Six Months

Noah is officially six months old now.

I planned to finally give in to the letters-to-baby thing and write a moving and bittersweet letter that I could press into his baby book -- a letter that would encapsulate every emotion and experience and life lesson I want him to learn and oh, how brilliant it would be.

I got this far:

Dear Noah,

Hi. How are you? I am fine.

Okay, bye!

Love,
Mama

So then I planned to write the letter after he went to bed -- a letter that would certainly include his cozy little bedtime routine, which involves him rubbing his eyes and sighing at precisely 8:15 pm which we take as a signal to read Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? Or even just recite it, because he no longer cares about the pictures but just waits with bated breath for us to announce the next animal (I see a...wait for it...RED BIRD looking at me!) before dissolving into giggles. Then we kiss him and say nite-nite and put him in his crib awake by 8:30. And then he...falls asleep, just like a completely rational human being.

I definitely wanted to write about that. But last night, about halfway through the parade of hallucinogenic-colored animals, I felt my lap growing strangely warm.

Purple cat, purple cat, what do you see? I see green poop leaking on me.

A bonafide ERUPTION of liquid was oozing out of his diaper, all over my legs.

Also all over the couch.

And Jason was working late, so I sat there paralyzed. What to do first? How to get the baby into the tub without leaving a trail of poop across the apartment? How to clean up the couch before the dog discovered the delicious fecal goodness? HOW TO GET THESE JEANS OFF OH MY GOD.

I finally got up and dashed into the nursery, blocking the diaper exit routes with my own torso, and put Noah on his changing table, reasoning that I'd get things under control with some wipes before giving him a bath which shows that six months does not a smart parent make, because have you ever like, dropped a full carton of milk and it went everywhere and then you didn't have any paper towels handy and had to use tissues? (No? Just me?)

So I belted him to the changing table and dashed across the hall to get a bath ready: towel water soap tubseat where's the damn tubseat oh damn it's in the kitchen better go get it; and when I returned to get Noah I found him dangling precariously off the changing table, waiting for one more solid kick of the legs to pitch him ass-over-teakettle into the Diaper Genie.

The poop had taken over and was firmly in charge.

He took one look at me and started laughing hysterically -- the deranged laughter of someone who is up past his bedtime and has just fingerpainted with his own waste all over the wall.

While I was hosing both of us down and yelling at Ceiba to STAY OFF THE COUCH OH GOD YOU ARE SO GROSS, the phone rang and I told it to go fuck itself.

Needless to say, I decided last night was probably not the best time to euphorically document the six-month milestone. Noah and I fell asleep on the non-poop-part of the couch immediately after the bath and I awoke some hours later to find Jason home and sitting next to me on the poop-part of the couch, like so glad we have a vicious watchdog to keep me safe, and when I mumbled something about him sitting on poop he informed me that I was drooling all over my son's head. I told him it was only fair at this point.

This morning, at daycare, some expectant parents were touring the center and observing Noah's classroom. And without even being aware of it, I switched into Happy Joyful Working Mother Mode in order to impress them with how awesome the whole set-up was. Look at Noah smile and reach for his teacher! Watch us happily chat and go about our morning business so completely natural-like! Look at me hide a bottle of diluted prune juice in the back of the fridge and write instructions for it on his chart without telling the teacher that dude, you are SO FUCKING IN FOR IT TODAY.

Noah sat on the floor, smiling beautifically in his little Chick Magnet onesie, and just as the parents commented on his adorableness, he puked.

"Okay, bye!" I said.

So I thought maybe I'd write the letter over lunch today. Maybe it wouldn't be so gushing because of the whole poop story, but I'm sure I could figure something out. I reached for my just-brewed cup of coffee and then something happened and I spilled it all over my desk and lap.

Green frog, green frog, what do you see? I see Amy breaking psychotically.

The coffee soaked through my clothes and burned my legs and I desperately grabbed tissues (tissues!) in order to SAVE MY COMPUTER, I AM NOT BREAKING TWO COMPUTERS IN ONE MONTH OH HELL NO and thought, you know? Fridays are not so much for me anymore.

Dear Noah,

Being your mother is better than the sum of its parts. I don't really get how the math works, but every moment I spend with you is the best moment of my life.

There is nothing you can do that would make me love you any less. There is nothing I wouldn't do to make you happy. There is nothing I would change.

Thank you for all the joy you've brought us. Thank you for these six amazing months.

Love,
Mama

P.S. I smell like coffee.

 

We Are All Totally Going to Die of the Chicken Pox!

