My best gifts

She's too pretty to be mine. She had a lovely Christmas. The high chair is her new favorite place, because not only can she reach her toys, she also gets to be part of the family meal without the constant "no, no, no grabbing/swatting/thwacking." She's enthralled by her new beads and remote control and stayed awake the whole time, unlike the first Christmas for this kid:



Is this really his eighth Christmas? That really can't be possible. I hope I made this, probably his last Santa Christmas, very memorable. Roaster played a huge part in the magic with a beautiful Lionel train. I figured that'd be the hit of Christmas, until a little while ago, as I drove Max to his Dad's.

"Mama, I think my best present is my new solar system."
Oh yeah?
"Yeah, Mama. Thank you."
Actually, baby, Hubs picked it for you.
"Hubs did?"
Yep.
"And he thought I'd love it?"
Yep.
"And you told him he could buy it for me?"
Yep.
"Well, it's my favorite thing of Christmas."

Someone, somewhere must have known I needed that opening. Stupid Boy's Dad, who has no qualms not seeing this beautiful boy for six months at a time, has decided he's going to try to be consistent, at least for now. It's hard to let him go once every six months, nevermind once every three weeks. The battles between Boy and Hubs since this started have gotten pretty fierce. One of the downfalls to raising a smart butt.

So I got to give credit today to Hubs, the man who has loved him and raised him and been there for him always for the past five years when his stupid Dad didn't give two hoots. I got to give him credit for the best part of Christmas. So I hope that when Boy looks back and remembers this Christmas, he'll remember how Hubs thought "Hey, Boy's gonna like this." And maybe that'll help him as he tries his best to figure it all out.

It was a good day.

Merry Christmas to you all!

'Twas the night before Christmas

It's weird without my brother here, our first Christmas apart since Mom died. I'm forcing Roaster to spend the night. Like I told him, I haven't had a Christmas morning without him in 29 years. If I'm going to start now, I require some pretty serious advance warning. I threatened to withhold his towels and jacket and M*A*S*H DVDs if he bolted.

The ILs came, they were suprisingly unabrasive. We had a pretty nice dinner that Pap and Hubs whipped up, and we've been enjoying some pretty tasty treats I baked up this morning.

And the kitchen is clean. I don't know how we pulled that one off, but there is a single plate in the sink, and everything else is sparkling. So it's Christmas movies for the rest of the evening and then sleeping lightly so the pitter-patter of not-so-little feet don't go unheard in the morning.

To you and your family, a very Merry Christmas. May your day tomorrow be a happy one, and may the coming year bring you only good things.

Merry Christmas, LA

Maybe I'll post more, better pictures now that I have this:



Because who really needs a new dishwasher?

Random LB love...

She's decided lately I'm the only one for her. She's generally perfectly happy to flit between Hubs and me. But since Sunday, it's all about The Mama. It's cute. Exhausting, but cute. If she's on his lap fussing, and she spots me, she'll stop fussing and gasp, and then giggle. And of course then I have to get her. Really, what choice do I have?

We lay in bed and talk for a few minutes before we drift off. Lately, she likes me to sing L-O-V-E, from that Chanel commercial. She likes it when I get to the "even more than anyone that you adore" part. Then she talks to the magic bink for a few minutes before giving in to the sleepies.

She waves her hands when she's eating squash or peas. Everything else, she can't be bothered to focus. But squash and peas, I've got her undivided attention. The hands go straight out to the sides, and she flexes her fingers in and out, in and out while she yums it up.

But if she doesn't stop growling, she's always going to sound like Estelle, and that's not a good thing. I blame Hubs. When she starts barking, we'll know for sure it's his fault.

Time, still flying...

Happy five months to my sweet little ladybug!



The boy's ultrasound went okay, I guess. We won't know anything until the doc reads it, but at least they didn't shoot needles into his stuff like he feared they might!

Delete, delete, delete...

I deleted a blog post. If you are one of the few people who subscribe to me, you may have seen it.

Not doing damage control, just felt differently about it this morning. So delete, delete, delete.

Last night I was having a pity party. Today I celebrate the people willing to fight for me. I've never had that, really, and it's kind of freakin' awesome.

Scared for nothing?

We'll see.

The specialist was really nice. It was really hard to watch the Boy lay there and wince as he was poked and prodded on. The issue the pediatrician suspected may not be the real issue, though. He was right, to a degree, but there may be more to it than that.

So, an ultrasound at Women's and Children's on Monday. Then we'll take it from there.

The good news is, it may be more of a wait-and-see situation than a "gotta fix this NOW" kind of thing like I was originally told. So that's a bit of a relief, but it's still Mama's job to worry.

