Holiday Horrors

How was your Thanksgiving? Did you eat some turkey? Do some shopping? Go to the ER?
No?
Well, I did. Sorry you missed out.
Thanksgiving started out great. The kids were playing nicely and there was lots of good food. After we gorged ourselves on near deadly amounts of fried turkey, my mother-in-law, both my sister-in-laws and I decided to do some shopping. We left our kids in the capable hands of the guys and let outta that place like our asses were on fire. ( Don't judge me. I love The Kid, but you would've done it too).
After a few hours of shopping we decide to come home. When I come in the door I yell for The Kid. She pops around the corner and smiles. Good. I don't hear any crying and the house hasn't burnt down; she's been pretty good. To confirm this, I ask my father-in-law how she's been. "Good" he says " but she bumped her head. She cried for a minute, but then she was fine". I look The Kid over. 'Nothing really bad HOLYCRAP! What the hell is that?!' I think to myself. Right above her left eyebrow is the evidence of her little tumble. Actually it looks more like she was whacked in the head with a cricket bat. That bruise was nasty, but it didn't seem to bother her any so I calm down... a little.
We sit down and eat some leftovers for dinner, but The Kid was not having any of that. All in all, she ended up eating a cup of diced peaches and drank half of Nanny's cranberry sierra mist. How nutritious. A couple hours later we decide it's about time to make the 45 minute trip home. We load The Kid and enough leftovers to feed a tribe into the car and head for home. In the rain.
About 15 minutes from our exit, The Kid wakes up. She starts coughing and then vomiting... like Linda Blair. That's right, Exorcist vomit everywhere. I freak out, wake Bubba up and pull the car over to the side of the road. As soon as the car comes to a stop he jumps out and takes her out of her car seat. The Kid just keeps throwing up and crying and refusing to look at me. This is when the fear sets in. Head injury + vomit = Big Problems. When she stops puking for a minute we strap her back in the car and call my cousin, the nurse. With a "if she was mine, I'd take her" we tear ass to the hospital.
Now, this is the time when every bad scenario plays in your head: what this means, what they'll do to her in the hospital, everything. I have got to stay calm. As much as I would like to start screaming and crying too, I bite my lip and get to the ER in record time.
After filling out paperwork and rehashing the story four separate times to various nurses, office personnel, and my father (Oh yes, he was there. Did you think he'd miss an opportunity to worry about something beyond his control?)  we're back in a room and seriously antsy. The doctor finally comes in and says hello very unenthusiastically. He takes a cursory glance at The Kid and says "I think we'll do a CT scan" and leaves. Come again?
So, let's look at the pros and cons:
Pro: They'll be able to look inside The Kid's head and make sure nothing's rattling
Con: She may glow in the dark and/or grow a third nipple from the radiation.
(Yes, I'm that mother.)
After I get Dr. Bedside Manner back in the room to explain to me exactly why it's prudent to stick my kid in this machine (he actually made a valid point... through gritted teeth.) we head down to the CT room and this is where my second panic attack begins.
If you've even seen those slick GE health care commercials (or watched your fair share of House) you know how one of those fancy electrical-doughnut-thingys work: you lay on a table, completely still, and it slides you in for a minute and then back out. No big deal, right? Wrong. News to me: you have to strap children down. No, not just 'strap down'. You have to wrap up them up like a mummy, lay a lead vest over them, put foam chocks on the side of their head so they don't wiggle, then put a strap over their body and forehead. Yeah; all that. So here I am , holding her down telling her "It's ok! It'll be over in just a minute" while she gives me that look and screaming what I'm sure translates to "I hate you woman! Get me out of this damn thing or I will suffocate you in your sleep!". Finally the machine stops and I pull her out of the straps. She climbs me like a spider monkey and gives me a look that says 'You better give me a good Christmas after all this crap or I really will kill you'. Glad to see she's feeling better.
We get back to the room and start the waiting game. After the longest 30 minutes of my life, the doctor comes in to give us the good news: She didn't knock herself stupid and DCS was not coming to take my child. Hurray. As we get ready to head home I tell The Kid "You better never scare me like that again".
In case you were wondering, first thing the next morning she climbed on the ottoman and stood up just to dare me. I believe she lives to watch me slowly die. Ahh, motherhood.

Freak Out

As my husband is well aware, I have a list. This list contains words that I cannot even hear without dry heaving. These words are so disgusting, I'm having a hard time typing this right now. I will not list these words for fear I may puke and pass out, but believe me, they're bad. They're pretty much everyday words that, to me, have a undesirable connotation. They are literally dirty words. Bubba knows these words and if he's feeling incredibly loving, he'll drop them into everyday conversation just so he can push my freaking buttons.
As charming as my neurosis are, you would think it would be make Bubba sad to know that my child has now inherited them. Not my husband.
We discovered Boo-Boo's little... er, issue... a couple of weeks ago. Bubba and I thought it would be a grand idea to teach The Kid animal sounds (you know, good parenting and all), so we sat down with a little book and started looking at the animals. "This is a dog. The dog says 'Woof!'. This is a cat. The cat says 'Meow!'". Everything was going just swimmingly until we got to the cow.
Now, this isn't just any cow I'm sure, oh no. Bubba's in the middle of saying "This is a cow. A cow says..." when he makes the sound of the most demonic bovine that ever exhisted. As soon as he says "Mooo..." she looks up at him with a face full of fear and discust and begins to cry. Not just any cry, mind you, but the "Slow Cry".
Every parent knows what that is. It's not the "I'm so mad I could kill you" or the "Oh look, the floor just reached up and slapped me so pick me up and give me candy". Oh no, this one starts with The Look. The look that says "Did you really just do that?". The one meant to break you. If that doesn't work, next is the Lip Quiver. This means " My feelings are truly hurt". If that still doesn't help, they pull out the big guns: The Big Cry. The Big, Nasty, Sobbing Cry. It's just years and years of unending sorrow. "Why, oh why have you done this? But I thought you loved me!" cry. I felt terrible. I'm a bad Momma. I looked over to my lovely husband to see if he felt my sorrow.  Well, I should have asked him after he stopped laughing.
That freaking laugh. The same laugh I hear after I stop regurgitating my dinner over ... those words. Now he has two of us to laugh at. So now, for fun, Bubba will just get infront of The Kid and moo that low, slow, evil moo. Not because he's mean or unfeeling. Because he's a parent, and that is one of the small joys of parenting.
That and knowing when they get older, they can be your indentured servant help you clean the house.

