies are going back), do another run/walk, have a pedicure, and watch some television. Oh, and wait for my skin to start peeling. How long is that supposed to take, anyway?

At this point in the storm, I think it's pretty safe to say that none of that yard work will be getting done this week. I'm pretty much OK with that.


*Yes, I have two closets--one for current clothing and one for out-of-season and non-fitting clothing. Doesn't everyone?

Today is Monday. That is my excuse.

Today my plans were to complete the following tasks:

1. Deep clean the house.
2. Clean out closets.
3. Inventory closets for spring necessities (a.k.a. make a list of shit I want to buy).
4. Organize closets.
5. Jog and/or walk at least 3 miles.

I completed #1.

And that is all.

But wait! Here's the deal: OK, it was raining. There you go.

Actually, because the Mr.'s works in the construction business, he couldn't work today. So after he ran a few errands, he was free to do whatever he wanted. And what he wanted was to see 300. And he wanted me to go with him. I'd read the reviews, so I knew what to expect. I only wished that the theatre wouldn't be completely dark so that I could take a good book or a couple of killer sudoku puzzles along. Since those options were well, not options, I made the Mr. promise to buy me a big ol' vat of popcorn.

The movie wasn't nearly as bad as I expected it to be. In fact, I found parts of it to be almost beautiful when there weren't decapitated heads flying across the screen. And one of the soldiers who got quite a bit of screen time was HAWT.

After the movie ended I told the Mr. that it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. His reply was that it wasn't as good as he'd hoped it would be.

Still, not a bad way to spend a rainy afternoon.


And for the one task that I did manage to complete today, evidence:

Before:

I KNOW!


And after:

Spring Break

I have a new favorite television show, er, programme. Ladette to Lady, y'all. And they're recruiting!

We are currently recruiting hard-drinking, raucous young women who have gone totally off the rails and would benefit from a five week crash course in etiquette and manners.

That's totally me! Except the Mr. says I'm too old. But man, I'd love to give it a go.



But never fear, Spring Break is here. The boy's well, so off to school he goes. Get-My-Shit-back-Together Week begins bright and early as we kick off the week with--you guessed it--Monday! (can't get anything past you, huh?) And Monday is House Day. We'll deep clean this sucker and time permitting, purge some closets as well. There will be photos. And I won't hold back.

In case you're wondering (and if you are, you should look into getting one of those things, what are they called again? A LIFE!), here's what the entire week looks like:

Monday: Clean this God-forsaken filthy house.

Tuesday: Clean out the front flower beds, finally plant that flower bed that I started last summer (shut up), and maybe (MAYBE!) buy and set out a shrub to replace the one that died last fall.

Wednesday: Wednesday is all about me, me, ME! Shopping for undergarments, since pregnancy and this post partum bod (um, how long can I milk the "post partum" thing? Can I at least use that excuse until the kid is say, 9? Really, am I over the limit here at 14 months?) have blown all my others ones smooth out. Also shopping for some spring fashions and shoes (I'm totally going to try the city/bermuda shorts with espadrilles), a glycolic peel, a pedicure, and whatever the hell else I feel like. Oh, yeah, a haircut.

Thursday: Lay my ass on the couch and watch stupid amounts of TLC and DVRed stuff.

Friday: Finish anything that I didn't get around to due to "What Not to Wear" marathons, extra naps, or typical Jeze-style procrastination.

Everyday: Running/Walking 3+ miles, as well as trying not to eat every cookie within a 10-mile radius.

By the way, I'm on my third glass of wine tonight. Can you tell?

Pretty

I have been stuck in the house with a feverish, snotty, coughy, virusy little boy for the past 3 days and I am about to lose my head with Cabin Fever. But there is a light at the end of our tunnel of phlegm, and one bright point in our snotty little corner of Hell has been that there is still NO! EAR! INFECTION! Believe me, on Wednesday, when I took the little booger into the pediatrician's office, I was sure that all my bragging about the hogwash was about to bite me in the ass, but amazingly, both ears were clear as bells. And Dr. Grandpa didn't even give me a hard time about the blackish herbal oil that I'm sure was all up in those eustachian tubes (Look at me, spelling eustachian like I know what I'm talking about!).

So yeah, a diagnosis of viral pharyngitis and orders to keep the fluids down the boy were all we got for our $30 copay this time. I'll take it.

He did feel well enough to go outside this afternoon with the Mr. When he returned inside, he presented me with my very first Mom Bouquet. Now, I've been presented with many a bouquet in my day (only one of which was sent by the Mr.), but this little fistful of backyard botanicals has got to be the most gorgeous offering I've ever, ever received.

Of course, the giver is pretty darned gorgeous, too:

Coming up next week: The Dedawgification of Mrs. Jeze and Her House. Since I am not pregnant or caring for a newborn this year, I wil be returning to my years-old Spring Break tradition of Fat Farm/Spring Cleaning/Reorganization Week. Oooh-wee, y'all. It doesn't get much more exciting than that.


***Yeah, I can spell eustachian but I can't spell will. I knew that would happen.

Overheard

Overheard during the boys' dinner last night:

Al: Nyeh, ish, wah, WAHhh nyeahhh.

The Mr.: What's the matter, Whinus?

Al: Wah, dyeh, waaaaaaahhhh.

The Mr.: Oh, that's right. Your name's not Whinus. It's Charlie Frown.

Braking Knews

Behold the journalistic excellence that abounds in our town:




To the newspaper's credit, I refreshed the page an hour later to find that the hyphen in "con-nected" had been removed and that laterally was spelled correctly.

Don't be jealous of the superior news service in our town.

Numerology

A Special Visitor came a'callin' today. She shows up roughly every 28 days or so, and while she's never a particularly gracious guest, she does usually mind her manners and does not outstay her welcome. With the help of our friends at Ortho, she's also usually very punctual.

Until this week.

I expected her sometime Monday afternoon. Nothing.

Tuesday, again no sign.

Wednesday, I tried to ignore her absence.

Today, I started to get a bit worried.

And finally, this evening, she came a'boppin' on in here as if nothing had happened. And I was So Relieved.


Before we conceived Al, we decided that we would have just one. Our reasons were many, and they all boiled down to the fact that while we wanted to share our love and our home with a child, we only had the stores--financial stores, physical stores, energy stores--for one. We were already in our 30s and we weren't sure how long it would take to conceive. One seemed like a realistic and wise number for us.

Throughout my pregnancy and Al's infancy, we maintained that we were done. And then, around Al's ninth month, the Mr. started making casual references to Al's "Lil' Bubby" and I began to really grow into my Mom Legs. We wondered for a moment if one really was enough.

But then the kid started walking. And he stopped sleeping. And we laughed at the idiocy of that moment.

And now, Al sleeps again. He minds (usually). He feeds himself and entertains himself. He plays joyously with his Da and I. He cries seldomly. His attempts at tantrums are almost comical. He is an easy toddler to manage. And I'm am still sure that this, this is our family. The three of us. We are finished.

This week, the thought of another pregnancy, another newborn, another daycare tuition, another vaccination schedule, another year-long breastfeeding stint--another one--completely overwhelmed and frightened me. While other moms have taken that moment of suspicion and thought, "Hmm, another one would be fine. Another would be good," I thought,

"Please, not another one."

I'm not in the mood to discuss the stigma and myths associated with only children. Believe me, we've pondered them heavily. In the end, we've come to the conclusion that every family has its own Right Number.

Our number is One.