Baby Poop and Business Suits

Goodbye, Blogger.com

2005-03-30T21:00:00.000-05:00

Baby Poop and Business Suits has moved. I will no longer be posting the intimates of my life on this site, but, instead, you can find me here at my new site. It's not perfect yet, but it's a start.

I'm sorry, blogger.com. I know it was only a moment we had together, and it was fun while it lasted, but I've found someone else. Someone stronger, sexier, and well, smarter.

I'll call you, okay?

No, I haven't been hit by a comet

2005-03-30T11:17:00.000-05:00

To my five loyal readers who might have been wondering why I haven't posted in the last week (these five loyal readers include my sister Hillary, Dean Gemmell, my best friend's mom Jan, and my two imaginary friends whose names I won't mention),

I haven't posted cause 1) I'VE BEEN CRAZY BUSY!!!! AAAAAHHHH! and 2) I'm in the process of switching my blog to typepad.com, and it has been taking a lot longer than I thought it would.

I know you're just dying to hear what I've been up to, and want more details about my zits and toenails. Be patient, my loves. I'll be back with plenty-o-ranting and many not-so-deep thoughts soon.

Gerah

The Non-Intellectual Lowdown

2005-03-23T21:15:00.000-05:00

I am a 27-year-old zit-head with long, sharp, jagged toenails. I'm sorry, whoever is reading this, but these are the things that I spent most of my day worrying about, and, so, this is what is on my mind right now. I do not claim that what I write on my blog has to have any sort of intellectual or cultural significance. It's my blog. I'll write what I want. No, I don't spend ALL day thinking about my complexion and my feet, and yes, I do have "normal" everyday thoughts, like, "AW, jesus, my alarm clock is going off already?" or, "THIS is what I brought for lunch to eat today?" or, "Okay. I have 35 projects to accomplish this afternoon and I'll probably get to 3. I should just get up and leave my closet-sized cubicle RIGHT NOW and walk out the door and be done with it."

Honestly, my life has not been too bad lately. I find I've got more to write about when things suck, and I can sit down and write about how terrible it is being a working mom and how I can't juggle it all and waa waaa waaah, cry me a river, right? Then I wait for comments to appear on the blog from people telling me they understand me, or how no, I am NOT a terrible mother for wanting to beat my kid.

Well, life's been good, so, I've got nothing to complain about and get sympathy for. Okay, I lied. I do want to complain about my toenails. This morning I was running late and in a mad rush to get out the door as usual, and I was searching through my drawer to find a pair of black tights that don't have giant holes in the crotch, feet, or runs up the leg. While I was frantically searching, Kyra was picking up the bedside phone as usual and pushing numbers asking "Mee-Ma? MEE-MAA!?" into the receiver. So, while I was trying to insert one leg into the hole-less tights I was also trying to avoid my daughter from accidentally pushing 0 or dialing 911, or phoning Bolivia, and SOMEHOW I cut a large bloody gouge in my hand with my toenail. Let me say that again. I cut my hand with my toenail.

If that isn't a sign of how I've let myself go since motherhood, I don't know what is. And, WHY I am now using my 1 hour of free time today to write about this rather than giving myself a home pedicure, I have no idea. Let's not talk about it.

I did also note this morning on how being a working mother spoils all of those good nutrition intentions I once had. When I was home with Kyra every day, breakfast time, for example, was a very important time. Before she was eating "big people food" I made all of her baby food with direction from the Fresh Baby kit. Home made baby food you say? Radical, yes, I know it. I'm a goddamn anarchist for pureeing peaches in a blender and freezing them in trays rather than buying four THOUSAND little Gerber jars of food. Anyways, when she started eating normal food, I always made sure she had a nice warm meal, and fresh fruit, etc. like home made waffles, whole wheat pancakes, etc. I was a good mom. Now, I bring a breakfast bar into the bathroom in the morning and let her eat it off the floor while I'm showering. Okay, okay, some days she gets cheerios. Off the floor.

DISCLAIMER: The breakfast bar/cheerios are just a tide-you-over-till-REAL-breakfast. She gets a real breakfast at daycare. AND I make a real breakfast the days I'm home. For new readers, I only work three days a week. Tomorrow the kid's getting pancakes with bananas in them and fresh friggen' maple syrup. Tomorrow's a good mom day.

I also want to mention the zit thing. Why, for the love of christ am I still getting giant zits? I am going to be a salmon-colored-dress wearing bridesmaid in 3 weeks, and if I have a GIANT zit for this event I will be ticked right off.

I just had a flashback to one of my favorite childhood shows, "The Wonder Years" of the episode where Kevin gets the giant zit and is an emotional wreck. That is me right now. I am Kevin Arnold, a self-conscious, pubescent teenaged boy.

Beware Parents, They Hear EVERYTHING

2005-03-20T20:58:00.000-05:00

I've just finished cleaning up from an evening with the in-laws at our house. During their say, my darling little five year old niece was looking for our cat, Elliott, and suggested we go upstairs find him. We looked and looked to no avail, so I mentioned to her that he might be sleeping in my husband's closet, downstairs. She then replied: "My cat likes to sleep in my closet too, but he wakes me up in the middle of the night because he scratches the HELL out of my wall."

Aw, isn't that sweet. The adorable little curly headed five year old curses like a sailor.

How's The Weather?

2005-03-19T13:48:00.000-05:00

The month of March in Michigan is enough to make a generally optimistic, happy person like myself want to slit my wrists.

This morning, before I even opened my eyes as I lay in bed, I could sense the silvery-grey, gloomy light hurdling it's way through the window blinds into my bedroom. On a sunny day, the brightness of the early hours pulls me from my cozy sleep, and invites me out of bed in a happy, chipper, energetic, childlike voice. "Get Up! Get out of bed! There's so much to do! Clean the house, go for a walk, bake, sing, tapdance, whatever!"

Today the voice was more like some demonic moaning from another dimension. "STAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY. INNNNNNNNN. BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED. IT'S TWENTY DEGREES OUTSIDE. IF YOU LEAVE THE HOUSE TODAY, YOU WILL BE COOOLD. WET. AND COVERED IN MUUUUUUUUUUUD."

