DadaMama

How I've Been Spending My Time

When I'm not busy being pregnant and gagging at every opportunity (trust me, there are plenty of opportunities), I've been um ... sleeping. And eating. Because if my stomach is empty, then I can expect more gagging. I am really tired of food at this point, because there isn't a damn thing I want in the refrigerator. Nevermind that I just went shopping and stocked up on snacks: we don't have what I'm looking for. BECAUSE I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE HELL IT IS.

I am delightful at this stage of pregnancy. Ask Dashing Husband. He can regale you with tales of unexplained crying, outlandish requests for Sonic milk shakes, and general bitchiness.

I have been taking the summer off from this blog, but I think I've had enough of break. So tune in tomorrow for a harrowing tale of linoleum and mold.

Just Breathing Air

Hello.

I have been out to lunch in my head for a couple of weeks now, which is why I don't post anymore. I just haven't felt like it. I attribute this to it being the end of the school year and me being worn down to a tiny nub by simply managing to survive my first year as a teacher.

On Friday I bought a swim dress. I went to several department stores and agonized over my bathing suit choices for a couple of hours before selecting an agonizingly modest pink-and-black suit. What can I say? It fit me, and it didn't cost a billion dollars. It isn't cut so high on the thigh that you can see my stomach (and my very attractive c-section scar), and it keeps the girls all reined in across the top. 

It wasn't my first choice. Not after the MiracleSuit I found at Dillard's. The miracle? When I put that thing on, I looked like Cindy Crawford. Seriously.  The girls were high and tight, and my stomach looked so toned and flat that one might get the impression that I exercise. (I do not.) It was a David Copperfield-style illusion of a bathing suit, but the price was a bit steep for spandex and polyester (or whatever the hell bathing suits are made out of).

It was $122.00. Which is roughly 1/2 the price of my wedding dress.  I could not bring myself to spend that much money on a bathing suit, no matter how smokin' hot it made me look. So I died a little on the inside and bid the MiracleSuit adieu. I would rather look like a nerd for half the price. Which is how, God help me,  I came to be wearing Grandma Gladys's swim dress.

Water aerobics, here I come!

...and like dominos, they fell.

I would just like to say thanks a pantload to my second-born child, who brought home the vomiting illness that we've all had in the last four days. Yes, thank you, Will. I can't think of a better way to spend a Tuesday than re-living my breakfast and dinner from the night before.

Yesterday I spent in bed. I have never watched and then immediately forgotten that much television in my life. I have never wished so fervently that someone would just put me out of my stomach-cramping misery. Gingerale has never tasted so good.

And now, about Virginia Tech: I would just like to say that my heart goes out to those people--the students, the victims, the parents, the police and other first responders.  My heart goes out to the shooter as well. I cannot fathom how hate-filled and desperate you have to be to start taking lives in such a manner.

I cannot imagine how those left behind will go on with their lives, how they will ever attend class in Norris Hall again without collapsing from the pain of it all. And I don't think anyone should blame the campus police. How could they have known? How could they decipher an act so violent that they had never dreamed of it? Also, I kind of wish the media would just drop it. Leave those people to grieve and to pick up whatever pieces they can.

The Glass Walk of Doom

Look at this. Go on, I'll wait.

Now, tell me how it makes you feel. Because me? I think I just died a little on the inside.

In other words: you've got to be shitting me.

A walkway, made of glass, 4,000 feet above the floor of the Grand Canyon? You might as well book me a trip to NYC on a glass jet. Either way, I'll die of a heart attack because OMG WHERE DID THE GROUND GO?!

Of course, I am just the tiniest bit afraid of heights. It's not really noticeable unless we're on top of a lighthouse or The Empire State Building, where you will find me clinging to the back wall wishing I had suction cups for feet.

28 Going on 85

Tomorrow I will be 28 years old.

This morning when I woke up my back was broken. I don't mean broken in the sense that something actually snapped--I mean broken like I can't stand up without help, I am walking like I just had hip replacement surgery, and if I get down on the floor for any reason I'll be there for the duration.

WTF?!

I was fine--FINE--last night when I went to sleep. But this morning? I laid in bed until Dashing Husband had a chance to haul me out. I don't know what this is, but I definitely can't use it. I am downing ibuprofen like it's candy, and I have one of those disposable heating pads wrapped around my waist (which looks very cool, if you must know).

Good thing my mom is in town. She is tending the children, and Dashing Husband did his shift this morning. I am thinking that work tomorrow is probably not looking very good.

The good news is I got one of these for my birthday. Dashing Husband set it behind me while I was planting flowers, and then he called it. And I was all, "Whose phone is that?" And then I realized it was mine and she's so pretty.

Call me?

Also, here's how to know that maybe your kids should, um, lay off the cartoons on weekends:

Spongebob Squarepants theme: Are you ready kids?

Will: Aye, aye cap'n!

And this conversation--

Gus: Good morning, Dad! I was watching a show about the Tempur-pedic. There's only one bed like that!

Dashing Husband: Yeah?

Gus: And the dust mites are scary!

More Adventures in Night-Weaning

Will started in at a quarter to midnight last night. He asked to nurse, and I told him that the milk "went night-night." Which is now our official Dada Party Line. If I was better rested, this is where I would make some kind of wise-ass comment about politics. But I digress.

Upon being informed that the milk was sleeping, Will went ballistic, screaming, climbing me, and arching his back. Dashing Husband finally came in to ask if I would, just maybe, consider nursing the child, because he was keeping everyone awake. But I hadn't listened to him yell for 30 minutes to simply give in (that would be unfair to both of us). So I picked the baby up and held him until he stopped sobbing. When he was calmer, I told him, "No more milk. But would you like some water?"