Internet Lesson #47934780843: Do not ask the Internet for medical advice or opinions of any kind. Seriously. You may think it's kind of cute or that you'll get some reassurance that you are indeed freaking out about nothing, but no. You will be told that you are going to die.

Internet Lesson #99384672368: Do not talk about vaccines. AT ALL. You will be told that you are stupid, wrong, misinformed and also, totally going to die.

Parenthood Lesson #17: HEAT RASH, DUMBASS.

You know, considering that I STILL get emails from people suggesting diaper rash remedies, you'd think I would learn that me + rashes + the Internet = neverending insanity.

I also had a whole long thing typed up about the chickenpox vaccine thing -- exactly why I plan to pass on it at Noah's 12-month visit, why I want to delay it, why "delay" does not mean "never ever,"  why I do not need to be told how terrible chickenpox is for older children and adults, because this has pretty much been one of my biggest fears since adolescence besides having to outrun an erupting volcano someday, why I would never let Noah grow up with that same fear, why it's all a balancing act of getting sick vs. vaccination vs. which option provides the best lifelong protection, how I got the first shot of the vaccine at 20 years old and became too sick to receive the second shot yet received absolutely no immunity benefits, and also why I would never ever judge anyone for making a different decision regarding their child's health or tell them that they are going to die.

But then I deleted it. Meh.

Anyway, Noah's rash was good old-fashioned heat rash. It started on the belly and then spread to his back and underarms, and since teething has made him sort of miserable and even a little feverish, I once again convinced myself that it was the pox, the pox we are all totally going to die from, and there you have it. A few cool sponge baths and a couple hours sans clothing cleared it right up, and I am officially a Spaz.

Also: Not talking about it anymore. Really. As of the end of this sentence. Right...here. Period.

(POX!)

Anyway, today I actually want to update y'all on my mom, since so many of you have been so nice to ask about her.

She was originally scheduled to have a lumpectomy on April 24th. APRIL. TWENTY-FOURTH. This was...kind of annoying, because what the hell do you do in the meantime? Oh yes, there's a lump. A lump that was not there six months ago, and now it is, how about that, let's give it another two months before we do a single fucking blessed thing about it!

I taught myself to cross-stitch in the meantime; that's how crazy the whole thing drove me.

My poor mom, in the meantime, developed vertigo AND got a pelvic ultrasound, because piling on is FUN, and hooray, there's something wrong there too.

Like UTERINE CANCER WRONG.

So now, on top of the lumpectomy, she needs a D&C to determine if she does indeed have uterine cancer. It could be nothing. We're hoping for nothing. We like nothing. Let's hear it for the Seinfeldian uterus!

Of course, the good news is that hey, perhaps APRIL TWENTY-FOURTH is not really such a great idea anymore. So both procedures will take place on April 7th.

*crosses arms, stares at calendar, thinks about learning how to knit*

Sigh. All better now. Thank you, monkeyturtletoes.

WebMD

Dear Smart People of the Internet:

Please tell the dumb girl this is not what she thinks it is.

ACK.

I know I'm totally the Girl Who Cried Pox, since I freak out over every single rash he gets. One time I called my mom to report that Noah most definitely had chickenpox this time I really mean it, only to realize that I had red ink all over my hands and was simply smearing it on Noah every time I touched him, which was why the "rash" was spreading at an alarming rate RIGHT BEFORE MY EYES OMG.

My freak-out is completely selfish, as I'm all for Noah getting the pox over with before he's old enough to discover his fingernails and the Glory That Is A Good Scratch, but I NEVER HAD CHICKEN POX. THIS IS ALL ABOUT ME.

I planned to sweet-talk Noah's pediatrician into vaccinating me at his next visit, which is next week, like, OF COURSE.

(The Sidenote of Controversy! I am not going to vaccinate Noah against chickenpox, because as an adult who has never gotten the disease, and who has known for the better part of a decade that she needs the damn vaccine, yet still has not gotten said damn vaccine, I prefer for him to get his immunity the old-fashioned way -- just so I'm not calling him at college to bug him about getting the booster shot, knowing full well that he already spent his vaccine money on beer.)

Anyway, I think I am maybe being stupid about a harmless rash again (AGAIN!), but I'm taking him to the doctor anyway, if only to use that awesome "infectious disease" entrance they have with the special intercom.

Amy: Buzzzz

Nurse: Hello?

Amy: UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN!

Nurse: Yes, yes, please come in.

Amy: A POX ON THEE.

UPDATE! Not pox, just like you smart people said. While a couple spots were getting very fluidy-zit-like, the majority of the bumps faded by the time we GOT TO THE DOCTORS, BECAUSE OF COURSE. Looks like it's time to switch laundry detergents and for me to maybe chill the fuck out.