A funny aside:

Boy: "Mama, who were you calling?"
LA: "Roaster, to tell him about your appointment."
Boy: "Hey, I needed to talk to Roaster!"
LA: "About what?"
Boy: "That's not your bidness."

Yes, he said "bidness." Should I laugh at my 7 year old telling me to MYOB? I think I should when he says "bidness."

Dumpy, dumpy, dumpy...

Miss Molly sums it up when she says Not ____ Enough. There's a reason we're soul mates.

I've been feeling really, really lousy. Lots of stress. I feel completely inadequate the vast majority of the time. Not enough money, not enough time, not enough love, not enough anything. I'm not funny enough, smart enough, nice enough, pretty enough, caring enough, something enough every minute of the day it seems.

I feel like the butt of the joke these days. Ain't it grand.

The Boy has a serious case of the gimmes, too, which really makes it hard. I want him to believe in the magic of Christmas, I want it to be a great time for him, but he's gotten greedy. Which makes me mean. And I don't like that.

His first appointment with the specialist is Thursday. Is it okay for me to be absolutely terrified? They're going to put my Boy, my baby, baby Boy to sleep. They're going to cut into him. And yeah, he'll be fine. I know that in my gut. But it's my BOY.

Anyhow, I'm looking into a new job tomorrow. A recruiter emailed me the job description today, and quite frankly it'd be perfect. Hubs could keep his job, we could move and make it work. It'd be a great change, more money, probably a happier life for all of us. Which means I won't even get an interview.

Yeah, I'm a bucket of laughs these days.

A major award!

Thanks to Steph for this award, inspired by the single greatest movie of the season.

I'll bestow this one on Donut Boy, who shared a childhood love of the leg lamp with me, and Jessicoco.

Worry

I switched the kids' pediatrician for several reasons. The new doctor is pretty cool, a little hyper, but a nice guy.

He noticed something on the Boy that the previous ped had never mentioned. It requires immediate attention in the surgical sense and may have some pretty serious long term repurcussions. I'm pissed off and terrified for him, but I gotta be brave so he'll be brave, right?

Thank you Girl...

For my very first award. Not sure if it's deserved, but it makes me and my blog want to try harder.

Passing along the love, I'll give this to my darlings Molly , Steph , and Jess.

Giving thanks...

I have two beautiful children who are healthy and happy and perfect, in my eyes.
I have a husband who loves me more than he should sometimes.
I have a roof over my head and the world inside those walls is warm.
I have a huge extended family that I can count on for anything I need.
I have food on my table, clothes on my back, and I am safe from most harm.

I am blessed. Truly, unbelievably blessed. I hope today, and everyday, that you are too.

It's easy to see everything that is wrong. Today, try to see what's right--your heart will feel warmer, I promise.

Happy Thanksgiving, everybody.

Our little turkey is here!

Congratulations to Amy and Chris on the birth of their most handsome, most awesome baby boy.

Happy birthday, Carter! We've been waiting for you :D

My post about nothing...

The Principal's list at school? It's a good thing. Straight A's like the good boy I know he can be. I really ought to have more faith in my child.

Who came home with a Christmas list. New and improved. He doesn't want much. A Nintendo DS, a Gameboy, a Playstation 3, and an XBox 360.

Thank goodness all LB cares about is warm toes and a bottle on demand.

I was right!

A big congratulations to Andria and her family on the arrival of a sweet baby boy today--can't wait to see his handsome face!!

Lucky...

I had the opportunity to spread a little sunshine this weekend, for my darling friend Canape.

I'm lucky to have her and my other beige box friends as it is, as they each fill a part of my heart that I didn't know was empty. But having the chance to share a meal and some cake and a real time conversation (that's BIG STUFF, right there!) and to spoil her and her sweet bird a little bit...

It was awesome.

If you're reading this, you probably know her. But if you haven't had the chance to meet her, let me tell you, she is every bit as sweet as you'd imagine her, probably more so.

So thank you, sweets, for spending the day with me. Thank you for being excited for my birthday and the "best lunch ever!" Thank you, Jenn, for driving up with your darling to spend the day with us. And to the ladies who participated in the spoiling part, thank you so much for letting me be the one to deliver the message that we adore our dear Canape and can't wait to help welcome Bird into the world.

Calm down, LA....

So I've been fighting with the Boy pretty much since the start of school over not bringing his homework home, his behavior at home, general brattiness, right?

So we go to Tarjay and to dinner with Hubs' hot friends (mmmm...) tonight. Get home, and the message light is blinking.

"Hi, Mrs. S---, this is Ron, Superintendent of Kanawha County Schools...."

You know that moment in A Christmas Story when Ralphie goes "fuuuuuudddddddggggeeee..."
except he doesn't say fudge? That was me.