Magic Words

     The Kid is bow required to say "Please" and "Thank You". I know, she's only 18 months old, but good manners start young (and I really can't stand rude kids). Anyway, now she thinks as long as she says one of these two phrases along with "Uh Oh" she can do whatever she wants and receive no punishment. For example, if she puts her dirty kid fingers in your dinner she says "Thank You" as she shoves it in her mouth. Or, she'll drop her cup on the floor and yell "Uh Oh" as she sits in a pool of juice. Better yet, when she really wants something she'll say "Pleeeeeaaaaassseee" while she trying to take it from you.The Please-and-Thank-yous don't bother me at all. It's the "Uh ohs" and "No ways" that really get me though.
Like this morning: I called mom to check on The Kid and she if she's taking a nap or set the house on fire or whatever. Mom answers the phone and laughs. "Is she sleeping?" I ask. "No" mom replies "I put her in her crib and she's been talking. When the phone rang she said 'Uh Oh'". 'Uh Oh's right' I think to myself. She knows it's nap time and she knows it's me calling to check.
In short, 'Uh Oh' means 'I've been caught'. If she decides she's going to try to make it all the way up the stairs before I notice she's not standing beside me, 'Uh Oh' is a completely innocent and acceptable phrase to say as I run up the stairs (two at-a-time mind you) behind her. It's like saying 'Oh, aren't I cute? Don't you still love me even though I'm trying to kill myself and give you a heart attack all at the same time?'. Just like 'Please' means 'I'm going to say this as sweet as I can and hope that you will give me some of what you have before I forcibly take it from you'.
At least it's better than some of the other things she's been saying lately: specifically "No Way".
If I tell her not to feed the dogs off the table she says "No Way". If I tell her not to put her hands in the toilet, she kicks and screams "NO WAY!!!". Cute the first time; kinda funny the second, really annoying the 7,345th.

It's kinda funny how quick kids figure these things out for themselves. I thought we were safe from this kind of thing (mostly because she's an only child and isn't around other kids enough to conspire and trade tips).
Alas, no parent is safe, I fear. It's like when your mother said "You're going to get yours 10-fold when you have kids". It's not that I didn't believe her, I just didn't think I was that mean.

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

   So, a couple of months ago, Bubba and I decided that we would go on a date on a Friday night. Without The Kid. Well, what started as just dinner without ended it up as The Great 3 State Tour.

I talk to Bubba everyday at lunch. He calls me up, tells me about the idiots he spoke to that day and we have a good laugh at their expense. That Friday, Bubba says to me "Why don't we go somewhere this weekend? Ya know, without The Kid". What? Is that even possible? Can I convince someone to keep her for a whole two days or will I have to sit her on her grandparents doorstep, ring the doorbell and run like hell? All these possibilities considered, I agree anyway. We fly home Friday, pack our stuff and head for Nanny and Peep's (suckers). After spending the night there I wake up the next morning ready to plan out our weekend. But, plans are for sissies (or so Bubba tells me) so we just get a rough idea or where we would like to end up that night and hit the road.
It starts out good enough: we go do some shopping at the mecca of crazy-random-awesomness, The Unclaimed Baggage Store, grab some lunch and head to Chattanooga. This is when things begin to go... not as planned.
When we get to Chattanooga, Bubba asks me to look for a hotel. So, I get out my phone and search for the hotels I found on Friday who had more than enough rooms. Not so that day. Everything was booked. Now what do we do? "Let's go to Cherokee and go to the casino!" he says. Great idea! By the way this day was going I was going to need a free drink (or five). So, we get back on the road and head to North Carolina. About 10 minutes outside Chattanooga I ask Bubba "Do you think I should check rooms there first?" "Nah." he replies "We'll call when we're closer"
'Closer' ends up being about 45 minutes outside Cherokee. I call the casino, and guess what: No rooms. None in the casino or in any hotel in Cherokee. I begin to cry. 'Why?' you may ask. Well, because I'm 3oo miles from home and the prospect of sleeping in a Wal-Mart parking lot makes me break out in hives. I'm not 19 anymore ya know. This will not stand. After I finally calm down, we stop in a parking lot in a little town with 3 hotels. I call the first two to no avail. There's a rodeo in town and there are no rooms. Well, hell. Starting to freak out, I try the last one. Hallelujah! There is room at the [Holiday] Inn! We bust ass down there. It's not the Ritz, but frankly, I didn't give a rat's ass. It wasn't that god-forsaken Wal-Mart, so I consider it a win.
We get settled in and we do what any couple who has a small child and is alone together for the first time in over a year; we pick up some beer and Zaxby's and sit and watch a football game.
Compared to that rest of the trip was pretty uneventful:

• We learned that nothing is free at an Indian Casino

• We saw the exploitation of a proud people while buying authentic moccasins

• Found out that a 16 oz  glass bottle will, in fact, break after a 2 foot fall on a tile floor

• and we remembered what we used to do before The Kid came along.

All-in-all we had a great time. Yeah, we talked about The Kid, wondered what she was doing with out us (having an awesome candy-laced freak out at her Nanny's house), and missed her a bunch, but we spent some time not doing that too. We ate dinner when we wanted (even at places with no high chairs!), went where we wanted, and went to bed when we felt like it. It took an ill-planned trip to remember how fun it was to be a married couple, not just a mom and dad.