I'm getting vaccinated next week. God.

And Now, Some Non-Rash Excitement, Or Pretty Much The Highlight Of My Whole Weekend:

We went to Whole Foods and did the little thing where they send your groceries down to the parking garage on a dumb waiter and give you a number to claim them.

I take my organic prune juice shaken, not stirred.

HA! We're lame. Yes.

And Now, Um...Some Pictures, Because I Am Kind Of Not Doing So Well With The Writing Thing Today

THE DEMENTED TURTLE. HA HA HA HA. HA!

Noah would like to give you a hug and possibly gum your face a little bit.

 

Just don't let him suck on your nose anymore. Or you know, ever, because who lets their baby suck on their nose? Not me, that's for sure, oh no.

Ouch.

Who, me? I'm just sitting here like some kind of TODDLER ALL OF A SUDDEN, thinking of fast and effective ways to pass varicella directly into my mom's sinuses.

I am Utterly Obsessed with HBO's New Series Big Love But Was Unable to Seamlessly Weave That Into This Mess of an Entry

amalah: my readers wanted me to pass this article on to you.
jason: heh. funny.
jason: wait, why did people want me to read that?
amalah: *realizes he doesn't know she posted the story about leaving noah in the car that time*
amalah: um. no reason. crazy internet people, is all.

Also does not read this site. Will one day send me a cease & desist order regarding the Non-Stop Discussion of His Bodily Functions.

Is anyone out there brave enough to use the iPod shuffle mode in their car when they have passengers? Because I am not.

When I'm alone, the playlist is bound to be some kind of awesome Davie Bowie/Modest Mouse/Ben Folds combination, but I'm positive that if a friend or coworker is in the car it'll be all William Shatner/Iron Maiden/Chumbawamba* and there's just NO EXPLAINING THAT. It's like having Tivo -- you can no longer claim to have just STUMBLED on Flavor of Love or Jerry Springer because there was nothing else on. Bad music does not just leap onto your iPod, even when you're drunk on iTunes. You still make the choice that you would like to pay 99 cents for some Britney Spears, and it's a choice that sobers up the best of us.

The only thing I think I could get away with was claiming I'd accidentally taken Jason's iPod instead. Whoops! That husband of mine! With his crappy music! I'm telling the Internet! He'll never know!

*This is not to say that I actually have any of these artists on my iPod. Not at all.

**Okay, I will cop to the William Shatner. William Shatner is on my iPod and I enjoy him immensely and even non-ironically. This does not mean I am a nerd.

***What does make me a nerd is the fact that I ENJOY STAYING HOME ON FRIDAY NIGHTS TO WATCH BATTLESTAR GALACTICA. THERE. I SAID IT.

****That felt good to admit, actually. Am glad we had this chat.

*****Although if anyone asks, Jason is the one who set up the Tivo season pass and therefore, it's his fault.

Is not a human/Cylon hybrid, at least not as far as we can tell.

STUPID THINGS I HAVE DONE RECENTLY:

1. Took sip of beverage through a straw right as the elevator stopped on my floor with a not-so-gentle jolt, sent straw piercing through the soft flesh of the roof of my mouth, made loud gagging sound in front of four people I do not know.

2. Missed the deadline for applying to be on season 10 of the Amazing Race. Fuckity.

3. Bought a box of Girl Scout cookies before 10 am, consumed 3/4 of said box before 11 am.

Yes, I know this looks just like the other picture I posted but COME ON. There are also about 47 others in this series, so honestly, so I'd count yourselves lucky that I'm stopping with two.

THE FOLLOWING PHOTO ESSAY CONTAINS GRAPHIC CONTENT. PARENTAL DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

I came home yesterday to a rather horrific scene.

The trail of polyester stuffing began in the foyer. I immediately realized that somewhere in the house, a toy was suffering. Was I too late?

The floors are always pretty dusty, but even I knew this was excessive.

The carnage continued. My hopes sank.

OH THE HUMANITY!

That's Puppy. Max's Puppy. Max has had Puppy all his life, and likes to carry him around by the neck while Max sings him a song, which used to be the most preciousest thing you'd ever seen until you saw every picture of Noah ever taken. 

Puppy used to look like this. Now Puppy has no neck, eyeballs or innards.

Ceiba swore she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and had nothing to do with the massacre.

Unfortunately, there is no such thing as the perfect crime.