Although the demons were telling me not to go out this morning, I had a prior engagement as a juror at the KIA to review applicants' submissions for the upcoming annual art fair. A year ago, when I was a 100% SAHM (Stay At Home Mom), I relished community involvement activities like this. Although I wasn't working a full-time job for money, I was volunteering right and left and being a really good doobie. I'm not happy to admit this, but now that I'm working again, I don't give a rat's ass about volunteering in my community, sitting on boards, or helping out others. When I'm not at work, I want to be home with my family. I hate that I feel this way now, but my free time is limited. If I have to choose between promoting arts and culture and my child, sorry arts and culture, the cute little blondie running around my house comes first.

As I got on the highway, I honestly couldn't believe how crappy the weather was. Not only is it March and it was snowing, but it was also raining. It was snaining. Or raowing, whatever you want to call it, it was a big grey slushee of a morning. I then thought to myself for the 400th time this year: "Why do I live in this god-forsaken place? There are so many other places on this planet that would be more pleasant than here!? Yes, our families live around here, but that's why they invented airplanes and email. Living in Michigan is abuse. We get maybe 3 months of good weather out of the year if we're lucky, and then the rest of the year it seems as though we are always looking forward to the next season, but it never arrives.

March is the worst though. It's a big kick in the shins. Last weekend we had a couple of glorious days. When I say glorious, I mean freezing, but sunny. My body has been screaming for outdoor activity. I have gained five pounds in the last month (which, ironically, is equal to the time I gave up exercising and housekeeping for blogging), and I keep wishing that it would AT LEAST get nice enough to go for a walk. So, last weekend, we bundled up, strapped on my new pedometer, (yes, I know, I'm a dork) zipped Kyra up in her Nano Bag in the stroller and went outside. I was determined to get a good hike in. About 1 mile into the walk I was getting a bit tired. I just kept thinking to myself, "Gerah, toughen up! Frodo and Samwise hiked all the way to Mordor, some days, even without food. Quit your bitchin'!"

Exercise is good for the soul. The problem is, in Michigan, just when you start getting some good weather and get excited about being outdoors, you get a blizzard the next day and get stuck inside for another few weeks.

I need a vacation. If anyone would like to send me free airplane tickets and an expense paid stay at an all inclusive resort, just send me an email and I'll give you my mailing address. I'm not picky about where the resort is, anyplace that's not spewing slush from the sky will do.

Who Forgot The G.D. Muzzle!???

2005-03-16T21:32:00.000-05:00

So, yesterday was my birthday. Whoooopie. Yeah. Blah. I always hated old people that say corny stuff like, "Oh, yeah, just another birthday... Let's just not talk about it and pretend it's not happening... Oh, hehehehe, hoo hoo hoo, yes, I've been 25 for 25 years now..."

Wocka. Wocka. Wocka. Shut up.

Well, I am one of those people, starting yesterday. I'm grumpy and cynical and I'd like to tell myself to shut up. As of yesterday I'm old and annoying and don't want to get any older. I used to not get the "cucumber boob" jokes or understand why women complain about "those damn teenage girls in their slutty outfits," but now I get the jokes and think that girls in high school dress like hussies.
I blame it all on stupid J-Lo.

On any other birthday I would have walked around happily telling everyone I see on the street that it is my birthday, then look forward to a wild night out including tons of friends and possibly a keg stand. Yesterday, for my birthday, I looked forward to my daughter's nap.

I spent most of the morning doing dishes. Our dishwasher broke last week and while on hour #2 of scrubbing plates, glasses, sippy cups, and those little rubbery sippy-cup-stopper-things, I started to loose consciousness and imagined I was Ma from Little House on the Prarie down by the river scrubbing the plates with Half-Pint in tow, or that my name was Pocahontas and that I was on the trail with a papoose strapped to my back. I might have been barefoot.

My big plans for my birthday were to go out to dinner with my husband and daughter, my parents, my sister and her man. My dad called during the day: "Hey, yeah, how ya doing?" "Fine," I said. "Why?" "Well, I was just thinkin' you might want to get a babysitter tonight."

How dare he, I thought. I LOVE my little gal. I enjoy spending time with her, out for birthday dinner and everywhere! I absolutely must include her in our birthday feast. So, I told him so. "Oh, okay, well, I was just thinking you might enjoy your dinner more if you got a babysitter, no big deal," he said.
So that was that. I told him!

30 seconds after we sat down for dinner I was wanting to bang my head on the table repeatedly and thinking, "WHY DIDN'T I GET A BABYSITTER!!!??? WHY!!!!! WHHHHYYYYYYYY!!!???"

The little princess was throwing a royal fit. There were three other tables dining at the restaurant when we arrived - within 10 minutes the place was empty, save for us. Usually, I can control my child by sitting her on my lap, walking her around, or bribing her with food, but tonight, she was seated away from me, in between her Grandma and her father, TWO OF THE BIGGEST SUCKERS FOR LETTING HER THROW A FIT.

Here are samples of comments that escaped from my mouth during the uncontrollable child fit:

"Would SOMEBODY get this kid some food!? Good, GOD, just put something in her mouth to shut her up!"

"WHO FORGOT THE GOD DAMN MUZZLE!"

And again, this time aloud for the whole restaurant to hear: "WHY DIDN'T I GET A BABYSITTER!!!??? WHY!!!!! WHHHHYYYYYYYY!!!???"

Then my mother commented:

"You know, when you were this age we loved you so, so, very much and we didn't think we were going to have another child, but, um, well, you started to become a complete spoiled brat, and we decided you needed a sibling..."

(CODE TALK FOR "HURRY UP AND GIMME ANOTHER GRANDBABY, YOU BABY FACTORY.")

Once little grouchy pants (I'm talking about the baby, not me here,) got some food in her, she cheered right up. (She gets that from her mommy.) The rest of the night was filled with good eats, laughs, and a sweet little girl voice saying "Ha-py Urfday, HAP-EE, HA-PEE, HA-PPY..."