Only apparently the school board took their meeting tonight to call every single family in the county to warn them about the Staph/MRSA situation, give a reminder about hygiene, and let us know what the school system is doing to prevent an outbreak.

And here I was convinced that he had done something SO AWFUL, it bypassed the principal and went straight to the top.

He really needs to start behaving so I can stop thinking like that.

I love football.

The hubs somehow managed to score 50 yard line BOX seats to the WVU game yesterday. AND a parking pass. Awesome.

We had fun. I love football games. I love cheering, and yelling, and jumping up when the opposing team fumbles the ball. I love the goofy little chants. And the band. Of course the band. The sound of cadence echoing in a stadium gives me goose bumps. (Yes, I was a band geek. What's your point?) Football makes me feel like a teenager, for some reason. In the moment, it feels like first and ten is the most life or death matter you'll face that day. Of course, in the grand scheme of things, it means pretty much nothing, at least for the people sitting in the stands. But for those three hours, it's fun to lose yourself and become part of something bigger than you.

Okay, that was pointless.

Happy birthday, my lovely...

Three months today. Time is passing way too quickly.

Big dreams...

The Boy has determined that when he's 18, he's going to climb Mt. Everest.

Good luck with that, dude.

Haiku Friday...

I spent a big chunk of July composing "term day haikus" (what is the plural of haiku???) for my lovely, lovely friends on the Mom's board. So I don't have any idea why I haven't participated in the blogging craze that is sweeping the nation before now...thank you, Canape, for reminding me.

This is for my new friend Andria, who is due to have her sweet one on the greatest birthday in the world.

Sweet baby surprise,
you couldn't be more loved, love.
Mama's arms await.

One moment...

Confession time. I love the TV show 7th Heaven. I catch all the reruns I can. Embarrassing, but true.

Four years ago at this very moment, I was laying on the couch watching the one where grandma and grandpa come to visit. Mom wakes up in the morning and just knows that her mom is gone.

I laid there thinking "Thank god I don't have to go through that with my parents for years."

You see, my mom didn't want me to get married. She said I was ripping the Boy away from Roaster, and it wasn't fair of me to do that. From July to that day, we didn't speak much. Even on my wedding day, she pretty much ignored me and pretended that the day didn't mean what it meant.

But four years ago today, I stood up to SD. We went to court, me against him and the lawyers his Mommy paid for. And I beat him. Just me. No lawyers, no help from anybody. I called Mama on the way home, and I swear I could hear her smile. She told me she was so very proud of me. And for the first time in months, years maybe, I really felt as though she and I were making progress. It was going to get better, our relationship. We'd learn to be friends.

But later, as I lay on that couch thanking heaven that I had two parents who loved me, who I wouldn't have to watch die for many, many years, she was already gone.

Molly, is that irony?

Gah, I swear it was yesterday. I spend every moment wondering when it will stop feeling so fresh. When I will stop remembering that phone call, the drive home, the days between today and putting her in the ground. When I will stop remembering all that so vividly and replace it with her face, her voice, her stupid dance moves, ANYTHING but the pain.

If someone could let me know when that will happen?

I actually like some of these better...

I've been tagged by Molly to give you the names of my alter-egos.

1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME: (first pet, current car)
Ziggy Highlander2. YOUR GANGSTA NAME: (favorite ice cream, favorite cookie)
Moose Tracks Snickerdoodle

3. YOUR FLY “GUY/GIRL” NAME: (first initial first name, first 3 letters last name)
LSny

4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite color, favorite animal)
Cobalt Penguin

5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born)
Ann Charleston

6. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (first 3 letters last name, first 2 letters first name)
Snyle

7. SUPERHERO NAME: (2nd favorite color, favorite drink and add” the”)
The red daquiri

8. NASCAR NAME: (first names of your grandfathers)
Roy Vernon

9. STRIPPER NAME: (favorite perfume, favorite candy)
Tuscany Per Dona Three Musketeers (I don't think I'd get too many tips...)

10. WITNESS PROTECTION NAME: (mother’s and father’s middle names)
Jane William

And now I tag:

Seriously, Molly tagged everyone who reads this...

Reflections...

Have you ever caught a glimpse of yourself in a mirror or your reflection in a window and you think "Dang, I'm not looking so great today." Only then the next day, you see yourself again and it's like "I'm sensing a pattern here..."

By the third or fourth time that happens, you start to realize that no, it wasn't a bad day. That's what you ACTUALLY LOOK LIKE.

I am cute on a good day. At my best, I may even be kind of pretty. I have never been, and will never be, "beautiful," at least not in my own eyes or, I think, in the opinion of the general public.