Okay! Three! I will stop at three. But see his outfit? How he looks like a little jailbird? So it fits in with the whole Crime & Punishment theme I had going there? Like...Noah went to...jail? Like...ha...ha? Stuffed animal murder is funny? No?

Fine. Frack you then.

From the Days Before My Job Sucked Out the Very Essence of My Soul On a Regular Basis

A coworker just found this photo recently, taken way back on the day of this post, right at the conclusion of a Crate Race.

Which is pretty much exactly what it sounds like.

Office packing crates + wheeled dollies + a bunch of bored and overcaffeinated people + long hallway = Crate Race, and also HUMILIATION

Please note my boss, who is strutting around like, "PWNED, bitches! Who's your daddy NOW, huh? HUH?"

And then there is the crate rider of the other team, who may be sobbing quietly while we taunt her.

And then there is me: defiant finger-pointing at the losers; white-knuckled grip on my crate; my hair thankfully blocking what was probably the hideous expression of Someone Who Is Taking This A Bit Too Seriously And Taking The Trash Talk Beyond Ha Ha Ha and Into Dude, AWKWARD.

Have I ever told you how ultra-competitive I am?  Because, yes.

I'm not competitive about intangible things -- like I Am Skinnier Than My Ex-Boyfriend's New Girlfriend, or I Don't Care If She's Skinnier Anyway, I Have Inner Peace And Also Nutter Butters -- but I get twitchy and heart-poundy over anything with a clear winner/loser distinction.

To wit: A game of Cranium on New Year's Eve reduced me to shaking a teammate who had passed out while I ordered her to drink WATER, YOU NEED WATER, and it was not because I cared about her hangover the next day. I NEEDED HER TO PAY ATTENTION DURING THE CHARADES. WAKE UP.

And even after everybody else lost interest in the game, I informed them that we were still going to add up the score and find out who won and IT BETTER BE MY TEAM OR ELSE I AM TAKING MY CASSEROLE DISH AND GOING HOME.

We won, of course, because I'd pretty much WILLED myself out of my champagne-fueled stupor to become the only sober person at the party, thus easily trampling over the drunk people who would NEVER be able to draw the concept of "kindred spirit" with their eyes OPEN, much less closed, because I ROCK the Sensosketch, y'all.

Jason has pulled me aside on more than one occasion (like the time we were playing tennis with people and I threw my racket at them) and quietly told me to chill the fuck out, and the thing is: I KNOW. I REALLY REALLY KNOW.

I try to avoid playing sports or board games or even engaging those uppity, know-it-all trivia machines at the bar because I KNOW.

The team in that photo is calling for a rematch. Part of me thinks that I should really sit this one out, but the other part says we could go even faster if I wore a helmet and curled up all aerodynamically inside the crate and dude, would it kill my boss to wear some track shoes? Or some kind of unitard?

In competitive Crate Racing, I fear there are no real winners.

Noah and his exersaucer would school all of yo' asses, and he laughs at your pitiful tennis backhand.

Both Sides, Now

I woke up at 5 am this morning in a dead panic about everything I had to accomplish at work today, and tomorrow, and the day after that, and the rest of the week stretched out ominously ahead of me with the ohgodohgod I'm so behind and so tired and I think that one guy has it in for me and is going to get me fired and I just want to go back to sleeeeeeep.

Jason got up at six to retrieve Noah and brought him back to our bed in a diaper and announced that he had to change all the crib bedding because Noah had pooped at some point in the night and the poop did not stay in the diaper and well, you know.

"Clean crib sheets in the top drawer," I mumbled as I tried to find the elusive baby-sitting-upright-against-a-pillow-while-I-remain-as-asleep- as-possible-on-the-same-pillow position so I could give Noah his bottle.

Jason gave me a Look. A Look beyond the obvious I know where the goddamn crib sheets are, woman, our child is almost half a year old. A look that said Crib sheets! Ha! If only it were that simple!

"Oh no," I said. "Not like, the bumpers and everything?"

Jason nodded grimly and sighed. "I miss swaddling. It kept things so...contained."

One of my biggest fears, pre-baby, was that I was going to regret having a child. That the never-ending cycle of thankless grudgery and no sleep and less money and BODILY FLUIDPALOOZA would wear me down and I'd look at my child's face and have one of Those Moments.

Like the moment I had when my mom told me they were putting their dog to sleep. And she sounded so sad and I looked at Ceiba and remembered how much my mom always liked her and thought, "Huh. Now THAT'S an interesting solution." And then my own jaw dropped open because holy hell, did I really just think that?

After feeding Noah, I burped him and placed him next to me in bed while I rubbed my temples and tried to ignore the minutes ticking away on the clock. If I had any chance of getting to work on time, I needed to get up. Immediately. Five minutes ago. Ten minutes ago.