Share and Share Alike

We live in a house with four dogs.
I put it that way because we don't really own them; they're more like roommates. Stinky, loud, fighting, annoying roommates. The Kid loves the dogs. She'll try to kiss them and hug them and when they don't stop immediately and bask in her attention she chases after them and try to bite them. Because she has to assert her dominance as the Alpha of The Pack I suppose.
The other day, I was sitting in the living room eating cheez-its when The Kid decides that Mamie needs to try one too. Now, Mamie is half-boxer, half-lab, and completely stupid sweet. So basically, whatever The Kid wants to do with her, the dog obliges. Well, The Kid's real big into this 'sharing' concept, so she decides to share a cheez-it with the dog. Instead of sweetly handing one to the dog she shoves her WHOLE HAND down in dog's mouth.
Oh crap.
This can only end in tears.
Little did I know, it was canine tears. Mamie tries to back up, but The Kid's right there; one hand grabbing her lip, the other force-feeding her like she was trying for froie-gras. I jump up in an effort to save my child from the teeth of this dog, but what I ended up doing was saving the dog from certain death by choking. As The Kid finally pulls her hand from the dog's mouth, she immediately offers me the dog slobber cracker.
Because, ya know, we're supposed to share.
I'm a complete idiot for teaching her that.

Shock and Awe

The Kid will be one year old this week. I can't believe how fast these last twelve months have gone by. She's been into everything lately; if it will stay still long enough, she'll try to run and get it. She wrestles the dogs, opens up every door and drawer she can get to, and lately, trying to run away from me when I try to take something out her hands. It kinda makes me pine for the days she was tiny and just laid there... and cried , alot. So maybe not, but I did start to think about the day she was born.

Actually, it all started the Tuesday night before. It was about 5 o'clock at night and I was helping my mom make dinner. I had been feeling good all week, but I was pretty sure this baby was going to show up sooner rather than later. My due date wasn't for another week, but seeing as I was 200lbs and measuring at 42 weeks, I had better have this baby soon. All of a sudden I felt bad. Real bad. Like 'Get outta my way so I can get to the bathroom'-bad. After about an hour of getting up and down I thought I better call a medical professional; so I called my cousin, the nurse. I told her what was going on. "Do you think I'm in labor?" I asked "Because it really feels like it". "Well, personally, I never went into labor because of the C-Section so it was awesome, but it sounds like you are. Let me get a second opinion. HEY!" and then she proceeded to yell at her sister in law, who is also a nurse. "She says yep. Have you called the hospital?" "Not yet" I reply "My water hasn't broke, so I'm just gonna ride it out.". "Umm, O kay... let me know how that turns out." So there I was, doubting myself. About 8 o'clock I finally called the hospital. I basically had the same exact conversation with the on-call doctor, so I decided to go home and try to get some sleep, I had a doctor's appointment the next morning, after all.
The next morning, I got up and got ready to go to the doctor's office. The drive there was the longest one ever, and so was the wait. When the nurse called me back, the first thing she said was "Umm, how are you feeling?" "Like I'm gonna have a baby" I reply. She took me back and got my weight and blood pressure and after seeing all that she let me lie down. Thank God. I had been up all night watching BBCAmerica. How can there not be one episode of Doctor Who on when you really need it? Seriously! Anyway, when my doctor came in she confirmed it. "Yep, we'll have a baby today! Let me call over and get you admitted and we can go on over and get you started." Sweet relief. "Sweet!" I reply "Ok. I'll go to the car and get my bag. Do I need to meet you in admitting or..." She actually looked shocked. "Oh no! We'll take you over there in a wheelchair. Don't worry and just hang tight. I'll get the girl to come get you."
Now, I'm thinking this girl better be named 'Helga' and be an Olympic wrestling champ for the former Soviet Union. You know, someone who has the upper body strength to push a 200lb girl to labor and delivery. About the time I've gotten a really good picture of this hoss of a woman in my head, I hear a faint knock on the door. In walks a small girl. "Are you ready to go?" She says. This was not the 'Helga' I pictured. This poor girl is about 5'1 and probably weighs about 98lbs soaking wet. Poor thing. I load up in the chair and off we go. Ready to have a baby.

Fast forward a few hours and I'm really in labor. I had decided even before I got pregnant that I would have a natural childbirth. But, after a few hours of excruciating pain, I wussed out. The drug lady came in and stuck that huge needle in my back. 'Perfect' I thought, but it was far from that. After a few more hours, it was evident God has a sense of humor; my epidural did not work. At all. I was determined though. Determined to get this kid out before sundown, determined not to make a peep while pushing out this humongous baby and determined not to puke. Oh wait, I just puked. Right at Bubba. Oh well, this was all his fault anyway.
At about 7 o'clock my doctor comes in. "Let's take a look..." she says as she violates me without warning. "Great! We'll have a baby by 8!" Well awesome. Let's get this show on the road. 8 o'clock rolls around and The Kid has other plans. She decided that 8 wasn't going to work for her, so she turned. She was already doing things her way so, we're stuck. Family here, doctor here and The Kid decides she's not quite ready.
Then, my doctor and nurse have a great thought. Why don't I get on all fours with my bare ass in the air and rock back and forth to get this kid to turn? Seriously. But, by 9 o'clock, I was ready to try anything.
After 45 minutes of acting like a cat in heat, she was right where she needed to be so I could start the fun task of pushing.

At 10:20 pm on a Wednesday, The Kid  made her official debut. At 8lbs 3oz and 20 3/4 in long, she was perfect. Bubba got to take her down to the nursery so the nurses could do their thing and clean her up. He was such a proud daddy. He came back and told me about the nurses telling him that she was the prettiest red-headed baby they'd ever seen, and about what all the family had to say and then he stoppped and looked at me. "You know, I have never seen someone in so much pain in my entire life, and you didn't even make a noise. I'm so proud of you. But, holding your leg... I saw alot more than I wanted to see." Well, you're welcome.

Now,after a year of Colic, crying (baby and mommy), sleepless nights, first smiles and giggles, crawling, talking and first steps sometimes I'm surprised we've survived, but it's been an adventure. A really fun adventure I'm not ready to do again... quite yet.