But even when you feel like an ugly duckling for the most part, there are times in your life when you feel halfway decent about your outward appearance. Like "Yeah, I've got it..."

Maybe because I came out of my pregnancy 20 pounds thinner than I went into it. Maybe because I gave birth to what I consider to be one of the most beautiful, perfect creatures that ever was. Maybe just the glow of being a new mama again. I don't know, but I've spent the last few weeks feeling pretty dang good.

Until I caught my reflection. I am not looking good. I am struggling. Even with my sassy new hair. Something must be done. I will let you know when I figure out what.

Sundays...

Sundays are nice when you have absolutely nothing to do. My house could be cleaner, but everyone needs to mosey every now and then. I have a sassy new haircut and it's a shade of red that Hubs doesn't appreciate, but life is pretty good.

I love my two little sugars. Sundays remind me of that. Even when they're sniffly and grumpy or throwing up on you after riding the Sky Trooper at the county fair (so sorry about that, Boy. It was a bad, bad idea.), they make the world go round.



And this face? This girl is going places. I can just see it.

All I want for Christmas...

I need to post this before I forget.

The Boy started a Christmas list this week. Wanna know what's on it?

1. A remote controlled dump truck that we saw at the "fancy" toy store today, which Santa will try to produce for half the ridiculously inflated price, but fail miserably.

2. One of those poles with the extending claw on the end for picking up cans on his litter walks with Pap.

3. An alarm system with loudspeakers that will allow him to conduct fire drills at home. Complete with the little fire handle you pull to set off the alarm and flashing lights.

4. Life Alert. Yes, of the "I've fallen and I can't get up!" variety.

I...I just...well...

He's mine. Aaaaaalllll mine.

Boo, hiss on la...

In releasing some long pent-up anger, I managed yesterday to play my part in hurting a person I consider one of my very best friends. I should definitely have put more thought into the impact of my words.

I've apologized and I think (*hope*) we're okay, but it's been eating at me all night. I'm not a villain, but I sure as hell acted like one. So I owe the universe something good today. Taco retribution, if you will.

Two months?

Happy two months, little girl. Mama is more proud of you every day!

C'mon lady, have a heart....

Today, I got a postcard in the mail "asking" for a donation to the local volunteer fire department.

Now, I'm all for supporting my local VFD. Those guys are awesome.

But the donation "request" tells you to send the card back in with your payment. So now I've got this visual of me dialing 911 and the guys down at the fire hall flipping through a rolodex of returned "donation" cards, and being all, "Oh THAT house? They didn't send a check. Let's make some dinner before we head over there."

Like the time I donated to the Troopers' association. The next year, I just didn't have the spare cash laying around. They called back like seventeen times, getting meaner and meaner every time. And I am now convinced that they are out there somewhere, looking for my license plate, so they can pull me over and call me names and make me cry.

I'm nervous enough in my car, so I guess I'll send the VFD a check tomorrow so I can at least stay home in peace, without my conscience screaming "Shoulda supported the VFD!"

Random crap day...

Overheard at Rite Aid:

"Oh, sir, are those your nuts?"
"Ah yes, almost left them here!"

*giggle*
I am twelve.
----------
Seriously, work? No better. All they'd have to do is confiscate my Swingline and I might turn into Milton.
----------
Everyone seems to agree that my husband is quite the douche for busting out my back glass. He , of course, thinks it was a nice "honest" mistake.

To quote my cherry blossom friend, "Shouldn't surveyors have better spacial skills?"

He's not amused.

You can't put Willy where Willy won't go...

Pop quiz:

There a large freezer in a box prohibiting you from closing your back hatch. Do you:

1) Ask the store to hold it until you can come back with the truck that is sitting in your driveway at home.
2) Go back in to the store, buy some bungee cords or rope and tie the hatch down, thus securing the freezer in your way-back and keeping the hatch from flying open.
3) Test the fit two or three times, notice that the hatch isn't coming CLOSE to closing, and then slam the hatch door down as hard as you possibly can, ramming the corner of said freezer through the glass, causing an extremely loud explosion. Your wife will then scream, because your baby, who was sitting in her seat RIGHT NEXT TO YOU when you decided to bust out the car window, starts wailing and your wife is concerned that she just got showered in broken glass.

If you answered (3), then you are my husband, and thus a raging fucktard. A regular fucktard would have tried to convince you that you could lay down the whole back seat and then wedge the baby in between the freezer and the side of the car.

I'm creating a new social class--the yuppie redneck:


Yes, that is a dollar store shower curtain taped to my Highlander. Classy!

What about on weekends?