Then Noah spotted Ceiba across the room and started laughing. He started dragging himself towards her -- this face-down belly scoot thing isn't new, but he's certainly mastered it -- and I pulled him back before he could topple off the bed. I held him over me and buried my face in the impossibly-soft skin of his belly.

This provoked another laugh, followed by a burp, followed by spit-up, all over the top of my head.

I silently handed Noah off to Jason, for whom I no longer had any poop-related sympathy for, and went off to shower.

I used to worry that pregnancy would destroy my body. That my belly button would never go back to normal and that I would get stretch marks and one of those kind of mushy rings of flab around my middle.

Check, check and double check. I'd be lying if I said I didn't notice or didn't care, but I think I'm getting better about not  spending so much time obsessing over it. Probably because who the hell has time to obsess over a collapsed-in navel?

All my work clothes are in my dry-cleaning pile -- the pile I refuse to make any sort of dent in because that would require carrying a bag of dry cleaning out the front door with me and mess up the tentative equilibrium I've mastered (daycare bag on left shoulder, held in place by Noah's body weight balanced on my hip, purse on right shoulder, lunch in plastic grocery bag with handles threaded around purse handles, keys dangling from right index finger so as not to pinch Noah's soft thighs when right hand is used to secure him, brain trying to not think about the heady childless days when I had a free hand to carry fresh-brewed coffee to work, for Christ's sake).

I carefully lined up all the pieces to Noah's bottles on the kitchen counter and assembled each one. Bottle, flouride-fortified water, four scoops of formula, rubber thing attached to plastic tube, travel disc, nipple, ring, cap, shake shake shake. Repeat. Again.

Noah's toenails needed clipped. I still wasn't dressed. Ceiba peed on the rug and Max tipped over the garbage and was dragging a chicken bone around the living room.

Noah whined from his exersaucer, rubbing his face miserably. The new tooth caused his gums to swell back over it. His nose is running and the drool is out of control.

I was afraid of having a boy. I didn't know anything about little boys. I was afraid that I wouldn't enjoy my baby as he got older and more independent. I was afraid I would just do everything wrong.

I walked over to him and he broke out into a beaming smile and raised his arms up and out to me.

This weekend Jason, completely out of the blue, mentioned that he was thinking that he might want another baby. That he could see us having another baby. A girl, even. And maybe soon.

Yeah. Noah's that great. He's that worth it.

I would do it all over again in a minute.  My God, in a second.

Free Random Parmesan Cheese for Everyone!

I really believe my streak of bad luck is coming to an end. I brought in some delicious homemade minestrone for lunch, but was saddened when I realized I forgot to grate some parmesan cheese over it this morning. Yet what should I find neatly stacked up in our office kitchen today? Why, three or four little containers of grated parmesan cheese!

I am not going to think about why in the name of Samuel H. Heck there was random parmesan cheese in the kitchen, nor am I going to think about what type of person helps herself to said random parmesan cheese and then immediately runs off to tell the Internet about it, because like, score, dude.

*pumps fist in air, hums Rocky song, because FREE RANDOM CHEESE, WHEE!*

BUT ANYWAY:

Yesterday, I drove up to Baltimore to brunch and shop (I love using "brunch" as a verb, incidentally, although I generally feel like punching other people who do the same) with the delightful Sweetney.

Oh no, honey, I think they sat us next to some goddamn BLOGGERS again.

I would like to state for the record that Google Maps is every bit as vindictive as Mapquest, as they got me ridiculously lost and looking for streets that I AM NOT SURE ACTUALLY EXIST, and poor Sweetney's first non-email conversation with me involved me calling her to admit (in a very upbeat tone of voice!) that I was completely lost in a very sketchy neighborhood and desperately trying not to convey that I was about 99% sure I was going to die.

Because you know, I wanted her to think that I am cool.

 

Sweetney's a total MILF, in case you were wondering.

I took pictures of our beverages, which were pleasingly color-coordinated with the placements.

We talked about the exact same things every blogger talks about when they meet for the first time: Crazy People on the Internet We Have Dirt On and Real Estate: Really, Who the Fucking Fuck Can Afford This Fucking Shit.

(Seriously, I think I talked about real estate for like, two solid hours. Sweetney pretended to be interested for awhile and then, in apparent desperation, took me to various stores where I could buy things with our mortgage money, like gourmet dog biscuits.)

I peed on rug while you were gone. Sorry. Gimme biscuit now.