And when I reflect back on my birthday last year, which was also my first birthday as a mother, I realize that this year wasn't actually so bad. Last birthday, we spent the whole evening massaging a constipated baby's stomach with towels laid out all over the living room floor and inserting suppositories into her "a-hem" while on the phone with the on-call doctor who was instructing us to dig her poop out with our fingers.

Yeah, this year's birthday wasn't so damn bad after all.

Doin' the Food Dance

2005-03-13T14:23:00.000-05:00

This morning the Dutkiewicz fam got up and around early and went to one of our favorite restaurants, Food Dance Cafe for breakfast. We love this place not only because the food is spectacular, but because the restaurant is like a gigantic piece of artwork. The walls are covered with murals of gigantic larger-than life vegetables. One wall features huge asparagus spears that must be at least 30 feet high. There are giant pumpkins, grapes, radishes, carrots - you name it. The hallway walls are painted so that on the way to the bathroom, you walk through a field of corn and if you look closely, you'll notice little pixies and faerie folk sitting on the stalks.

Formerly, it was Jeremy and I that got all giddy and excited to go there, but after today, I think we have a new mini-Food Dance lover. During our meal, Kyra was so happy she was laughing, squealing out loud and chair dancing. She'd take a bite of her pumpkin pancake and then put her arms out and boogie. She was diggin' it so much she just had to dance.

I must mention - most parents complain about their finicky eaters and kids that spit their food out and throw it on the floor - this was never a problem for us. Our kid can CHOW DOWN. We actually used to get worried that she was going to explode. We'd be sitting there at the table, jaws dropped, watching her shovel it in, going, "Where the hell does this kid put it? She eats more than we do!"

Today was no exception. Jeremy and I were finished with our meals, our plates had been cleared, and the bill was on the table, but the little lady was still going strong. Bite of toast, dance. Chunk of cantalope, dance. Squeal, giggle, look around, point, dance. Eggs, pineapple, O.J., boogie, boogie, shimmy.

Miss Kyra was doing The Food Dance.

Magic Fingers

2005-03-12T13:58:00.000-05:00

I just got home from getting my hair done this morning, and I must say - my stylist is gifted. I mean, the actual hair style is good, fine, great, but, that's not the the talent I'd like to focus on here. This guy is damn amazing. He gives a shampoo scalp massage than could turn a salon into that restaurant scene from When Harry Met Sally...

The first time I went to get my hair done by this fellow I didn't know how to react to this scrumptious shampooing. As his bubbly thumbs worked their way down the back of my neck, I wasn't sure if I should feel molested and offended or grab him and give him a great big kiss. Do I comment on what a good job he's doing? Do I tell him how good it feels? I tried to imagine verbalizing my gratitude without sounding like an audio clip from some soft core porno: "Oh, gosh, that's great, wow, WOW, that feels goooooood." I decided to keep my mouth shut.

"Is this normal?" I asked my EX-hairdresser who is a friend of mine. "What's up with this massage? It was like, pure heaven. Why is he doing this?" I said. "Yeah, it's totally normal." she replied. "I'm technically supposed to do that for all of my clients too, but I'm always usually in a hurry and don't bother."

WHAT WHAT WHAT!!!!? She was supposed to be giving me an orgasm of the scalp for all these years but she was just too busy!? ARG. I want my tips back.

Anyway, so today after he rinsed, I finally spoke up.

"Could I bring my husband in and pay you to teach him how to do that?" I said. He giggled.

"No, really. You're good. Has anybody invented a robot that you can buy and it will give you shampoos like this at home? If there isn't a robot like this, there should be. I'd buy one today." Again, polite laughter from him.

I don't know where I'm going with this, but I just wanted to note how amazing a little TLC to the head can be. Man, it made my whole day great. I would recommend to anybody who gets their hair cut and who DOES NOT currently receive this special treatment to ask why. And if you don't get a straight answer, ask to SPEAK TO THE MANAGEMENT. ASAP.

When I came today, I picked up my lil' gal to give her a hug and noticed she had also been freshly bathed and shampooed. I put her head up to mine and inhaled that glorious just-bathed-baby smell. At the same time she exhaled Cheerio breath back on me.

The smell was as good as the scalp massage, but this time the pleasure was all for the nostrils. Toasted oats and baby shampoo. I would have never imagined that combination would smell so wonderful. I wish I could bottle it up and take it out and sniff it in 15 years when she won't want to give her mama sweet baby hugs anymore. Instead, she'll be flipping her freshly shampooed hair at me, slamming doors in my face and not even want to eat Cheerios, let alone eat them and then let me sniff her breath...

Oh, Kyra. Stop growing so fast. Or, hurry up and grow, attend cosmetology school, and then visit me every day to give momma her special shampoo.

Bottle Of Wine + Blogging = BAD

2005-03-12T13:52:00.000-05:00

I am posting this as a personal reminder to myself. This would be in that same category as being drunk and phoning up your Ex to tell them how much you love/hate them. It never ends well, and should be avoided at all costs.

Click and Clack

2005-03-12T00:15:00.000-05:00

Set your alarm clocks for 10:00 a.m. Tomorrow, (Oh, wait, TODAY!) I will be caller #9 on Car Talk, the fabulous show on NPR, with the hilllllarious hosts, Tom and Ray.

I will not be able to hear the airing, as I will be getting my hair cut, colored, and styled, and will pay half my week's wages for the aforementioned services. I am hoping that my sweet, adorable, computer geek husband will find a way to record the show so that I don't miss it...

I had an interesting evening tonight, in fact, I am having a rough time typing because I am sure I consumed 6 or more alcoholic beverages.

NOTE TO READERS: It just took me five minutes to get the spelling of alcoholic correct.

This leads me to another topic: Does this make me a bad mom?

I refuse to believe I am a bad mom because I went out for a night on the town and had some drinks. I will have you know, I don't drink much anymore. A night like this is rare for me, but I cannot shake the mommy-guilt feeling. You know, the one that sits on your left shoulder and says: "You bad, BAD, mom. How DARE you leave your innocent, sweet, little daughter, and go out wining and dining without her."

So, actually, I'm trying to refuse that feeling that is sitting on my left shoulder. "GET OFF MY SHOULDER, YOU EVIL LITTLE BASTARD!"