LA: So buddy, how is school?
Boy: Good, mama. Hey mama, guess what?
LA: ?
Boy: I made a new best friend. He's in my class, his name is C.
LA: That's good. What's he like?
Boy: Oh, he likes fun stuff. And he likes to play and stuff.
LA: Well good, buddy.
Boy: And the best part is, he still likes me after lunch.


Apparently B, his "best friend" last year did not still like him after lunch. While it makes me giggle a little bit to think that the description of a "best friend" is: someone who likes fun and is still talking to you in the afternoon, it makes me sad to think that at seven years old the Boy has already had someone treat him in a way that he has to make that distinction.

Someone on my Mommy board said that high school sucks, and while I agree 400% with that, my worst memories are elementary school. Learning how to make and keep friends? So freaking hard. I just hope that the Boy can find a couple of nice kids who appreciate him for the person he is. He's got such a big heart, and I hate to think of someone trampling all over it.

Her first day of work...

The power company was working by the day care this morning, so there was no power for a few hours. It was supposed to get to be near 100 degrees today, so I decided not to chance it and took Ladybug in to work with me.

Apparently, she is perfect. Everyone says so. So I'm not just biased, I guess.

And apparently, her father and I are both quite fugly. Because every time someone says "Oh my, she's so beautiful!", they look at me quizzically and follow it up with "But who does she look like?"

Jerks.

Too fast...

Ladybug giggled. We had a nice hour of pure happy baby, all smiles and coos and tree frog climbing. And she looked me dead in the eye and gave a little "heh, heh, heh" with that big ol' beautiful toothless grin. My heart soars and sinks at the same time.

I swear, she's grown since yesterday. And it terrifies me that in the next blink she'll be walking, then off to preschool, and then before you know it she's bringing home science homework and spelling words with two syllables. I hate to think what comes next. As much as I look forward to watching her grow into the wonderful little girl I know she'll be, I want her to be my delicate little baby forever.

The crankiness continues...

All I'll say is I hate my job. I've hated it for quite some time, but today was a pretty solid reminder of why I am so unhappy in my current situation.

Anyhow, nothing really ever got better. The Boy got attacked by some kind of kamikaze caterpillar and here's what happened:

Ouch.

Hubs got shot by a nail gun. It grazed his chest and went completely through his left thumb. I thought he was kidding, because he and his brother were laughing so hard when he came in to clean it up and get it bandaged, but then he quit putting pressure on it and oh. my. god. I am not a squeamish person, but that was just gross. Now it's big and purple and looks awful. It wasn't his fault, so I can't make fun of him, unfortunately.

I burned my lip on a pizza roll. I don't like leaving Ladybug at day care, but I don't know anyone in our little podunk town who might babysit. The job has me grumpy. And my dad isn't talking to me. Why?

A couple of weeks ago, he told me I was "unreliable" and went further to say he couldn't count on me. It absolutely broke my heart. I was having a bad "miss my mom" kind of day anyway, as I always do on birthdays and stuff. And I have worried about him every second for the last 3, almost 4, years. I would walk to the ends of the earth for him, because my daddy hung the moon. But I forgot to mail out a paper for him sometime last year, and I can't be counted on now.

So I got upset when he said this, and I had to leave the room. I sat on his back porch and cried for a long time. The next day I got "I'm sorry but..." and I hate that kind of (non)apology. So I guess now he's mad that my feelings got hurt. He used to call me every day just to tell me he loved me and to check on the kids. He hasn't called me in 10 days now. And so my heart stays broken.

Worthless Crap today...

I've been a very grumpy bugga all week and haven't felt much like posting. I feel as though I need to say SOMETHING, however, so here ya go.

My husband lost my golf shoes. He borrowed them one day when he couldn't find his. (I have giant feet, and my golf shoes are men's, in case you care) I am helping him run a golf tournament tomorrow for his company, and guess what we (read: he) can't find? My shoes. He found his, but lost mine in the process. I am trying to figure out how to get new golf shoes before 8:25 tomorrow morning. I could play without them, I guess, but here's the thing. I am GREAT at playing happy hostess. The golf? Not so great. I will make a giant ass out of myself out there, but I have fun doing it. However, I need the proper equipment. I can't be happy hostess if I break an ankle. So dear, stupid husband: QUIT LOSING MY CRAP!

Because of the tournament, I am Ladybug-less for the first time tonight. She went to spend the night with her Nan and Pap. We're going up for the weekend tomorrow after we finish up. I miss her desperately, but you know what? I'm kind of looking forward to the sleep. They're good grandparents, so I know she's safe. And I desperately need a little rest before I head back to work next week. Which is a whole other post and one of the biggest contributors to my crankiness of late.