MEANWHILE, BACK IN THE REALM OF BORING:

Noah woke up this morning with the tiniest little nub of a tooth.

I think he's just as disturbed by this development as I am.

The Day After Tomorrow

Yes. So sorry about that. Long-time readers know that whenever I say a specific topic will be covered "tomorrow," I actually mean "the day after that or quite possibly, never."

You should probably yell at the long-time readers for not telling you about that endearing little quirk of mine.

(IT IS ENDEARING. MY MOM SAID SO. SHUT UP, ALL OF YOU.)

Eek! You will now forgive me for anything!

So it's been exactly a week since the Heartbreaking Friday of Staggering Suck, and honestly, I'm still a little twitchy about it.

I won't close my car doors unless I am physically holding my keys in my hand and staring right at them, and on several occasions have gone so far to talk to my keys as another way to affirm that yes, these keys in my hand are not inside the car.

(Bonus to having a baby: All the running commentary that otherwise gets you looked at as the crazy person talking out loud to your keys or to the ATM [Don't you eat my card, Mr. ATM Machine, don't you fucking dare eat my goddamn card] is now perfectly appropriate because you are teaching the baby LANGUAGE SKILLS.)

My mom talks to grocery carts. Help.

Nothing too horrific has happened to me since, except for my office losing power this morning and me having the bright idea that hey! Wouldn't it be fun to go buy people Shamrock Shakes? Who wouldn't want a Shamrock Shake while they huddle under the one lone working emergency light? I would like a Shamrock Shake!

So I went to go buy Shamrock Shakes and had to go to TWO different McDonald's to get them, because the first McDonald's decided that yesterday -- the day before St. Patrick's Day -- was the last day for Shamrock Shakes, which is kind of missing the point entirely in my world, but okay, so I drove to a whole OTHER McDonald's and then everybody laughed at me when I ordered 12 Shamrock Shakes and even the manager came out to look at the freak ordering a dozen milkshakes.

The good news: Shamrock Shakes are just as tasty as I remembered, although probably way more toothpastie green in color than is really necessary.

What? His jammies are green, so this segues PERFECTLY.

In other news, I finally decided to enter this century and bought a damn iPod. I was always resistant to getting an iPod because I was afraid I wouldn't understand how to use it, like my scanner and my photo printer -- all of which I have to get Jason to set up for me and tell exactly which button to hit every time, because I always load the paper in backwards and upside down or something. And so I figured an iPod would be another gadget that required Jason's help and honestly, the guy already thinks I am kind of functionally retarded so I didn't need that hypothesis tested any further.

But! I bought one, after Jason assured me that iTunes works via drag and drop and that even very dumb monkeys can use it. And indeed! It is very easy and I have figured out how to put songs on the iPod and set it to the famous "shuffle" mode that all the kids are talking about these days, on the blogs and street corners and whatnot, and I am now thinking that I need to buy a Coach cover for it because it's just so small and precious.

(Jason says no, I cannot buy a Coach cover for it because we spent all our money on the iPods themselves and wonders what's wrong with the simple rubbery ones that they sell everywhere, and I wonder how this man knows me NOT BUT AT ALL SOMETIMES.)

(So I've retaliated by walking around with my iPod saying, "Nano nano!" like from Mork & Mindy all the damn time, which bugs Jason very, very much. I don't think this will get me the Coach case, but it is fun.)

ANYWAY, the point of this story is that I've been taking the iPod to bed with me and listening to a few songs to drown out whatever crazy car crashy action film has sucked Jason in right as I'm trying to go to sleep. It's very nice, except for last night when I woke up at 3:30 am to the BLARING PROFANITY of Eminem, completely baffled and disoriented, and I hit Jason several times because I thought the clock radio was going off and MAKE IT STOP SLIM SHADY, ACK. After several minutes of flailing I finally got it together enough to yank the headphones out of my ears, and as I lay there panting and traumatized, I tried to figure out what the odds were of getting over three hours' worth of Indigo Girls and Sarah McLachlan before my secret weakness for gangster rap came up in the shuffle.

After taking this photo, Jason kindly recommended that I suck my stomach in. And then I popped my glock and killed him.

In other other news, Jason received a jury summons this week. HA!

Hmmph.

Speaking of jury duty, I will now tell you about the thing that I told you this entry would be about: jury duty.

Jury duty is very boring. It is not like television at all, and when the defense lawyer even tried to go for some dramatic DUN DUN DUUUUUUN moment, the prosecutor was ALL UP IN THAT with the objections and the whole thing was stricken from the record.

So mostly, it was a lot of this: blah blah blah objection sustained blah blah blah reasonable doubt-cakes.