I filled a sippy cup, not really thinking that he would accept it. I took Will back to his bed and got in next to him. And then Jesus smiled down on us and the angels began to sing as my formerly hysterical child took the sippy cup full of water and had a nice, long drink. And then he went back to sleep. FOR FIVE HOURS.

So it appears that all the boy wanted for the last 19 months was A DRINK. Way to go, Mom.

If Ever There Were a Time To Sell a Child, That Time Is Now

Last night, after Will attempted to nurse for the 867, 432nd time, I cut him off.

"Milk's all gone. It went night-night!" I told him calmly. I then pulled a pillow over my head to endure the storm that was surely coming.

I was not disappointed: Will kicked. He screamed. He climbed me. He sobbed and moaned and whined until I was sure the cops would be beating down the door to stop the abuse. It was a tantrum of mythic proportions.

Oh, and did I mention that it was 3:30 am?

I have been reluctant to night wean the boy, but I think I'm getting over it. He is not sleeping, I am not sleeping, and Dashing Husband is not sleeping. I was grateful for the breastmilk when Will was hospitalized (he ate pretty much nothing else for almost a week), but he has regressed to the point that he's more like a four-month-old.

I understand that he is tired and cranky and stressed when I pick him up from daycare, but it's getting difficult to be the mother of a Baby Cling-on. Will prefers me to most everyone, even pushing his father away when he tries to comfort him. It seems the child will only be happy when I can get a plastic surgeon to permanently re-attach his umbilical cord. I joke that he wants to crawl back into the womb, but I think that's not so far off the mark.

I am thinking that maybe, just maybe, if I continue to refuse the breastmilk in the middle of the night, Will might stop asking. He's 19 months old, so I will continue to tell him that the milk "went night-night," but it will be back in the morning. I adore him, I really do, but it's getting ridiculous.

I predict it's going to be a hellatious week-ish period before this is resolved. So, wish me luck and pass the coffee!

This Just In ...

I am hot.

Will just adores hayrides.

Are we having fun yet?

My Ears Are Bleeding

Have I ever told you how much Gus likes to talk? No?

Well, the answer is: a lot. If he thinks he has a captive audience he is talking. Nonstop. About his imaginary girlfriends, Sally and Katherine, and Ninja Turtles and Spiderman, and the state of the world as he knows it. He makes up fabulous stories about the cat, the dogs, the guinea pig, his parents, his brother, his toys, and himself.

My favorite? The imaginary girlfriends. I like that he dares to have two.

Sally has pink teeth and she used to be a Ninja Turtle. She gave up ninja-ing to become a farmer, which makes her my kind of woman: one who can kick ass in the garden and in those dark back alleys.

Katherine is twenty and a ballerina. She has a sparkly ballerina outfit that her grandmother knitted for her.

He even invents recipes.

Me: Gus, what do you want for dinner?

Gus: Goblin eyes! I want a Halloween dinner!

Me: Gus, I don't know how to make Goblin eyes. How about mac n' cheese?

Gus: Well, I know how to make Goblin eyes. You just need toast and pickles and chocolate chips.

In my head: Gee, that does sounds appetizing!

The stories are always very elaborate and they have no endings, which allows him to segue neatly from one random idea to the next. Have I mentioned that said stories make no sense? At all?

Well, they don't. And I could be okay with this, if I wasn't expected to follow the rambling diatribes through every twist and turn. It's not humanly possible, I tell you! I often find myself tuning him out in favor of anything else, anything that doesn't involve Sally and how her leg is still broken but she went to the hospital where they could do nothing for her and she just didn't make it only she didn't really die it was just a joke.

I understand that he is working on narrative structure, and the writer in me is thrilled--but I would be happier if he was less Hawthorne-esque and more Anne Lamott-ish. Know what I mean? Give me something I can use, kid, that's all I'm sayin'!

And now, because Gus us three, when he's not talking, he's making annoying repetitive sounds. Oh, the magic of Annoying Repetitive Sounds! Example: when you're pretending to be a mouse, it's best to squeak everything, even requests for food! Your mother will not understand you--and boy, will she be annoyed!

Anyway. I am off to eat some pumpkin pie and apply a tourniquet to staunch the bleeding.

My So-Called Life

1. Today I got rear-ended. I was on the way home from picking the boys up from school, and one car hit another and then another and then us. Or something. We got slammed pretty good, which scared the boys but did not damage our solid steel Volvo bumper. But we still had to wait around for an hour while police reports and insurance information were filed.

At least no one was hurt! And I was able to explain to Gus why he must ALWAYS wear his seatbelt.

2. This morning a student brought in a kitten he'd found on the side of the road. He was carrying it in an old donut box, and it was so small that I initially thought it was a rat. I think it was about two weeks old--it was black, meowling frantically, and obviously ravenous. The teacher across the hall from me took it home this afternoon, which is good. One of her cats died recently, so a little rescue kitten is more than welcome at her house. I was prepared to take it in myself (anything to avoid animal control), but I was dreading breaking the news to Dashing Husband. He told me that the next animal that comes through the door better be something we can grill.

I don't yet know whether the kitten is a boy or a girl, but I do know that the baby sign for breastmilk is the basically the same, be the baby a kitten or a human. The poor little thing crawled all over me, and finally settled on pressing his tiny face into my hand, where he proceeded to lick the space between my fingers. The students in the other teacher's class finally got the cat to drink some milk from a syringe, and it spent the day being held by the girls.