Work Out

While I was pregnant with The Kid, I got big. I mean huge. Like almost twice my weight huge. So I promised myself that I would lose it all after I had her. I was not going to be one of those mothers I saw at the grocery store: haggard, tired, wearing her husband's sweatsuit while their kids were dressed in the newest Gymboree. Not me. I was gonna be the "are you her babysitter?" mom. But, like many good ideas, this one got lost by the wayside. To my defense, I was busy. I worked and took care of a baby (who I breastfed and co-slept with, so there.) And I never, ever, went out of the house without make-up or in a sweatsuit. (Full disclosure though; I did go out in a velour sweatsuit once, for like 30 minutes, but I wore sunglasses and a ball cap so I looked more like a hung-over celebrity than a new mom who hasn't slept in three days.)
So, since The Kid is almost a year old, I decided that it is unacceptable for me to look like I've just had a baby. It's not that I'm overweight. I'm a good weight for someone who's 6 foot tall. But my problem is that I'm 5'4. And since it's impossible to find good quality human growth hormone outside of major league baseball, I decided I would work out. 'I'll hit it hard and work off this huge ass.' I thought. How better to do that than with one of those ever-popular work out videos. I was a moron to think this, but I didn't know that yet.
In an effort to work it off real fast, I decided to try P90X. From the infomercial it looked like exactly what I needed; an ass-kicking. Sweet. I was ready to bust it out, but what it really did was bust me. I should have known there was going to be problems when there's a disclaimer at the beginning that says "You must meet minimum physical requirements". What does that even mean? I didn't know and was too lazy to find out. What I did find out , after two days of sore everything and a lot of dry heaving, was that I definitely did not meet the 'minimum physical requirements'. For your information, these 'requirements' are probably that you can run a five minute mile and be an ex-marine. All I did was push out a 8lb 3oz baby with no working epidural. I was a wimp, but I wasn't giving up that easy.
Since I can't bench press 120lbs, I'm gonna do it the hard way; with diet and exercise. I know, those two words make me shudder too.
"How has it gone?" you may ask. Well, the first week I thought I was going to die of a heart attack (and of lack of fat and sugar), but I made it. I'm three weeks into it now and I go out running/walking 3.3 miles every day and have cut down my food intake by, well, alot. I've actually lost weight (gasp!). So, 'Yay Me!'. I say I deserve a cupcake... or three.

A Comedy of Errors

It was the flood of the century and my father felt it was the perfect time to clean out the gutters. While rain was pouring down at a rate of 2 million gallons per second, he was outside, on a ladder, pulling out rotting dead leaves. During this ill advised attempt at home maintenance, he inadvertently left the gate open. So, while he was around the front of the house, my brother's dog was sneaking out the back.
Now, this dog is not the smartest dog in the world; think less Lassie and more Marmaduke. I can just picture the scene now: my 56 year old dad, on a ladder in the pouring rain cursing while the dog quietly sneaks past him and bolts down the road.

After about 20 minutes, dad comes inside. "Have you seen Maime?" he asks (yes, that really is the dog's name. Don't ask.) "No..." I reply. "Oh God, she got out." he says. 'Oh crap' is right.

This was not good for a couple of reasons:
1. This dog is s-t-u-p-i-d.
2. My brother has a t-e-m-p-e-r


So, here we all go out the door like a shot, screaming for that stupid dog. My brother's mad, my mom and dad are upset, and The Kid's excited. She thinks this is exactly what she needs to keep her from her nap. After many, many colorful, four letter words from my brother, my dad decides to go out looking for her. In the middle of a flood of biblical proportions. Excellent idea.

So, after about 30 minutes, I finally get The Kid to sleep and decide to join the fun. I get in the car with a rain jacket on and begin to ride around the neighborhood with the car windows down, whistling. The first person I come across (stupid enough to be out in the rain, like me) is the cable guy. I pull my car over and ask if he's seen the dog. "Nope. Sorry." he tells me. Of course, it wouldn't be that easy so I continue driving around looking like a fool. I see a couple more people out walking their dogs and such and ask them. 'No's all around.


Then I come up to a house with some boys outside playing basketball. There's about 6 boys, all around 12 years old. I pull my car over next to the driveway. "Hey kids!" I yell. The boys stop dead in the middle of the game and look at me. "I've lost my dog" I say. All the kids take a step back. "Have you seen a big black dog running around here?" "No ma'am" the bravest one replies, from the safety of the garage. "Ok. Thanks." I reply and drive off. Then I start thinking. Crap. I just sounded like one of those weirdos who try to kidnap little kids. I better get the hell outta here before their mom calls the cops... or 'To Catch a Predator'.

When I get back home, The Kid's still asleep and there's still no sign of the dog. Great. Then The kid wakes up, cranky. Even better. It's still raining and it's getting bad so I start to worry. I go get The Kid out of her bed and follow mom out on the screened-in porch. As a last ditch attempt, mom stands out in the back yard yelling "Maime... Maime...".
Then, all of a sudden she yells "MAIME!! COME HERE PUPPY!!". I look up and there she is: the world's dumbest dog standing on the other side of the chain link fence looking at us like 'How'd you get in there?'. The Kid sees her buddy and starts screaming and flapping her arms like a chicken having a seizure. So, we all run towards the gate; mom, The Kid, and me, all barefoot and screaming in the pouring rain.
Yep, we like to keep it classy here in Tennessee.

