Just Eat the Sammich.

Twelve-year olds have a very special way of pointing out all the ways that you are forcing them to live in an unbearable hovel the likes of which must (must!) be considered child abuse in some states. In front of grandparents, they say things like, "Am I allowed to turn the heat on today? My room is like 40 degrees, and....well, I'm...cold. So cold."

After her dad spent all weekend losing round 2 in the battle to fit the chimney with a liner, Erin comes home from her mom's and says very innocently, "Do you know when we are getting the fireplace fixed?" After he spends half the day replacing all the pipes under the sink, you (inevitably) find her examining a glass of tap water, nose wrinkled, proclaiming with disgust, "what we really need is a hard-water filter." Damn science teacher and his fancy water unit. All tellin kids stuff.

"The carpet smells. How old is it anyway?"
"The bathtub tiles are moldy."
"This mayonnaise is expired."

Pfft. Not any more "expired" than it was in your sammich yesterday. Didn't seem to bother you then.

Life Lessons

Back in June, when I was last substitute teaching, kids often asked me questions like, "How old are you, anyway?" and "Do you have a boyfriend?"

Now it's "Are you haveing a boy or a girl?" and "Have you picked out a name yet?" It's fun to see how tenth graders react when I blink, act confused and say, "what do you mean? I'm not having a baby!"

My favorite, though, is "Are you married?" Teenagers are not shy at all about delving into your personal life and finding out whether you are a good, upstanding Christian citizen, or a naughty, dirty sinful whore. So I'm usually not shy about replying, "Nope. Living in sin is a lot more fun."

Teaching the next generation life lessons is an important job that I take very seriously.

Two Kicks Means "More Pickles"

The reigning sovereign Aqualass is running out of room in there.

My insides feel less like someone walking gently around and upside-down in the 2001 Space Oddysey ship, and more like a rottweiler unexpectedly zipped into a kiddie sleeping bag. A disgruntled rottweiler. Who is hungry. And demands curry.

I hope she knows that I will need my spleen and liver and lungs intact once she's done batting them around. I mean, I'm not going to be able to feed her or torture our captured enemies for her amusement if she keeps wedging her cute little #!&*ing toesies through my squiggly-spooch any time she feels like it. (Especially while I'm trying to go to sleep. She definitely feels like it then.)

Running Over The Same Old Ground

My mom had the idea planted deep in her head that we were all to go to the shore while my sister and my nephew were in town. Did it matter that it is now October and there was coastal flooding warnings in effect from Friday til Sunday morning? This is my mom, so no. Not really. And lo, we had a very nice time despite my bad dreams filled with tidal waves and being trapped on the roof of the motel. Our particular two-year old is even very pleasant, especially when he has a lot of different people to play with him. Actually, the same applies to our particular twelve-year old.

I forgot my camera, so the pictures of the dog's first romp on the beach (vigerous, joyfull, wet), the pictures of baby Eddie shoplifting for the first time (a happy Buddah figurine), and the pictures of the bunch of us wind-whipped but still having fun on the boardwalk; those pictures are all in my head.

I am melancholy because I don't want them to leave in two days. I want them to stay and live in my house (or next door would do) and have tea with me every morning. I want my sister to be here when I have my baby, so we can trade sometimes, or parade them around in rediculous matching bunny outfits.


I want to drive with them to Vermont (live free or die!) instead of driving them to the airport on Wednesday.

Shower Me 2

There was cheesecake. I got to take the leftover cheesecake home. I will probably have some as soon as I get up from this keyboard.

Other than the cheescake, for which every one of my senses suddenly alligned in an extreme and frightening moment of focus, it was all a blur. I know I had fun, and I think others had fun too, but the details are a little fuzzy just now. I remember driving up to my mom's house with Joy, who came down from NY with Mark (you crazy crackers, you). I also remember walking in and being greeted by almost every woman I know all at once. Then there was the hail ("shower" my ass) of onesies, binkies, blankies and teddies, carseats, monitors, a slew of other infant acoutrements, CHEESECAKE, driving, and then Carl standing in the driveway at home saying "Holy Fuck, you made out like a bandit!"

How much can I possibly say thank you to my mom and my sister and everyone? Not. Enough.

Pod Person What?

So, what nursery bedding really defines me as a person? Am I classic like Patchwork Pooh, a sweet and gentle echo of yesteryear that still seems warm and inviting today? Or am I fun and playful like Froggy Tales, all bright duckies, frogs and dragonflies, perfect for a baby by Toad and me?