So without the baby, we went to Hibachi for the first time. Hubs has been trying to get me to go for a while, but I was always afraid to take her--flying knives and all. The Boy was in awe. It was neat, and we'll go back.

See, I told you this was a worthless crap post.

Time flies...

Seven years ago, you came screaming into my world, and I didn't have a clue what I'd do with you.
Today, I wouldn't know what to do without you.

Happy birthday, Boy. Mama loves you more than you'll ever know.

Sometimes life isn't fair...

I had to take Ladybug in to the hospital to have her newborn screen repeated, because the pediatrician's office screwed up her 48 hour heel stick. Poor kiddo, having to get stuck. She was a champ, though.

Anyhow, I've been thinking about the woman I met in the waiting room all day.

She did the standard "awwwing" over my sweet baby girl, and took a second to talk to the Boy, which is something people don't do often enough. He's cute, too, darnit!! She asked the standard questions about how old she is, how much she weighed at birth, how she was sleeping. It was a pretty long wait, though, and she started asking some pretty intrusive questions.

Who was your doctor? Did you like them? Did you deliver here? How was it? Was she born the "normal" way? (Her words, not mine. Probably an attempt to not use the word "vaginal" to a complete and total stranger in a room full of people. Mostly pregnant women and mothers of itty bitties, but still.)

The rapid-fire succession of her questions led me to believe that she was pregnant.

"Can I ask you something personal?" she asks.

Now, to most people, the questions she'd asked beyond "how old is she?" are pretty darn personal. And it's pretty true that a lot of women tend to lose all modesty during the incredibly invasive and humbling process of a pregnancy. I'm not generally one of those people (NMD friends, it's only because I heart you so much that you know so much about me), but something just seemed so desperate about her interest.

"Sure, " I say.

"When did you hear your baby's heartbeat for the first time?"

Thunk. Got it. She's completely and totally freaked out about not hearing her baby's heartbeat yet. And she's sitting in the lab...probably for an hCG check.

She confirmed that she was 5 weeks pregnant, had some bleeding, couldn't find the heartbeat on ultrasound...and was sitting there waiting to find out if she'd miscarried.

It was a long wait, so we discussed her 2 years of trying ending with a successful artificial insemination. My 3 years of trying with a natural conception the same week my husband was scheduled for all of his testing. We even discussed the need to latch on to anyone we came across who was pregnant or had a new baby, find out what the secret is. How easy it is for people to take for granted that you just 1) get pregnant and 2) have a baby, whenever you want, however you want. Yeah, it happens that way for a lot of people. But some of us don't have it quite that easy. How much it hurts, albeit completely and totally irrationally, when someone around you pops up pregnant and the talk around you at the baby showers starts becoming more and more hushed.

And then someone came to get her. She left her tote in the waiting area. She came back a few minutes later, flushed.

"Good luck to you," she blurts out as she picks up her bag.

"And to you," I say. She says nothing, just glances back over her shoulder at me and walks away.

I assume she lost the baby. And my heart is broken for this perfect stranger, who is probably lamenting to her husband about the girl in the waiting room with not just one but two kids. How it isn't fair.

And it isn't fair.

So I just want to send out my little virtual prayer for the woman in the waiting room. You will get your baby, in the right time, in the right way. I will be hoping for you until.

Anger management....

The Boy apparently threw a padlock at my dad the other day, because Roaster wouldn't take him to an amusement park.

I am so mad I could spit. No idea what the appropriate punishment is for something that happened three days ago when I wasn't around. Open to suggestions.

(This is the flipside to having a super sensitive kid. The "sensitive" is not always a good thing and sometimes turns to rage. Again, open to suggestions.)

Is he that spoiled? I don't think we've spoiled him. But if he thinks it's okay to throw chunks of steel at people when he doesn't get his way, I've messed up somewhere.

Sour Skittles and fast women...

One of my favorite pastimes is listening to the Boy talk to my dad (we'll call him Roaster).

So did you know that there is a limit to how many sour things one can have in a day, depending on age? If you're under ten, apparently you can have a whole bag of sour skittles. If you are 56 (which happens to be my dad's age), you are limited to two tiny little skittles. Otherwise, very bad things happen. What those bad things are, the Boy was unable to specify. But bad, bad things.

Later, on the way home from dinner:

Boy: When we get home, I'm gonna show Papaw how to play my Wii.
LA: Papaw doesn't want to learn how to play your Wii.
Boy: He would rather play Playstation?
LA: No, he doesn't care about video games.
Boy: Well the Wii is easy. I can show him how. He'll like it.
Roaster: Well a 56 year old man likes something that starts with a "W", but it's not a Wii.
(loooong pause)
Boy: Oh, I know what that is. Wild women.