I know I'm a good mom. My daughter will wake up, bright and cheery tomorrow morn, at six-friggen a.m. with a semi-hung over mom who loves her dearly and would jump in front of a train to save her life.

Tell me how awful I am. Tell me that you understand me.

Tell me that you heard me on car talk this weekend.

Sincerely,

Bad Mom Geahrah, I mean,

Gerah

Thar She Blows! Month 19

2005-03-09T21:26:00.000-05:00

To my Dear Sweet Kyra,

This blog, or "blob," as your Grandmother calls it, has given me an excuse to leave your father on the couch watching prime time TV by himself, and for me to take the time to document the going-ons in your young life. I've decided to dedicate one blog a month to you, from a mom to her kiddo, jotting down the details from the last thirty days - the good, the bad, the snotty. And you know what? I'm going to number these blogs to you by your age in months. Who cares what other people say about counting age in months when kids are too old!? Every month for you is a BIG DEAL, man! A lot happens to a toddler in 30 whole days!

I decided today was the day to write to you because, girlfriend, you made me proud. Your nose has been flowing snot steadily since last September, and the constant snot and wiping has been a real headache for me. When it drips so far that it's almost in your mouth, usually I grab the tissue, and you run for the hills, scream, smear it on sofa - anything other than just letting me wipe it.

This morning as we were getting ready for work, I put the Kleenex up to your nose and you blew. It wasn't just a little sissy blow either, you got it all out. It was like Old Faithful, right there in the bathroom, and I was so happy I wanted to cry. "Good girl!!! What a good job! Mommy loves you so much!!!!!!!!" I said. I don't even care if you never learn to count to ten or say your own name. Blowing your nose is all I need.

The day only got better from there.

As I finished getting myself dressed and spread you out on the changing table to dress you, I smelled something unpleasant. Yes, you had filled your diaper. Usually, this means an extra half hour delay in our pre-work ritual due to poop escaping your diaper and finding it's way all over me and everything around us, sometimes resulting in an unplanned morning bath for you. Not today. You held perfectly still and let me do the cleanin'. You're an angel straight from heaven.

You're changing so much. Only 19 short months ago you were a giant 9 lb. 3 oz. little newborn baby. Now you're a normal sized toddler. Sometimes you seem to be growing so fast, you forget how to walk. Well, many days, it seems, you forget how to walk. I think you've fallen directly on your face resulting in blood plus sometimes a scab or a huge bruise at least once a week in February. No hands to break the fall - just chin, nose, and mouth. I hate to have to be the one to tell you, but I don't think you're going to be a ballerina. Yes, it's the face-falling thing. Trust me: the smooshed up feet in the toe shoes are no day at the beach, anyways. Plus, if you're anything like me you'll be a head taller than all the other midgets in your dance class and always get stuck in the back. Oh, yes, and then there's the long gangly arms. Any objections to high top sneakers? How's a career as a center in the WNBA sound?

You're turning out just like your daddy in many ways, and he loves you very much. But you confuse us, child, because you take turns pretending that you hate each of us seperately... Sometimes you wake up and want daddy when he's gone to work, other times you cling to me like a little orangutan, and flee from him as if he was some pervert trying to abduct you.

You don't so much have his nose, his coloring, or his physical traits, but you have definetely got his geeky techno-obsession. One of your first words was "DVD," and the other day you actually took one out of it's case, pushed "eject" on the DVD player, inserted the disk, and turned on Baby Einstein by yourself. Honey, you're 19 months old! Well, I guess the bright side is that maybe you can help Mee-Ma and Grandpa figure out how to work their "Dee Veee Deee" when you go to their house to visit...

Well, I guess that wraps up this month's development highlights. Just think how lucky you are - most kids' moms write down notes and put them away in some dusty baby book in a box in a dark closet. Not your mom. She posts them on the internet.

You're my sweet little love,

Mommy

White Trash Loveys and OCD

2005-03-08T14:20:00.000-05:00

I'd like you to meet "baby," or, "Village Market Baby," as I call her, who has become Kyra's must-have-at-all-times object. Village Market is our local grocery store which I can only describe as "a cultural experience." Village Market is not known for it's high quality produce, but rather for it's foul-smelling and extremely overweight patrons. The kids there sometimes tend to be a little grey-skinned and unbathed... You know that look people get when they have a steady diet consisting only of boxed macaroni & cheese, potato chips and kool-aid?

The store is great if you need to run in and get a few things for dinner, but some of the time the the surrounding shoppers can make you loose your appetite.

I find it interesting that my child has chosen this pathetic-looking doll to love more than any of the other cute, huggable, loveable and squeezeable objects she owns. I am also a bit worried because her second-favorite snuggle objects are stray dryer sheets. As soon as I pull a fresh load of laundry out of the dryer, she zeros in and swoops down on any stray dryer sheets like a hawk to it's prey.

Is this normal? She loves them so much she rubs her fingers through them, touches them to her cheeks, and places them over her face like a veil. The kid's got twenty thousand blankets and toys lying around, but these are the ones she loves. I can't explain it.

Okay, I'm getting it all out. One more odd toddler behavior pattern I can't ignore any longer: I think my child is going to be a clean freak. Either that, or she's got a serious case of obsessive compulsive disorder. This girl will find the tiniest objects out of place and FREAK OUT.

Example: Lamp Shade Crooked

I'm not talking really crooked, I'm talkin' like half an inch out of place. She'll spot it and stop dead in her tracks, point and start going "Uh oh! Uh oh! Uh oh! Uh OH!!!! UUUUHHH-OOOOOOH!" in a rain man-like voice until I fix it.

I am NO clean freak. I mean, I'm not a disgusting slob, but a few crumbs on the floor are not going to set me into a tizzy. It seems this is not the case with our little darling. This morning she spotted a fuzz ball-lint-hair-thing on the floor and went mental again. I'd normally just leave it, but she can't move on with her life unless the mess is taken care of.

She'd better grow out of this phase real quick or start looking for a spotless foster home. Either that, or I can start bribing her with candy to mop the floors...