Alas, no. While I actually would like to roll around in both of these crib sets myself, God help me, I think I'm secretly Vintage Teaberry. It all seems obvious now. Don't delicate flowers, sage green velvet, ruffles of soft sheer eyelet and sweet pink and cream stripes say "Mo" to you? No? Are you really going to suggest to me that I am not reminiscent of an English garden?

Well, I'll just have to throw rocks at your stupid heads. Right after I get my hair set and go grocery shopping in my Laura Ashley picnic dress and heels.

Shower Me

It broke my mom's heart, but I informed her a few weeks ago that I much prefered to drop the pretense of a surprise baby shower. Let's face it,

• I know I'm having a baby. If I haven't caught on by now, I have bigger problems than can be fixed by spinach puffs and cheesecake.
• I know who my friends are. I know which ones can be there.
• I picked my sister up at the airport myself, so I know she's in town.
• I registered for baby stuff that I wish people to "shower" me with, so I already know what sort of gifts I'm likely to receive.

If I wanted to, I could even look online to see what has and has not been checked off the registry. But I won't; it seems tacky.

Yeah, the only surprise that could come out of this would be for me to be unsuspectingly thrust before a mob of all the women I know (and their cameras) in my bacon-grease stained sweatshirt, ugly high-water maternity jeans, and bad hair. I know it hurts, Mom, but I'm fairly certain you can bear to forgo that particular pleasure, if only to allow me some rarely-requested time with a blow-dryer and some product.

The whole process of registering was a weird one for me. I felt like a spoiled kid: "I want this one in lilac, NOT grape, and I want this one in every size....actually, better make it two in every size..." Honestly, the baby-stuff store is overwhelming in itself. Endless rows of booties and bath toys; entire walls full of bottle and nipple options... I've obviously never done this before, and after being there for two hours, I realized how much I don't really know what I will want or need. If I'd stayed any longer, I would have had a melt-down in the bumpers-and-sheets aisle and the helpful staff would have had to clean up the ensuing puddle of my tears and snot.

"Why are they all pink?!?" I would cry as they carried me away. "What's a layette, anyway? I don't want a bottle warmer, I want my old jeans-size back! I want to wear sexy underwear again! I want an Oompa Loompa nanny now!!"

En-Phoned w/K-Dawg

Monday

Phone: ring ring ring
K-Dawg: Hello?
Me: (brightly) Hi!
K: ....hi?
Me: HI!
K: Oh! Hi.
Me: What's up?
K: ....Nothing.
Me: ......
K: so....
Me: ok, this is stupid...
K: what is?
Me: Um, was your birthday yesterday, or three days from now?
K: haha! How long have you known me?
Me: I'm an asshole, I know.
K: Three days from now (*audibly reveling in my assholishness*)
Me: Ok, well I knew it was one of those. I was gonna call Steph, but I'm pretty sure she wouldn't know either. (*shamelessly trying to bring others down with me*)
K: Yes. She would probably agree that it was one of those as well.
Me: I'll call you three days from now, then.
K: K.

Thursday (yesterday, three days after Monday)

Me: *forgets to call*

Friday

My blog: Happy Birfday, Kyle!

Helpful Advice

It's annoying enough to be stuck awake at 3:30 am for no reason. But then there's the 3:30 am gnawing hunger pangs.

"Tsk, well, now's a good time to get used to that, l'il mama."

Pft, well, I don't think it's fair. I'm supposed to be 'getting my rest now,' not 'practicing irrationally scheduled feedings now.' And don't call me "l'il mama." It's stupid. I'm not little. I'm big. Big like moose.

"You should try keeping some saltines next to the bed for those middle-of-the-night cravings."

Oh, yeah. Like I really want to put CRACKERS in my mouth at 3:30 am. Yum Yum. Salty dry crackers. Just what I was dreaming about. How did you know?

Don't Be Conned. I Was.

See this?

Cute, isn't it?

Well, this is why we can't have nice things. Nice things like plates.

Or mail.

Or Potatoes.

I remember the days when we were allowed to have potatoes.

On plates. Possibly while reading mail. Or while watching the unchewed Netflix that came in that mail. Oh, for the sweet, unsullied days of spuds and Netflix.....

Don't be blindly taken in by his contrite appearance. You think he doesn't know what he's doing? Look at him.

All getting your sympathy. See, right now, you're thinking, "Awww....look at that face. He feels so bad about what he's done. You are horrible people for not giving him a doggie biscuit right now and telling him he's a good doggie woggie wumpkins. Isn't he? Isn't he a good little wumpkins?? Yes. Yes he is."

That's how he gets you. He mopes around all sad, and then you forgive him and then WHAM!! Tissue party in the living room! YAY!! YAY!! Oh, what, you people were planning on using that entire box all by yourselves??? Gosh, I'm sorry....