I did get to eat lunch outside on a gorgeous day, however, and listened to my iPod and took a picture of my shoes with my phone.

When did I become the biggest goddamned yuppie I know? Also, nice blindingly white calves.

In the end, it was a pretty unsatisfying experience. We returned a not guilty verdict based on reasonable doubt. So I didn't get a criminal off the streets of my beloved city, and I'm not 100% sure we set an innocent kid free. I was also not allowed to keep my trial notes, which was a shame, because I had some darn nice squiggly doodles in there.

They probably took her notes away because she kept talking to her pen.

And in the final and probably best bit of news (good Lord, is this a website entry or a fucking holiday newsletter?), my sister had her baby this week.

My sister -- who was 18 years old when I was born, who had her first baby (a girl) when I was 11 years old, whose first baby is now 17 years old and possibly going to Georgetown in another year -- HAD A BABY THIS WEEK.

We now have baby boys less than six months apart.   

Mind! Blown!

Welcome to the craziest family ever, baby Nicholas. To say that I am a weepy little ball of excitement over you is an understatement. I will send you clothes and anything that your cousin hasn't puked on too much.

Noah sort of already knows what Nicky is in for, yet he is not screaming.

Mercury Retrograded

OR, THE LONGEST POST EVER BECAUSE IT IS ACTUALLY THREE OR FOUR POSTS THAT I HAVE NOT GOTTEN AROUND TO WRITING, SO PLEASE SCHEDULE THE REST OF YOUR DAY ACCORDINGLY.

A powernap might be in order about halfway through too.

So I was picked for a jury on Thursday.

I've never been picked before. The last time I had jury duty I spent about two hours in the Juror's Lounge watching Ken Burn's baseball documentary, then about 45 minutes in a hallway outside a courtroom being lined up randomly by juror number, then re-lined up even more randomly, and then we all filed into the courtroom where the defendant took one look at us and decided to plead guilty to whatever.

I don't know why. Perhaps we all just had that pro-death-penalty look about us or something.

Then I was sent home, and in a fit of goodwill towards man I donated my $4 travel fee to the city.

This time, I said I would be keeping my goddamned travel fee, thank you very much, City Who Called Me For Service While I Was On Maternity Leave And So Did Not Care About My Squawling Breastfed Infant And Only Let Me Defer Service And Promised Use Of Some Kind Of Closet For Pumping.

I also only spent about 20 minutes in the Juror's Lounge before being called to a courtroom, which was fine, because OH GOD THE ODORS, and they were STILL showing that damned baseball thing, and the TV near my seat was on the fritz, which made the documentary look exactly like scrambled porn.

This time, there was no big elaborate lining up process, as they just called our numbers and hustled us right in. And I was immediately struck with the realization that I was far too close to the front of the line, and if more than two people ahead of me were dismissed, I was going to be on the jury.

So I held out hope that there would be SOMETHING offensive about me -- did I know the lawyers? The witnesses? Had I magically become a lawyer that morning? Had Jason magically become a cop? Was one of the questions going to be about bloggers? Or about people who just really, really don't like being bored and therefore should be allowed to go home?

My only "yes" response to any of the questions was the one about being a victim of a gun-related crime, which I was, kind of, because my cat was shot by a teenager with a BB gun when I was four and it was very sad and I thought maybe the lawyers wouldn't want some girl with a pet-related vendetta against people with guns.

Unfortunately, I could not pull off acting like some girl with a pet-related vendetta. I just ended up looking like some girl who was really desperate to Not Get Picked.

I got picked. Fuckers.

The trial started late in the day on Thursday, but was then recessed until Monday morning because the judge had some kind of scheduling conflict on Friday.

So the trial will actually be a whole other entry, because today I must tell you about Friday, also known as the Day That Did Not Like Amy Very Much At All.

DISCLAIMER: You are probably going to think that I am lying. No, not probably. You are going to read this entry and go, "That Amy person is a goddamned liar."  Every person that I have told this story to has nodded politely yet incredulously, and then informed me that I am 100% full of shit, but I swear to God, every damn word of this is true.

I woke up Friday morning and broke my toe. On the vacuum cleaner. At 5 a.m.

I tripped over the vacuum and literally HEARD the little fucker crack, the same little pinkie toe fucker that I keep breaking, over and over and over, to the point of ridiculous, because at this rate, one of these days I'm going to put my shoes on and my toe will just snap the fuck off.

Anyway, some people might think that this might be a sign to go back to bed.

(Or even to go the fuck back to bed, in keeping with the near non-stop stream of profanity I've got going so far.)