Parenting Advice Needed

2005-03-07T22:26:00.000-05:00

Here's a question I can't seem to find an answer to in the parenting books: At what age do we stop describing our children's age in months? Or can we go on and on in months as long as we want? I mean, my own birthday is right around the corner, can I say I'm almost three hundred and twenty four months old?

I ask this because I was at a baby shower yesterday and someone asked me how old my daughter was and I said, "um, she's just about nineteen months old." Another friend of mine heard me say that (a childless friend, might I add,) and she started laughing and poking fun of me, and asked me how long I was going to continue describing my daughter's age in months. "Why can't you just say one and a half!? Bwahahahahaha haha hahahahaa!" she squealed...

Well, I had no answer for her. I have no explanation for why I use months, other than you start out with months, and I guess I just haven't made the big transition to years yet. Throw me a bone here, bitch! (She's my friend. I can call her a bitch.)

I've made fun of people who do this, too, but it wasn't as funny when someone was making fun of me.

So, now, I want an answer, damn it.

By the way, the baby shower was a BLAST. It was held at a restaurant with a bar.. I had two glasses of wine and even smoked a cigarette. Nice friend I am. I'll probably never get invited to another baby shower again. Anyways, FYI, the mom-to-be was no stranger to the booze herself before she got knocked up, if I recall, so I'm sure she didn't mind.

Well, honestly! It was like a night out for me!!!! It's not often that I get an entire Sunday afternoon to myself. So sue me.

Back to the counting-by-month age thing. Any thoughts, suggestions?

Why we are horrible parents

2005-03-06T20:32:00.000-05:00

From our little angel's reaction this evening at dinner, apparently, we are horrible parents for not allowing her to eat half a carton of sour cream (or "apple," as she calls it) as her main entree.

Yes, we're that awful. She screamed so badly, the neighbors must have though we were beating the kid, but all we did was not let her have a fourth heaping tablespoon full of "apple" on her tray.

What's next? Not allowing her to drink the toilet bowl cleaner from under the bathroom sink? I'm surprised she can survive with parents like us.

My Skin Has Grown Thick

2005-03-05T11:14:00.000-05:00

Reproducing has toughened me up. I realized this yesterday as I was inserting a thermometer into my toddler's butt. I've had to do the rectal temperature reading 4 or 5 times previous to yesterday, and each time I become more of a pro and less appalled.

The first time I had to go "there," I was a less experienced parent. As I read the instructions for taking a baby's temperature, I gasped in horror as I realized what they were telling me to do. I took out the vaseline, lubed up the pointy metal end and took off the diaper. "Oh, Kyra. Momma is so sorry. This will just take a minute, I swear." Poor kid. She had no clue what was about to hit her. Well, neither did I. I lifted her legs and looked around for a few seconds. I wasn't even sure if I was inserting it in the correct, well, hole. I took a deep breath, and went for it. Oh, man. You should have seen the look on her face. I was disturbed for days.

During yesterday's temperature reading, I didn't even bat an eye. It was as if it was a daily task no different than making a pot of coffee or sweeping the floor. I did read the thermometer instructions again, though, yesterday, and made some interesting discoveries that I hadn't noticed during the first reading, many months ago. Maybe I was too horrified and shocked the first time around to remember the details.

Here were some of the thermometer instruction highlights:

HOW TO TAKE TEMPERATURE:

Keep in mind that taking a temperature can be trying for both parent and child.

-Yeah, no kidding.

When taking a reading be sure to remain calm and confident.

-Easy for you to say, you're just writing the instructions, not inserting a long, pointy object into a squirming baby's butt.

The sound of your voice can be very soothing for an infant. Explaining what you are about to do and why can be helpful for a toddler or older child.

-"Now, honey. Because I'm too lazy to go out and buy the kind of thermometer you can place in your ear, momma's going to stick something up your butt here in a minute and hold it there until it starts beeping, so that I can tell if you have a fever or not. So, when your butt starts beeping, it'll all be over. What? This experience will cause you to freak out and run a fever? Oh. I hadn't thought about that..."

(Scroll down to next instruction category)

ORAL USE: (for children 4 years and older)

-WHAT!? Four years and older!? I have to do this until my kid is FOUR!?

(Scroll down to next instruction category)

RECTAL USE: (infants and small children)

-Yep, okay, that'd be us.

For easier insertion, position baby on his tummy, keeping his legs at a 45 degree angle to his back. It may be helpful to position the baby on your lap. Spread baby's buttocks with your thumb and forefinger. Gently insert probe a MAXIMUM of 1/2" or 1.3 cm into baby's rectum and hold thermometer tightly in place. The peak temperature should be reached in approximately 40 seconds.

-Have these people ever held a baby? And P.S., a one and a half year old kid is not even close to the same size as a baby! How the hell am I supposed to hold a sick, squirming, crying "baby" on my lap, spread the child's buttocks with one hand and insert a lubed-up probe with another? And, apparently, since they made sure to use ALL CAPS for the word "MAXIMUM" when describing how far to insert, I need a ruler to make I don't put it in to far? Do I have four arms? Last time I checked, no, I don't. There seems like a HUGE risk for error, here, folks. There are no instructions for what to do if I mess up. Hold for 40 seconds? It might as well be 40 hours.

Once you have used the thermometer to take a rectal reading, do not take any oral readings, for hygienic reasons.

-Are people really that dumb? Oh, wait. Over 50% of our country's voters re-elected George W. Bush for president. Question answered.

Well, mission accomplished. After the initial horror, I now know my way around my baby's behind like the back of my hand. Butt talk is nothing to me now. (I haven't even mentioned the suppository experiences.) After having a baby, so many formerly awful things are now just, well, normal, like the obvious: cleaning up poop, pewk and snot, and learning to live with these icky substances everyday, as I go to work with snot on my coat collar, smelling like poop, for example. It's all part of life now. It isn't always pretty, I guess, but we all manage to face it and move on.

X-treme Blog Makeover

2005-03-04T23:06:00.000-05:00

I just spent way too much time giving my blog a facelift.