Seriously, what exactly do they do when left alone together??

Sad stuff...

It's just been a lousy week.

My in-laws and their next door neighbors have five horses and they share two barns between them. Last week, one of the neighbors' horses fell ill, and they ended up having to put her down Friday night. We kept the boys in the house all day Saturday, because we didn't want them to be outside when it came time to move the body. It was a very sad day.

Since then, the Boy has been asking a lot more questions than usual about my mom and her death...why, how, where, when. Those questions are painful, but relatively easy to answer. I can't bear to hear the questions about why she wasn't wearing her seatbelt, or why the Boy can't remember her, why she's not here anymore, whether she went to Heaven. I don't have those answers. He's asked about her from time to time over the past few years, but this week, faced with death, I guess it brought out some concerns for him. Then I had to tell him about Kelsey.

We did a little school shopping this afternoon. Hubs wasn't around to spoil our fun, so I let the Boy pick lunch (Sbarro), and then I took him to the ice cream store for a cotton candy cone for him and a cake carnival cone for me. My boy, my sweet, sweet boy, is licking his cone by the checkout with tears running down his face.

LA: What's the matter, baby?
Boy: That's another part of our family that died, Mama. Gone forever.
LA: Yes, and it's very sad.
Boy: Just like I'll never see Mamaw again. I'll never see Kelsey again.

Oh, I can't take it. We don't do grief in our family. I don't know why, but it's just never been okay to be sad. We don't talk about any of this stuff, and I think we've all suffered for it for the past three and a half years.

I've been suppressing the sad feelings over not having my mom here when Ladybug came into this world. She was, after all, the one who held my hand when the Boy was born. She helped me raise him, at least until he was three. She sang him the silliest songs. And I know those songs, too, but it just isn't the same to sing them to him, or now to Ladybug. It hurts my heart to think of what they're both missing. Of what I'm missing. Of what my brother and his new baby are missing. I've been thinking about it a lot this week.

I don't know how to help myself get beyond this, to a place where her memory makes me happy. Right now, every time I think about it, I relive the moment my dad told me, and then those days leading up to the funeral and the weeks that followed, the first Christmas, watching my dad suffer more than I could ever understand...It is a gut-wrenching pain that hasn't gotten better over time like I thought it would.

I have this boy who needs so desperately to deal with these things. His journal entries in school almost always end the same way...whether it's a pirate ship, or a school bus story, or a football game, whatever he writes about, the last line is almost always "And mom was sad and dad was sad because I died." This is the stuff that she left behind, and I don't know what to do for him. How do I help him when I can't bear to think about it, to talk about it? He breaks my heart.

Kelsey Girl

My brother and Sister-In-Law's dog is the only animal I've ever known who I genuinely loved. She was born around the same time as the Boy, and they grew up together. When they had their baby in April, we knew she would be his champion, his best friend, his guard dog. And she was.

Today she got out of the yard and was killed. I am heartbroken and can't imagine the pain my brother and SIL are in right now. If you're reading this, please send out a little prayer that they can get through this as a family.

Rest in peace, Kelsey Girl.

Sick Boy...

Boy: Hey Mama. You know why boys who have fevers listen more?
LA: Why's that, buddy?
Boy: Because they don't want anything else to hurt.
LA: Like what?
Boy: Like their B-U-T-T when their Mama tears them up for not listening. (Yes, he spells it. Butt is the "B" word, bless his heart.)
LA: Don't you think maybe you should listen to your Mama all the time, and not just when you have a fever?
*Long Pause*
Boy: Hey Mama, where is the end of the Great Wall of China?

Fever for 2 days, hacking cough that sounds allergy-related, and a red, sore throat. Got it checked today because Fever + Itty Bitty = Scary. It's not strep, not the ears, just some wacky virus that has to run its course. Contagious, they say, even though they didn't really have a name for it. I didn't go to medical school, so who am I to question, but meh.

According to everyone I work with, I have the most perfect baby in the whole world. I snuck her on the scale at the doc's office--she gained 2 pounds in two weeks. TWO POUNDS! What a piggly wiggly she is.

Why it's worth it, #1

She gave me the good stuff really early, at 2 weeks and 2 days old. But it's taken me this long to catch it.



She melts me.

Take me out to the ballgame...

Hubs gets free tickets to our local farm team, so we decided to take the kids and their cousin to the baseball game last night. We met Hubs on his way home from work, parked his truck, and headed out in my car. We had a pretty decent time, it was Mardi Gras night. The boys got masks--



and Ladybug cheered her little heart out--



Fast forward to a sketchy parking lot after the game.