But I did not go back to bed. I got up and hobbled on and put Noah in the car and drove all the way out to Maryland, pulled up to his daycare center and realized that I'd left the diaper bag, the one with all his bottles and food and other essentials, at home.

I thought about just running to the grocery store and buying some random brand of bottle and some pre-mixed formula, but then I remembered that Noah had a Poop Incident the day before, just like the day before that, and no longer had a spare outfit in his cubby.

(The increased frequency of Poop Incidents are completely my fault, as Noah needs bigger diapers, but I am stubborn and cheap and am making his daycare use that entire damn package of Size Twos before I bring in a package of Size Threes, because I said so.)

So if there was another Poop or Spit-Up Incident, they'd just make me take Noah home. I ran through my workday and remembered a meeting that I could not miss that afternoon, especially not because of POOP, and I realized that bah, I needed to go back home and get the damn bag.

So I did. I drove all the fuck back to DC.

The goddamned prep school kids had taken all the street parking, so I parked a little too close to a stop sign, ran in (well, lumbered in, with Noah, who is outgrowing clothes even faster than diapers) and grabbed the bag. Which was sitting DIRECTLY in front of the exersaucer, from which I'd plucked Noah from that morning before heading out, which meant I had to PURPOSELY SIDESTEP the bag to get to the front door.

When I got back to the car, I had a $30 parking ticket.

I drove back to Maryland.

I pulled back into the daycare parking lot.

I got out, unbuckled Noah, locked the car with the remote, gathered the bag and the baby up and shut the car door.

As it shut, for one brief split second, I saw my keys sitting on the backseat.

I locked.

My keys.

In the car.

 

FUCK! FUCKING! FUCKER!

Have y'all seen The Money Pit? Do you remember when the bathtub fell through the ceiling? And Tom Hanks just stared down through the hole in the floor and laughed like a crazy person?

That was me. Although once I got inside Noah's daycare I totally started to cry.

In a brilliant streamlining move, I'd left my purse in the car, along with my wallet and cell phone. I asked to use the daycare's phone, although I had no idea who to call. My Subaru roadside assistance card was in my wallet. Jason's number was on speed dial.

(Hi. I don't actually know my husband's cell phone number. Yes. I am not making this up. Take away my speed dial and you take away my ability to function at any passable level in the world.)

But! In the one brief shining moment! The universe decided to stop whaling on me! One of the teachers at daycare was a locksmith! She kept a slimjim in her car! They would get her for me! It was all going to be okay!

Yeah, except that she did not have the slimjim with her that day. Because she TOOK IT OUT OF HER CAR THE NIGHT BEFORE.

This time, I sort of combined the HAAAA HAAAAA HAA HA AAAAHAA laughter with sobbing.

The center directors kind of backed away from me and I never saw them again.

The teacher, however, took pity on me and called her boyfriend, who was also a locksmith, and who was only 15 minutes away and would come help me directly.

And he did, and it took both of them to unlock the car, because I couldn't remember which button unlocked the doors and once I remembered, I told them to hit the button in the wrong direction.

I don't blame the guy for charging me $20, which I paid for with three crumpled up five-dollar bills, four ones, three quarters, two dimes and a nickel I found in the ashtray.

I got to work at noon. AT NOON.

I borrowed a dollar from someone, got some Ramen noodles from the vending machine, and opened my email to read that my meeting that afternoon had been canceled.

My friend Spencer listened to my tale of woe, pretended like he TOTALLY believed all that stuff actually happened to one person, and later brought me a balloon animal to cheer me up. A balloon animal with another, tinier balloon animal inside of it.

It's a dingo. And it ate your baby.

I may still be laughing about that, a little bit.

Tomorrow: The Curious Incident of the Gun on the Floor of the Car at the Club

Oh, the Litigations You'll See

I have so very many stories to tell y'all, including stories about:

1) Why Law & Order is a big lying pile of shit,
2) The bathing habits of the DC citizenry, like, DUDES,
3) Toe vs. Vacuum Cleaner (advantage: Hoover),
4) Why I am an idiot, part 3290084334686423, and
5) Why "Is there a certified locksmith on staff?" should be one of your top questions when interviewing daycare providers.

(Edited later because apparently, numbering five different items properly is really, really hard. Wouldn't you want me on a jury of your peers?)

But I cannot tell any of them now, as I am back to court today to mete out harsh and totally-not-swift justice. Bah.

However, I do think this hat may be violating some kind of cuteness statute.

Have a good day, pretty people, spay and neuter your pets, and please remember to keep your handguns licensed and registered.