Now I'm no web designer, folks. One year ago I would have seen one line of HTML code and ran away screaming and flailing my arms in the air. Not today, no sir-ree. This year, I'm running my house screaming:

I'M A NEW WOMAN! A GEEKY ONE, WITH A EVER EXPANDING-COMPUTER-CHAIR-ASS, BUT, A NEW ONE!

Next Friday, I'm going out and partying like a rock star just to prove I am not a complete dork and sit home on Friday nights working on my blog.

My eyeballs hurt from staring at the computer screen. I'd better get some comments on how freekin' great my blog looks.

Okay, ready? Starting......now:

The Bond

2005-03-02T19:13:00.000-05:00

Before I had my own child, I'd heard of the mother/child bond, but didn't really understand it. My own mother talks about how she still can't stand it when my sister or I don't feel well - she gets all mushy and wants to make us soup and be there to take care of us...

Now that I have my own daughter, I understand. All of you moms out there know the feeling - it almost hurts sometimes because you love your child so much. When they fall down and get a scrape, you wish you could take the pain or bleed for them - when they are up at night coughing with a terrible cold, your own chest heaves and aches as if their agony was your own. It's as if you are still physically connected.

I believe that mothers and children stay connected even after the physical separation of birth. I've always felt it with my own mom, and now I feel it with my daughter. Call me weird, sacrilegious, whatever - I don't care. Our conservative christian society squelches any notions that these psychic bonds exist by labeling them as witchcraft, superstition, pagan, or just plain wrong.

Honestly, I think that a connection like this is one of the most right, real and holy bonds that there ever could be.

A baby grows from a woman's own body and lives within it for nine months. When a child is breast fed, although the child is outside the womb, the mother is still providing complete nutrition to the baby. Yes, the mother and child separate eventually, but I wonder how separate they ever really are. It is proven that babies in the womb can taste the food eaten by the mother, and are affected when the mother experiences stress or anxiety. If this is true, why wouldn't thoughts and emotions pass to and remain with that child beyond the womb, and vice-versa?

Life in the fast lane

2005-02-25T21:26:00.000-05:00

...or should I say fat lane...

I just realized I haven't eaten a home-cooked meal since last Monday. Let me mention here, it's now Friday night. Jesus, how did this happen!? I find this shameful and disgusting!

I'm disgusted. I disgust myself.

We were just driving home from town a few minutes ago when I realized this fun food fact. I was thinking to myself, "Boy, it seems like I sure have been eating out a lot lately... Hmm, let's see, when's the last time I cooked at home? Well, I worked today, ate lunch out with a friend. Last night? Oh yeah, we went out for dinner with my husband's parents. Yeah, that was good..."

I continued to ponder: "Lunch yesterday? Out. Hmm. Did I even eat breakfast? Can't remember. Night before? Take out. Well, at least it was at home. Does the fact that we ate the take out in front of the TV at 9:30 cancel the goodness of the being at home part?" And so on, and so on, till I remembered back to Monday night.

The fact that I have gone four days without eating at home makes me feel dirty, tired, cold - I can't quite place it - kind of the feeling you get when you've been traveling too long and spent too many nights in strange hotels away from your own bed...

I think we (the family) hit rock bottom during tonight's dining experience. I just brushed my teeth and I can still taste the left over fast-food-film from the french fries on my tongue and the roof of my mouth... my hands are still jittery from all the caffeine... my bowels are contracting and I can hear gurgling sounds...

Tonight we left home directly after work with a tightly planned agenda, which must conclude precisely at 8:00 p.m., which is the time that our lovely 18 month old Cinderella turns into a screaming, reeling, overtired little stepsister.

The schedule for the evening was planned as follows:

1) Get to the mall by 6:30. Return husband's non-fitting birthday-present-outfit that I shopped all day for yesterday for one that fits him, so he can wear it at his birthday party tomorrow.

2) Eat something quickly before we all get grumpy so that we can:

3) Get to the grocery store to buy our party food for tomorrow night, (so that I can clean all day tomorrow) and super-speed shop before the lil' person in the group gets grumpy at 8:00.

Well, #1 went smoothly. Then we had to decide where to eat. Our food mission was to eat something GOOD (tasty, and not too mall-food-gross) and FAST (not a fancy sit down dining out experience.)

#2 backfired. The plan to eat FAST was sabotaged by the fact that we are food snobs and hate fast food, which resulted in us driving around for about a half hour saying things like:

HIM: There's Long John Silvers. You wanna go there?

ME: Ech. Gross. Deep fried, pureed fish guts and crap.

HIM: Ugh. Fine. Then where?

ME: I don't know. Wherever. You decide.

HIM: McDonalds?

ME: NO WAY.

HIM: (Driving around, more aggressively now.)

HIM: Niskers?

ME: Hahahahahahaha! Niskers? What's Niskers?

HIM: I don't know, I've seen it before and it looks good.

(We drive up to Niskers.)

HIM: It looks too crowded in there.

ME: Fine. Let's go somewhere else. I think there's a Panera Bread over there. You wanna go there? It's good there.

HIM: Whatever.

(We get to Panera Bread.)

ME: The line is out the friggin door. Jesus Christ. Look! There's a Wendys. Let's just fricken go to stupid Wendy's.

...and the rest is history.

We did finally get to scheduled item #3, but the clock struck 8 half way through the shopping venture and the transformation began, so the stepsister and I went back to the car and hung out while my dear husband gathered the rest of the grocery items on his own.

This evening and this week of non-home made food makes me realize: No wonder so many people in this country are obese. We're all so damn busy working too much and then running around buying crap, we end up eating at Wendy's. (By the way, Friday night at Wendy's is another story.) God I'm a snob.

Well, I'm going to go run some laps around my living room and nibble on some carrot sticks now. Yeah, right. I'm going to go lay on the couch for 10 minutes and then fall asleep. It is Friday night, after all.

Oh my lord, what has happened to me!? - If myself 5 years ago could see myself now I wouldn't believe it was true...

Ain't parenthood grand?

Wow. Apparently Fathers have feelings, too

2005-02-23T22:05:00.000-05:00

I feel that situations can be best described when translated into an example using characters from The Simpsons, so here goes:

Carl: Hey Homer, Lenny and I were thinkin' about heading over to Moe's after work for a beer. You gonna join us?