Uppity Crackers

Last Wednesday, I had a hot date. My best friend Lauren was in town and so we did what we usually do when she comes to town: go eat. So here we went; Bubba, The Kid, Lauren, Megan and me off to the Japanese restaurant and there begins our story.
We love eat Japanese food, so we thought it would be a great idea to take The Kid with us. Not such a great idea. It started out well enough. Our hostess brought us to a hibachi table that was already filled with two couples; both couples were middle-aged and already deep in conversation. We found our seats and strapped The Kid in her high chair and we were ready to go. Then he comes out. The Kid's new mortal enemy: The Evil Hibachi Cook. With a cheerful "Hello!" he turns on the grill and gets set-up. I look over at The Kid thinking she's going to be so excited by all this, but no. She was looking at the cook as if to say "I don't know who you are, but I know I don't like you". (I wonder where she learned that from...). Oblivious to the look full of hell-fire and hate that my child is giving him, the cook starts the show. He begins tossing his utensils and cracking goofy jokes, but The Kid is not easily amused. Then comes what everyone came for: the fire. If you thought that a child like mine who obviously toys with death everyday by licking her Uncle Bucky's fungus-filled flip flop, would love fire, you are sorely mistaken. The second that first fireball goes up, she starts shaking, and crying, and trying to climb me like a spider monkey on meth. Fabulous. I grab her out of her seat and she's just sobbing. That's when I notice the people sitting at the table with us. They're laughing at The Kid. No the kind of "Bless your heart,"-I'm sorry you're crying sweetheart-kinda of laugh that we give down here. It was a 'Man, that's so stupid it's funny'-type laugh. "Why?" you may ask. Well, I suppose nothing's funnier than a 10 month old who has just had her first near death experience at the hands of an evil hibachi cook. Now The Kid wasn't the only one giving out the dirty looks. ''Bad choice, jerks" I think to myself as I'm walking out to the lobby to get her calmed down.
Finally after about 5 minutes and the promise of more banana cookies, The Kid finally calms down enough to go back and join the rest of our party. You would think that since everyone's stuffing their faces, we would have some bit of peace so we can enjoy our dinner. Not so fast. Just as I'm trying to shove some teriyaki chicken in my mouth while feeding The Kid I hear the two couples sitting with us begin to strike up a conversation with each other.
Now, let me take a moment right here to clarify something. I'm a pretty easy person to get along with (I think). I have friends from all kinds of different backgrounds from all kinds of places, north and south. So when I say that these people were "Yankees", let me be clear: I don't dislike people north of the mason-dixon line; on the contrary, I love the hours and hours of entertainment I get from laughing at them. Most particularly, the way these "Yankees" think everything down here is so 'cute' and 'quaint' and that we're all a bunch of backwoods,uneducated, cousin-marrying, rednecks. Also the way that I can tell them that I think just about as much of them just by prefacing the conversation with "Well, bless your heart..." (True story, just ask Lauren).
That being said, as soon as I heard the beginning of this conversation I knew they were said "Yankees" (note the capital 'Y'). Their accent was not "Boston Kennedy" but it was far from "Minnesota Nice". So, me being the nosy person I am, and they being the loud mouths they are, I listened in. Apparently, the older couple of the two had been living down here for a while and they were giving these visitors, also in their late 40's, the inside scoop on things to do in our town.
"Oh, well, what do you guys like to do?" the older couple asks. "Well, we like to go to dinner and see a show and blah, blah, blah" says tourist dude while his wife sits there with one arm crossed sipping white wine. I swear, she had her nose so far up in the air, she would have drowned if it had started raining. Anyway, after tourist dude tells them all about how awesome him and his old lady are, the older guy starts in. He tells them about this little Italian pace that's on the square and a couple of other places then he says "Do you like burgers?". "Yeah" says tourist dude. "Well then, you've got to go to this little place called Buster's!"says know-it-all "It's kind of a dive bar, but they have great burgers!". Moron. Obviously, he's never been to Buster's. If he had, I'm sure he wouldn't have stayed long. It's that kind of place that has lots of Harleys in the parking lot and a sign on the wall that says "If you want it your way, go to Burger King". They're a no-bullshit kind of place. It's not a touristy - "oh honey, isn't this just soo cute"-kinda place. These Yankees might learn that the hard way so they may want to stay away. On second thought, let me know when they're going so I can sit there at see how this plays out.
So you may wonder where all this hostility comes from. It came from one little snicker from a couple of jerks. That's right, no one laughs at my child but me.

Reliquishing My Title

I am no longer Parent of the Year. I have found my replacement. Correction: Replacements. Yes, more than one. "Where did you find these shining examples of parenthood?" you may ask. Wal-Mart? Chuck E. Cheese? Visitation day at Riverbend correctional facility? Oh, no no no. I found them at my local Toys R Us.

Our first nominee is skilled in what I like to call "Juvenile Communication". While I was in line waiting to check out I heard her in action:"Is this what you want? Well, is it? Well then, you better get happy about it real quick then! Don't you cry! I'm not going to buy it for you then!". At first I thought that she must be talking to her sour-puss teenager about a certain Jonas Brother dvd, cd, or something and other. Then, I turned around to see a 3 year old girl clutching a box of polly pockets and silently weeping. A few moments later, after we got into our car in the parking lot, we see this wonderful woman put said 3 year old into the car. In the front seat. Without a car seat.

Nominee no.2 made a brief, but memorable appearance. This woman exemplified outstanding knowledge in a field I refer to as "Infant Health". All I can say is:

1. Cigarette in mouth
2. Smoke in Child's face
3. Ambivalence to child's obvious discomfort.

*Drumroll, please.

And the winner is...

I can't believe it! It's a tie! Johnny, tell 'em what they've won!

"Well folks, our lucky parents probably should win a full year of state mandated parenting classes, but we've decided to give them what they'll really use: $30 worth of lotto tickets, a carton of Winstons and a year's supply of Yoohoo for the young'ns!"

Sweet.

And with that, let me leave you with what my mentor, the great Jerry Springer would call "Our Final Thought"-

No matter how much I may question myself, I learned one important lesson today: If I ever wonder if I am doing a good job raising my child, all I have to do is make a trip to my local Toys R Us and see why some people should be forcibly sterilized...um, no. That's not right. What I ment to say was: I'm a much better parent than I give myself credit for sometimes.

(Right?)

Busy, Busy, Busy

I'm no longer a bum. You heard that right; I got a job. It's a awesome place with great hours, so I'm really happy about it. I can't talk about it though; you know, confidentiality and all. But hey, that's how it is when you work for the CIA...
Anyway, The Kid's first Easter didn't turn out exactly as planned. Not that I had really anything planned. I hadn't even gotten her an Easter basket. Yes, I know this probably makes me a bad mom, but what's new? She's only 9 months old, so if I wanted to get her something she'd really enjoy I could have just bought her favorite things: some electrical cords and shoe laces. She would have been happy for hours.
My husband, on the other hand, spent the night before Easter visiting his dad in a small-town emergency room. On the plus side, his dad's better. On the minus, he was witness to a drug-induced seizure and the aftermath of a one sided fight between a rooster and a 70 year old man.

AWESOME.