Hubs: What'd you do with the keys?
LA: I didn't have the keys. Aren't they in your pocket?
Hubs: No, you said you were putting my keys in the diaper bag.
LA: No, I said I was putting your keys in the glove compartment. What'd you do with my keys?
Hubs: I thought you were putting them in the diaper bag.
LA: So how did the car get locked?
Hubs: I hit the manual lock button.

A word to those of you with a keyless entry option. If you have a button? Use it. Because using that little button inside the car puts you at risk of being stranded in a dark parking lot two blocks from prostitutes with 2 boys hopped up on cotton candy and lemonade and an itty bitty who is down to her last bottle.

Hubs: I can't believe you did this.

So we call the roadside assistance plan we have been paying for in connection with our cell phone service for the last year and a half.

"I'm sorry sir, but you don't have roadside assistance. You've NEVER had roadside assistance."

BS. It's on the bill. Which is in the house, so it's not like we can prove it at this point.

LA: You can't believe I did this? You're the moron who hit the manual lock button. Who hits the manual lock button?

So Hubs tells me to call 911, which I know is a dumb thing to do for such a situation, but we were both at the end of our ropes.

Hubs: Just call them and tell them what you did.
LA: What I did?

"Ma'am, are the children locked inside the car? Then this isn't an emergency. The police can't help you, call a locksmith. " *click*

LA: You're going to get me arrested for abusing 911, and then what are you going to do? Seriously, WHO HITS THE MANUAL LOCK BUTTON??

Neither of the two locksmiths that 411 gives me are open past 5:30. So we suck it up and call a towing company. A very nice man in a very flashy tow truck shows up.

Hubs: What'd you do, call the most expensive towing company in town? Look at that truck.
LA: Yes, I pulled the yellow pages out of my butt, and called around for estimates first. No, you moron, I called the first one 411 had listed.
Hubs and LA: Boys, get away from the hookers!

Very nice man gets the door open after a while. It took some effort, but he was awesome like that.

VNM: That'll be $25.
LA: *very pointed "that's not SO bad" look at Hubs*
Hubs: Do you have any cash?
LA: Ummm...do you take Visa?
VNM: Nope.
Hubs: Uh...let's see.

We managed to scrape together $21 and four tickets for tonight's game. Thank you, tow truck drivers who haggle.

Oh, and Hubs had to talk to five different people at the cell phone company this morning, but they refunded the 17 months worth of roadside assistance service that we've paid for and are giving us a year free.

That was fun.

They shoulda been nicer...

I started this blog last week, but when it came time to write my first post, I hit a brick wall. Yesterday on my mom forum, a couple of my way-cooler-than-I'll-ever-be friends insisted that this story (as well as the next) would make good blog fodder. So I'll start here.

We live in the country. Ten minutes from downtown, yes, but you wouldn't know it by driving down our road. We've been here 3 years and only recently has the local cable company offered service to our area. So we signed up in June, and I canceled our satellite service.

Last week, we started getting nasty calls from the company about returning our (their) equipment. We didn't purchase it outright, so it needs to be returned. I'm cool with that. You can't read the remotes anymore, so I don't know why they'd even want them back, but hey, it's their stuff, whatever.

Anyhow, we requested that they send a technician out to uninstall the actual satellite dish. They declined, and quite rudely. "You'll have to pay someone out of your own pocket to come uninstall it." That's fine, we'll get it apart. We'll probably screw it up, but we'll do it. We're agreeable like that, and I've got superfast internet now, so I'm happy.

Dear Hubs (who needs an incognito identity, suggestions welcome) goes out to take off the parts they want back. I hear, from my perch on the rocking chair with my sweet baby girl, some thumping, a lot of strong language, and I look out the window in time to see my not-so-fit husband being chased across our yard by a giant swarm of somethings. I didn't know he could run so fast!

He comes inside to show me the multiple wasp stings on his chest. Ouch. Sorry, dude.

Now, my patience goes a long, long way. But while we are waiting on the multiple doses of wasp killer to work over the course of a few days, the satellite company calls several more times, growing more and more rude with each call. We told them we'd be a lot more comfortable if they'd send one of their own technicians out to disassemble the thing, but nope.

Hubs finally got it taken apart on Monday. I hadn't looked before, but this is what he left laying on my porch when he got done:


What, you can't see anything? Alright, a close up.



Inside the thing. Hubs says there are larvae still inside, but I'm not getting close enough to look:


The nest was flipping HUGE--these broke off:



He wants to send it back just like this. Had they been nicer, we would probably go to the effort of cleaning it and making sure it's pretty much insect free. Instead they'll probably end up getting a package of remotes with worn-off buttons and dish pieces full of wasp carcasses and nest parts. At least they'll get their stuff back, right?