Homer: Gee, thanks Carl, but Marge has a late meeting with a client this afternoon and I've got to pick Bart up from detention, get Lisa to her saxophone lesson, pick Maggie up from daycare before 5:30 and have dinner ready by 7. Maybe next Thursday after play group I could fit in a half hour for a drink with you. Would that work with your schedule?

Hmm. Now how do we think Homer might feel in this situation after a long day at work. Stressed? Tired? Frustrated?

I've been so busy obsessing over the trials and tribulations of motherhood, I've, or we've forgotten to consider how being a busy parent affects the broader-shouldered of the dynamic parenting duo.

Let's face it - men aren't what they used to be. Well, okay, I'm sure there are still plenty out there that don't lift a finger in the kitchen and have no idea how to operate a washing machine, (Hi out there, dad!) but that kinda guy sure doesn't live in my house, and more men then ever seem to be playing more of a "domestic" role when it comes to household responsibilities.

DISCLAIMER: MY FATHER CLEANS UP (and does a swell job at it) AFTER DINNER.

It's bound to happen - when a woman is spending just as much time outside the home as the man, the man has to take on more household and child rearing duties.

I think my own husband was feeling a bit stressed, tired, and frustrated today. Maybe it was because he already had a long day at work, or maybe because it's his 30TH BIRTHDAY tomorrow... I came home from work and was about to leave again for yoga class when I noticed the sad look in his eyes. "What do you want to eat tonight?" he asked, as he stared into a not-so-stocked refrigerator. "I dunno," I said. "Why don't you figure it out?" He looked at me as though he wanted to cry. I don't think that's the answer he wanted to hear.

Men's roles are changing. They still want to be manly, but they've also got to be mommy-like. A manly mommy. She-dad? He-Mom? Can they handle this? How does the ego cope? I can think of a lot of men I know, yes, that are my age, that would secretly think their penis would shrivel up and fall off if they had to bring their daughter to ballet class. It'd be too much. They couldn't handle it. Making dinner once a week, maybe in the privacy of their own home. Ballet class, no way. (If you're a man who was just completely offended by that statement, I wasn't talking about you. I was talking about the others.

I would love some good book recommendations and feedback on this issue, if there are any out there. In the meantime, ladies, don't forget about the guys. They've been working so hard all these generations up until now to hide their emotions, they might not know how to tell ya when they're feeling over worked and over stressed.

Maybe next time the man in the house is looking a bit glum: put the kids to bed, make a couple of cosmopolitans, offer to pumice his heels, and ask him how he's doing. Don't forget - fathers have feelings, too. (But, sssssh! Don't tell anyone.)

Daddy's undies

2005-02-21T15:26:00.001-05:00

My pal Linda posted a pretty icky (but funny) pic of her dear baby teething on her dog's rawhide toy. I'll admit, that's pretty gross. Although my husband is going to KILL me, I couldn't help posting these shots, which I think might even be grosser than Linda's dog bone pic. Sorry, dear.

By the way, she grew out of that phase...

Not my proudest moment

2005-02-21T12:41:00.000-05:00

Honestly, 99.9% of my parenting experiences are absolutely magnificent. Joyful moments of bonding, singing, snuggling, laughing, and playing. Why is it then, that I feel the need to write and talk about the ugly times? Maybe it's because those unpleasant times shock me. I never expect them.

Before and during pregnancy, when you know a child is in your future, you dream of and imagine the blissful moments and how happy your life will be: in the back yard jumping in the fall leaves, Christmas mornings of all the years to come, bedtime stories and bubbly baths... It seems when I was doing my own baby-dreamin', I edited out the part where I was sobbing uncontrollably in front of my day care provider, another worried mother, two stunned kids and a baby.

Yeah, it happened this morning. Kyra's sickness that started last Friday is apparently reluctant to leave us for good. She was up at 5:20 this morning and refused to fall back asleep, so we started to prepare for our day. She was acting quite groggy and I was concerned, but I was intent on not being a softy and resorting to calling into work. So we packed up our gear, I spilled my coffee in the back seat of my three week old car, and we headed off to the babysitters.

When we arrived and began what I think of as the "Mister Rogers Neighborhood" arrival (I take off Kyra's shoes, put on her house slippers, then take off her winter coat, and put on her indoor sweater), I explained to Sheri, my daycare provider, that Kyra was acting a little groggy this morning. Sheri noted that the other daycare kids that had been sick continued to run temperatures for 5 days after they were labeled "sick". Then Sheri whisked out her ear thermometer and volunteered to take Kyra's temp. "Yep, 100.8", she said. That qualified her as officially sick. Plus, I had already given her tylenol an hour before we arrived and Sheri mentioned that takes the temp down, so Kyra must be running a fever.

Any normal person would have just nodded, packed up the baby, and went home. Well, I did do that, but first I had to start crying. Why? No idea. But I did. It may have been because I had just handed Sheri her weekly check enclosed in a thank you card explaining to her her how much I appreciate her, how leaving a child to go to work can be really hard sometimes, and how happy I was that she took such good care of my child for me when I wasn't around.

So, I'm home today. No big deal. I'll work instead tomorrow. I'm still mystified about why I lost it this morning, but maybe it's one of those wonders of being a woman that no one understands, like why I spend way too much time every night staring at my pores in the mirror before I go to bed.

By the way, the picture below was taken about half an hour after we got home. Now, does this look like a feverish child to you?

Amen for Mee-Ma!

2005-02-20T13:07:00.000-05:00

Well, it's Sunday, and even though I'm not attending a church service, I'm still thinkin' about what I'm thankful for, and what I would like to shout out a big ol' HALLELUJAH about...

I'd like to introduce you to Mee-Ma.

A.k.a. grandma, translated into Mee-Ma by my dear daughter, Kyra, Mee-Ma is my own mother and has bailed me out of many-a-parenting emergency situations so far (for an example, read my previous post). I try with everything I've got to not have to rely on any outsiders for parenting help, sometimes, even my husband. I'm sure I'm not alone here - most grown up mommies want to think since they've made the choice to become a parent, it's their responsibility to care for their children, and they don't need help from anyone else.