Hoover

The kid can find anything on the floor; grass, dog food, small pieces of plastic, etc. Yesterday The Kid found one of those little pieces of plastic and put it in her mouth. And then swallowed. And then choked.
It's not like I just let her wander around a nasty house picking up potentially hazardous things off the floor. The carpet does get vacuumed...sometimes. The fact is, if you're missing something (coins,push pins, diamonds, Nazi gold, the holy grail) , The Kid can probably crawl around and find it; you'll just have to wait a few days to get it back.
So yesterday, I had left The Kid downstairs to play while I was cleaning up upstairs. I think it's important that I note that she was not by herself. My mother, father and Bubba were all in the same room with her, watching her. So, there I was, trying to find a home for half the crap we have thrown up there, when all of a sudden I hear it. The most blood-curdling scream in the world. The one that makes it sound like "I'm really and truly dying" cry, not just "I know that's not mine, but you took it away from me so I'm going to make you sorry" cry. (Yes, there is a difference). I run downstairs to see what the problem is and there's my child, sitting in her Gran's lap with the reddest face and eyes you've even seen, sobbing. "What happened?" I asked. "She swallowed a little piece of plastic and choked" my dad replies. He looks like she just drank a bottle of Drano and was now foaming at the mouth. I look back at The Kid."Did she spit it up?" I asked. Judging by the look on my Father's face, I begin to get truly concerned. "She's fine..." mom says, "I flipped her over, popped her on the back and she spit it right out." I pick up The Kid to get a good look at her. "Are you ok?" I asked. She's still crying a little. Maybe she's traumatized from her near death experience. She's whimpering and sucking in air; an Oscar worthy performance. "It's ok baby" Bubba tells her. "Here, this'll make it better" and out comes a Sonic cup. The Kid's eyes light up like Christmas. That all-organic, vegetarian, gluten-free diet I've had her on since day one means nothing right now as she grabs that red straw and gets a mouthful. She gulps down that cranberry limeade and gives us a big smile. I suppose that does make it all better. Or , it just helps wash down whatever else she shoved in her mouth when we weren't looking.

Let Your Freak Flag Fly

Day Two of our yard sale adventure and boy, the weirdos are out in full force. It's like a John Waters film, except not as cool. Or like "Napoleon Dynamite", just funny in a creepy way. And with more member's only jackets. Just a sampling of today so far:

• A mother-daughter duo who looked exactly alike. I felt like I was in 'The Shining'. I was half expecting them to ask me "Will you scrapbook with us? Forever?". I was on the verge of screaming (with laughter).


• The Kid got a free Spanish lesson from two Hispanic construction workers. Much more colorful than any episode of Dora the Explorer.


• A guy who inexplicably breaks into song. Less like Mr. Shuster from"Glee" and more like Buffalo Bob from "Silence of the Lambs".


• Some dude in a car who asked another random customer to "Go ask about those lawnmowers". I told Ms.Random Customer "If he can't get outta the car, I ain't gonna deal with him." Curbside service is extra, fool.

I also pissed off the elderly yesterday, so my week's complete. You wanna know the story? Too bad; I'll tell you anyway.

It was 7am and I had just woken up. I told Dad to wake me up at 6, so I was not so happy. I threw on some clothes and got out in the driveway asap. Outside, poking through my old crap is a man about 75 years old. I was brought up to be polite so I say hello. "I was here earlier" he snaps. Oh hell naw. It's too early and I'm running on too little sleep. I just give him the stare. "I was here earlier and you were still asleep. Your mother was out here by herself" he informs me. I pull down my sunglasses and look him dead in the eye; "Well, I was up all night with my baby, so if you'll excuse me" I reply as sweet as I can. Old Man River shuts his mouth. He looks at me like have leprosy. But that wasn't it. Not at all. I did exactly what I wanted to do; I made him believe that I was some unwed, teenage mother who still lives at home with her parents. I've never seen a man that old move away from a person that fast. Maybe he thought my trashiness was contagious, maybe he was looking for some rocks to stone me. Either way, I can cross that off my to-do list. Next up: 'tell a yankee how stupid they are all while using my best southern accent and prefacing it with "bless your heart". Then my week will be complete.

Way to stay classy Tennessee...

I know I'm not what you would call 'High-Class'. I worked at a Harley dealership, wore cut-off jeans and motorcycle boots to work on more than one occassion (in my pre-baby days mind you, I'm not that trashy), and have been known to frequent places that look like an opening scene from CSI at night. All that aside, I still know how to take a shower and shave my armpits when it counts. From the looks of people at my yard-sale today, I see that some individuals were born with out this 'hygine gene' or common sense in general.

Just a taste of things I saw today:

• A woman getting out of a minivan with a three year old riding on her lap.


• A gentleman who tried to pet my mom's large, man-eating dog through the fence.


• A guy who thought he could just 'take some stuff off my hands' becouse it's not like I'm selling things.


• A woman who told me her entire life story; and I mean every sad detail.


• And a guy who felt it was ok to let his stupid tiny dog crap all over my Mom's front lawn.

And this is how The Kid felt about it all:

Woodchuck

The Kid has teeth. They're not just baby teeth, they're these sharp little puppy teeth that she likes to use to bite ANYTHING; me, her father, toys, and furniture. Yes, furniture. I found this out this yesterday.

The fact that my child has decided she has a taste for wood and varnish is actually my sister in law's fault. 'How is that?' you may ask. Well, I'll tell you.

When The Kid was about 9 weeks old, she refused to take any sort of nap during the day. I tried, believe me, but the only time she would close her eyes was when she would pass out while nursing. I would be terrified to move for fear of waking her up so there I sat, Kid fast asleep on the boppy, slack-jawed and drooling my own breastmilk all over me. Disgusting, I know. She also refused to sleep more than two hours at a time at night. I was at my wit's end. I had just gone back to work and was routinely falling asleep at my desk. For some reason, snoring at work is frowned upon. Imagine that. Since I getting fussed at by my boss (who had the only other office upstairs. I guess I was interrupting her crossword puzzle time) I asked my sister in law for advice. Since she has two girls of her own I figured she had all the answers. Little did I know she was the 'Sleep Nazi'. The minute I said something about sleep she started babbling something about 'set naps' and chanting something like "It's not logical, it's biological". I thought she'd lost her mind; or become a scientologist at the very least. Before I could say 'Tom Cruise' she explained it was all about this magical book. Healthy Sleep Habits, Healthy Baby was supposed to be the answer to all my problems. Sleep schedules, set naps and 'crying it out' were all things I saw when I skimmed trough the book because I was half-asleep and couldn't read through half-closed eyes. It all sounded like good ideas, but I'm lazy and it was just easier to let The Kid sleep in my bed physically attached to me like a human pacifier.