Well, let's face it folks. Shit happens, and we all need our Mee-Mas. What I wanna know is: how do the parents with no relatives around survive? I assume they've made friends that they can rely on in an emergency, or have employers/day care providers that will really accommodate them in a bind.

While listening to the Diane Rehm show the other day, I was intrigued by the discussion with the authors of two new books about the pressures facing families today. The guests were Mary Eberstadt, the author of "Home Alone America: The Hidden Toll of Day Care, Behavior Drugs, and Other Parent Substitutes", and Judith Warner, author of "Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety."

They discussed the fact that in our current society, not only are children being physically and emotionally disconnected from their working parents, but the working parents are being disconnected from their extended families, leaving many mothers (and fathers) stressed out and feeling very alone and helpless.

This makes me wonder: would we (parents and children) be better off if we were still living in tribes or caves where extended families shared households and child-rearing responsibilities?

Interesting question, I say to myself, but YIKES! I love my own mom, dad, grandma, aunts, uncles, and in-laws, but I don't know if I'd want to wake up and have to sit around the breakfast table with them every morning - or, better yet, share the same extended family bedroom (or should I say, "cave room" with them). I love having my own house, my own child, and my own bowl of cheerios by myself in the morn. But, I also love the fact that I have my Mee-Maw to call at 6:30 a.m. when I'm in a bind, and I know my daughter is glad that she's got her around, too.

So, what I'm saying here is, as a gal trying to have it all: the career, the family, yada yada yada, I want to give a shout out and say: "Thanks, Mee-Ma. We love you, we need you, and we're glad you only live 15 minutes away (when the roads are plowed)".

A sometimes unpleasant reality

2005-02-19T13:08:00.000-05:00

Well, I've done it. I've joined the world of geeks (I say that it the fondest terms) that spend their free time sitting at their computer that they already sit at for way too many hours of the day, writing down their inner most thoughts, then publishing them to the web for the whole world to see. Strange, yes. But, oh well, here I am...

I should be doing yoga right now. I get approximately 2 free hours if I'm lucky on the days I'm not at work to do things that I want, while my 18 month old daughter is napping. Ideally, I dream of spending those two precious hours painting my toenails with a mud mask on my face and then letting the toes and mask dry while reclined on the couch reading a good book. Oooh! Oooh! I don't want to forget to mention I also wish I would take that time and paint. Watercolors, walls, glasses, everything. Release my inner arteest (that's a French accent there), while my child is upstairs in dreamy-land.

Instead I usually spend the two hours (again, if I'm lucky) scouring the kitchen sink and/or toilet, then doing laundry, and then, ding! Time's up.

I realized I wanted to start a personal blog yesterday. I went to listen to a speaker the day before about how you can use the web to build your business and career, and he focused much of the talk on blogs. I agree that the use of a blog on your company's website is a good idea. It keeps your website fresh and personalizes your business.

Then yesterday happened and I realized I need an outlet. I need to write things down, and maybe a personal blog would be the perfect solution. I'm currently a part-time working mom. I quit my full time job after my daughter was born because I freaked out about how I would manage to balance a career and motherhood. I still don't have the answer to this topic, and this teeter tottering of work and family will usually be the focus of my blog, since, this topic is my life, and what I constantly think about.

So, I went back to work three days a week. Great job. Love it. Marketing, advertising, meeting with clients, business stuff. It appears from the outside to be a perfect balance, right? I get to work on my career, but yet have quality time with my husband and daughter... Well, although it seems to be the perfect balance, it doesn't always work out that way.

Back to yesterday - a perfect example. Big day at work. Important meetings all day, lots to do. My husband has to be at work by 6 a.m., so he is absent during the pre-work side show, which can sometimes leave me exhausted by 8 a.m. So, anyways, I get up at 6, and quietly sneak into the shower, amazed that Kyra, my daughter didn't wake up. Usually, she's like clockwork and wakes almost exactly at 6 and hangs out in the bathroom with me while I get myself ready. Anyway, I shower, dress, apply makeup, dry my hair, all the while AMAZED that she is still sleeping. I was so proud of myself because I was up, lookin' good, ready to get a jump start on my busy work day. All I had to do was wake her up, dress her, and drop her off at her day care provider's home.

I walk into her room, turn on the light, and say, "Sweetie Pie, time to waaaake uuuuu-pp," in the same sing-songy voice my mother woke me each morning as a child. She sat up, looked at me, and said in a very sad baby voice, "Mess... Meeeesssss...." and pointed to her pillow. I looked down and realized she had vomited in her crib. Then I looked more closely and saw the chunks in her hair. I immediately wanted to grab her and hold her, but realized I had on a business suit and would get pewk all over it. I tore off my shirt and grabbed a pajama top in a nearby laundry basked and picked her up.

That morning, just when I though everything was going smoothly: my career, my child's happiness, this balancing act that is my life, it all came crashing down at that moment. For the 9 millionth time since I became a mom, I thought, as I stood there in my slacks and pajama top hugging a pewk-covered baby: Can a woman really have a career and a family? Is it even worth trying or am I going to have an anxiety attack in the meantime? Can I ever really find the perfect balance, or is it all just a dream or crazy idea made up by our current culture and society?

This "avoiding pewk on the suit" morning is just one example. Other days, it's oatmeal, some days it's snot. Most days it's poop. As we're getting ready to put on our coats and make it out the door on time, I constantly think: "Please don't poop. Please don't poop." If Kyra pooped when we're right about to leave, I'd have to stop, change her, and risk getting baby poop on my business suit. I don't think that would go over well in a meeting.

A business suit and baby poop are two things that would usually seem to have nothing in common. The irony here is that in my life, these two opposite objects are smashed together awkwardly, almost unnaturally, against all odds, and on days like yesterday, it's as if the forces of nature are telling me that these things don't mix. Either be a mom, or have a career. You can't have both.

For now, I'm going to keep trying. I'm not going to back down yet. I want to yell, "MOTHER NATURE, YOU CAN'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!" I'm going to get up on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and mix these two things together that really don't belong: Baby Poop and Business Suits.