Jump ahead 7 months. I finally picked up the book again. Did you know 9 month olds need two naps a day? Did you also know they have to teach themselves to fall asleep? Well neither did I. So I read, and read, and decided to do it. Yes, it sucks to let your baby cry, but having a 5 year old scream "WHY DON'T YOU LOVE ME ANYMORE?!" while crying and trying to climb you like a rabid lab monkey because they don't want to go to sleep sucks alot worse. So, I did it. I let her cry. It really wasn't that bad. She eventually went to sleep, and she stayed asleep for hours. Praise Jesus (and Dr. Weisbluth).

About two days into this adventure I decided to check in on her during her morning nap. She was up on her knees, hands and mouth on the crib rail trying to gnaw her way out. After explaining to her that ash was not a suitable food group and putting her back down she fell asleep. I didn't think anything more about it until Tuesday. That's the day she woke up from her nap with black flecks all around her mouth. I thought it might have been the blueberries from her lunch, but when I went in her room I saw it. She had used her teeth to scrape off a fair amount of paint from her crib rail. Like a woodchuck. Lovely.

Goober

"Yeah, I got a cookie in your floor. Whadda ya gonna do about it? "

Ooo-Zay

Bubba and I took The Kid to the zoo last week. It was...uhh...an experience. We went with Bubba's oldest sister, her husband, and their two girls. Bubba said it was MILF central. For some reason I only saw the people who shouldn't have procreated in the first place, thus making me feel better by comparison. All in all it was a productive trip for all.

"And the Parent Of The Year award goes to..."

Well, I learned my lesson. Babies, changing tables and hairbrushes don't mix. I found this out the hard way.

It was a couple of Fridays ago and I was getting the kid ready to go to my mother's house. As I usually do, I put The Kid on the changing table so I could put her diaper and her clothes on. She's at the stage now where she's the biggest wiggle-worm/temper tantrum-thrower, so I sometimes hand her something to play with, like a hair brush. Those little distractions usually buy me about 20-25 seconds, so that means I have to get her taken care of in about 15.
Anyway, I had just put her diaper on and I needed to get her outfit so I sat her up on the table with the hairbrush in her hand and sat down to go through her clothes.
*Those of you that don't have children: Read the following carefully!*
* Deadly Mistake #1: You never, ever leave a child on a changing table alone.(If you do, you're an idiot and a poor parent and you should-and will- be beaten about the head with a hairbrush.)*
So, as I was trying to pick out an outfit from the piles and piles of clothes it dawned on me to check on the kid. About the exact time I had that thought something struck me. Literally. It was a hairbrush, connected to a baby's arm, connected to an ENTIRE BABY.
Yes, The Kid wanted to brush what little hair I have and thought she could just lean over the side of the table and do it. What she ended up doing is almost killing us both. When she landed, The Kid could have cared less. After sitting there stunned (probably more from that fact that she landed perfectly upright in my lap than from the near-death experience) she proceeded to crawl onto the floor and start playing with the brush again like nothing happened.
After my initial shock from the realization that I almost grievously injured my child wore off, and I stopped hyperventilating, I laughed. Yes, because I'm That person. Parent Of The Year, right here folks.

Looky-Loos and Dirty Gawkers

I have a cute kid. Actually, she's not just cute; she's downright adorable. It's a scientific fact that has been proven. Seriously. And, as anyone with a cute kid knows, people love to look at your kid. Sometimes though it's not just a 'Aww, isn't she sweet' look, it's a strange look. What I would would characterize as a 'gawk'. Maybe it's just me (and it probably is), but these 'gawks' seem to outnumber the nice, polite glances sometimes.
I do realize that I may look a little strange to some people around here. You would think that living near a college town people would have seen folks alot stranger looking than a 26 year old girl with short hair and moderately large plugs in her ears. Maybe they're not allowed out that often. Maybe there are more important things for them to watch on Fox news, who knows. Whatever the reason, when I catch these 'gawkers' I can see their wheels turning. I know they're thinking a myriad of things like:

"What is that 12 year old boy doing with that baby?"
"What is that lesbian doing with a kid? I didn't think they could reproduce..."
"Look at that hippie freak-o with that baby strapped to her. I bet she's a dirty commie..."
I love it when when I catch these people staring. Actually, I hate it. Nothing makes me more angry than these people in their minivans sitting there judging me while I struggle to cram a kicking and screaming child in a Ford Focus. I need a new approach. I need to look at them right in the eye and smile. It'll creep them out so much. I'll feed on their fear much like sharks, bears, rabid dogs and small children.

But, worse than the 'gawkers' are the scourge I call the 'looky-loos'. The 'looky-loos' are usually people over 45 who have either grown children or grandchildren and find it perfectly normal to go out of their way to come over touch your child while giving you unsolicited parenting advice. Target, restaurants, the grocery store, no place is off limits to these people. They will hunt you down on the bread aisle to touch your kid with their (probably) unwashed hands and say things like:
"Look at that red hair! Boy, you don't look like your parents do you..."
"What a cute little boy! Oh, she's a girl? Well..."
"She can't be an only child! Oh, no matter what you say now, you will have more..."
"Is she walking yet? You know my kids walked at 8 months..."
"Can she talk yet? Well, my kids could recite the Gettysburg address at 10 months..."
My kid is never dirty, hungry, unloved, or inappropriately dressed, but according to these people, I am absolutely failing as a parent and as a human being and it's their responsibility to passive-aggressively tell me. Thanks Grandma for the pep talk. I think I'll call DCS immediately and relinquish all my parental rights.
Thank God there are people out there like this; otherwise, I might think I'm a decent mom to this kid.

Automobile Gynocologist

I was only supposed to hold the light.
That's it. Just a light. But what started as me 'helping' ended up as me 'doing it all'. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's start at the beginning...
Bubba decided it would be a great idea to do some of our own minor car repairs. Now, to be fair, I completely supported this idea because, at the time, it did not include me doing anything at all. I was fine with him doing whatever he wanted to with the car as long as I wasn't around to screw anything up. I won't be held responsible for putting myself and/or The Kid in danger. Oh no, I need someone else to blame that on.
"I'm gonna go out and put this belt on while y'all get a bath ok?" Bubba yelled to me. I was sitting on top of the toilet in the hall bathroom watching The Kid play in the tub. "Sure" I reply. I should have jumped in the bathtub with The Kid right then, but I continued to sit there and read a magazine while the dog joined The Kid in her quest to drink every bit of the soapy water in the tub. Ten minutes later Bubba appears in the doorway. "Umm, hey. Can you come out here and help me? I need you to hold the light." "Ok. Let me get her out of the bath and put some clothes on her". With the baby dressed and put in her baby prison -er, I mean 'pack and play'- I threw on a sweatshirt and went out to the garage. Bubba's standing there with mechanic gloves on looking at me. "Can you hold the light right here? I can't see what I'm doing." I hold the light while he tries to mess with the serpentine belt. After about ten minutes of grunting, cursing and pulling he stops what he's doing. "Your hands are small. Do you think you could maybe get the belt just around this back part? My arms are too big to fit." What? No. He lured me out there under false pretenses. I was only supposed to hold a light! This isn't 'can you change these wiper blades?' or 'will you fill up the wiper fluid?', no, this is 'can you put this rubber strap over and under about 10 different wheels that make the car run?'. Crap. All I need to do screw up something and not only am I in trouble for breaking Bubba's car, but I will have broken the nice car. Oh well. It was his idea. I put on Bubba's XL mechanic gloves and put my hands down the side of the engine. "You feel that?" he says "Now, you're going to need to put the belt around that wheel and bring it back over the smooth one and around the smaller one with the grooves" he says. "What?! What the hell are you talking about?" "It's on the diagram I found on the Internet." he replies and points to the computer. Sure. You can also find a diagram on how to perform open heart surgery on the Internet, but that doesn't mean you should try it with out a medical degree. But, I'm either a good sport or a glutton for punishment so I look at the picture. It doesn't look that hard. If I can knit and braid hair, surely I can do this. Right? Well, it's too late to back out, so I dug in.
Fast forward about 20 minutes and a lot of wiggling and cursing, I'm laying on top of the engine shoulder deep in a Carolla. I swore that if I ever, ever get ahold of whatever moron... hold on. If I just moved a little to the left...there! "Hurry! Pull the tension!" I yelled. And just like that, I did it. I freaking did it. Me. After almost an hour violating that poor little foreign car I became the most bad-ass person on my block.

Codewords

Valentine's Day. The one day of the year where a grown man can buy a woman roses, chocolates, underwear, and a giant stuffed animal without getting a restraining order in return. Speaking of Valentine's, did you know that St. Valentine was not actually one person, but the name given to several martyred saints of ancient Rome? Interesting fact, huh? Which brings me to the Story Of The Week.
Let me begin with yesterday afternoon. Bubba called me on his lunch break to see how The Kid was doing, how my day was, etc. During the course of this conversation I asked "Did you see my Facebook status? I finally started my blog!", to which he replied "I saw that. That's interesting." "What does that mean?" I reply. "Nothing. I haven't even read it yet." he says. (Note: He really did mean 'nothing'. Bubba does think I'm a nerd, but he's a nerd too, so we're made for each other.) Ok. No big deal, right?
Later that night, Bubba and I conned my parents into letting The Kid stay with them so we could go out and have a nice dinner. Since misery loves company, we invited Bubba's next-to-oldest sister and her husband to join us. I love Bubba's family, and his sister and I are pretty close, so we always have a good time. I'm very excited about the fact that I'm no longer 'computer retarded' so I ask sister-in-law if she's seen the Blog. "Not yet" she says. "I told Bubba about it" I said "He said 'That's interesting'." "Oh no." she says, and laughs. She laughs and so does her husband.
"What?" I say.
"When you say 'that's interesting', well, that's codeword for 'that's lame'."
What?!
When did this happen?!
So, I got to thinking. 'Has interesting always meant lame? What if it has? When I did miss the memo? Was it that one day in Kindergarten when I was late because Dad had to get me ready for school because Mom was sick and I went to school in a sweatsuit with a sideways ponytail? This is all his fault!' Then I calmed down, stopped talking to myself like Mark David Chapman and began to really think. I thought of all the times I told someone something I thought was really awesome or informative and was answered with a "That's interesting".
"Did you know it takes 10 gallons of water to make one t-shirt?"
"Did you know Harley-Davidson made their first motorcycle in a shed in 1903?"
"Did you know that the polar bear is the heaviest breed of bear?"
"Did you know that hummingbirds can fly backwards?"
"Did you know that you can perform an emergency tracheotomy with a ballpoint pen?"
..."Wow. That's Interesting."
Now that I've thought a little harder on it, I realize that being 'interesting' isn't bad at all. Usually the people who tell me that only say that because they don't understand what I'm talking about. Like that kind of people who don't now what apartheid was or don't get most of the obscure references on Family Guy. So, I think I'll keep being 'interesting', and go around with the wonderful air of self-importance that comes with the knowledge that I rock at Jeopardy! because of it.

Hello.

Here it is. My first blog post. If you're reading this you're either:

1. My Family
2. My Friend excited to read what I have to say
3. My Friend who is excited to make fun of what I have to say
4. Someone with a 'Mother' fetish who accidentally came across this. (If so, my apologies. Pervert.)
   

So, if you want to know what it's like being a 26 year old wife and mother with no gainful employment, welcome. You might like, love, hate, relate to, or find funny some of the stuff I have to say. If not, well, too bad.