Lists. The Final Blogging Cop-Out Frontier.

THREE MOST AWESOMELY ESSENTIAL BABY TOYS

1) Munchkin Mozart Magic Cube, gift from sister

2) Spare toothbrushes, gift from dentist

3) OMSORG shoehorn, Ikea, 99 cents

TEN THINGS MY PRESCHOOLER WILL EAT

1) Pizza crust

2) Grilled cheese sandwich crust

3) Bread, but without the crust

4) Macaroni & cheese fromabox fromabox thatisnotfromaboxnoooo

5) Sticker Cheerios (Honey Nut Cheerios)

6) Pananas (bananas)

7) Nolabars (granola bars)

8) Trader Joe's Vegetable Masala Burgers

9) Anything you liquefy in a blender, pour into a sippy cup and call it "juice"

10) Air, probably. Does it have a crust?

THINGS MY BABY WILL NOT EAT

1) Uh.

2) Hmm.

3) He didn't seem too fond of that lettuce leaf the other night?

4) But then he grabbed some parsley leaves right off the plant in the garden and ate those?

5) Yeah, I'm stumped. He eats everything.

THINGS MY PRESCHOOLER SAID "I LOVE YOU" TO TODAY

1) Plastic DVD case, The Polar Express

2) Toy boom box from Yo Gabba Gabba playset

3) Thomas the Tank Engine packpack (backpack)

4) Book dust jacket, Knuffle Bunny Too

5) Sippy cup of "juice"


THINGS MY PRESCHOOLER SAID "YOU ARE NOT MY FRIEND!!" TO TODAY

1) Mama

THINGS MY BABY WILL MIMIC

1) Tongue-clucks

2) Clapping

3) Waving

4) Rasberry-blowing

5) "Da da"


THINGS MY BABY WILL NOT MIMIC

1) "Ma ma! Mmmmaaaa mmmmaaaaa. Come on. WTF. MAMA!"


THINGS I DID THIS MORNING

1) Spent hour transferring contents of refrigerator in kitchen to much-older-but-at-least-mostly-consistently-working refrigerator in basement and several coolers in preparation for the delivery of our new refrigerator, purchased last weekend after finally giving up on:

        1a) refrigerator in kitchen to magically fix self, stop randomly letting everything in the freezer melt while everything in the fridge turns to ice, and yes I already suggested putting the ice in the fridge and the milk in the freezer but Jason wouldn't let me so WHATEVER

        1b) appliance repairman who made several hundred dollars in useless repairs to give us our money back because...because...I don't know why, it just seems like the sporting thing to do, but then again, we did this to him

        1c) randomly coming into a shitload of free money so we wouldn't have to pay for a new fridge with the credit card, but apparently it takes a LOT longer than I thought for the widow of the Former Prime Minister of NewZealandTown to monetize four hundred million American dollars through the Bank of Nigeria.

2) Waited all morning and afternoon for call about the delivery of the new refrigerator.

3) Scolded preschooler for smearing mustard in his hair.

4) Noticed even larger dribble of mustard down the front of my own shirt.

5) Dug up receipt for new refrigerator in order to call and Get Huffy About It.

6) While on hold, noticed the bolded, all-caps, circled delivery date on the reciept said "7/17/09"

7) Hung up phone, sheepishly.

8) Shrieked in terror when phone immediately rang afterwards, like omg I hung up on Sears and now they're mad at me!

9) Realized that the downstairs refrigerator is leaking all over the floor, our washing machine no longer recognizes the 2nd Rinse function and our stove thinks the broiler can go fuck itself.

10) Nobly and selflessly rescued bottle of Yuengling from certain spoilage in busted-ass fridge.

Life is Boringful

Some days I can't think of a single thing worth writing about.

 

Some days, nouns and verbs and adjectives simply have nothing to add.

Some days, I simply won't forget.

Testing, Testing

Why, hello! Sooooo very glad to be back in the land of working Internet access. Ours was shut off yesterday. Not "down," shut off. Along with our cable. Because we rule at life and money. RULE I SAY.

Our credit/debit card numbers were apparently "compromised" after a break-in at our bank, so we were issued new ones a few months ago. And while we THOUGHT we'd gone and updated all the various auto-billing and auto-pay thingies, I guess we never got around to the Internet and cable. And the bills kept arriving in the mail, past due balances and late fees adding up month after month, but we did not realize this, because, well. We never opened the envelopes. Because of the auto-pay! RUN MY LIFE, CREDIT-BOTS.

At some point, Jason realized Verizon was trying to bill a no-longer-valid card and updated it. And then Verizon tried to charge the new card for...like...many hundreds of dollars in past-due charges. And the new card was rejected, because we only had...like...zero hundreds of dollars in the account. And boom! Shut off and shut down.

I don't want to bore y'all to death with the run-down of What It Took to get everything turned back on yesterday, but let me summarize thusly: GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER, VERIZON FIOS. I may be broke, but I still have my pride and a general understanding of the "transfer" function on most business phones. Stop telling me I need to call another number after I've spent 45 minutes on the number the "denial of service" roadblock page on my computer told me to call, alternately arguing with an automated-voice-bot thing or on hold with someone who 1) cannot find my account, and/or 2) cannot take my payment ANYWAY, and/or 3) cannot transfer me to someone who can, because I need to call another number.

But hey! Don't forget to remind me for the three dozenth time that I can pay my bill online. Which is a FANTASTIC idea. Quick, turn my Internet access back on so I can get online to pay my bill to get my Internet access turned back on and OH SHIT I'VE FALLEN INTO A LOGIC WORMHOLE AAAAHHHHHHHHHH

(I eventually paid using my phone. Which hoooo, boy, THAT was a good time, trying to correctly enter a 20-digit account number and credit card information without fat-fingering anything, and also I had to GUESS at my account balance because the login you use to pay your bill is not the same login you use to view your bill, I mean, of course it isn't, and I didn't have that other login, because every time I tried to register for it Verizon told me they couldn't find my account, please call Customer Service, eat shit and die.)

(Wait. Did I say something about NOT boring you with that story? Huh. I am quite a liar!)

Anyway. Here. Look at some photos of some kids I know.

(Here's Noah back in the day, in the same outfit, though slightly younger and a LOT balder.)

Neck Cramp, Camp. Hey, That Rhymes! I Hereby Declare This Entry "Cohesive."

There was a time when my Monday posts almost always included a description of how I'd managed to injure myself over the weekend. I fell out of cabs, tripped on my stilettos, got drunk and fell down hills with staggering frequency. Such were the occupational hazards of being young and fabulous and dripping with disposable income.

NOTE: If I'd fallen down this weekend, I could have typed "How the mighty have fallen!" and then been all, "LITERALLY!" and then been all, "RIM SHOT!" and then you guys could have been all, "UNSUBSCRIBE."

I did not fall down this weekend. But I certainly did not let that stand in my way.

First, I bit my tongue, and then accidentally stabbed my gums with a fork five minutes later. Drew blood both times.

Second, I woke up on Friday morning with my neck...just...oh God, it was just ALL WRONG. I couldn't move it to the right without PAIN, oh God, the PAIN. If I may just Drama Queen all over the place for a minute or two, I am fairly sure this was the most pain I have ever been in, at least since the time I had to work a trade show floor for eight hours in high heels. Also: labor, and whatever.

I tried heating pads and those sticky hot wrap things and Ibuprofen and stretching and massage and moaning.  And I spent the next two days with my head sort of cocked to the left, which might explain why that weird lady at the playground kept trying to talk to me about her dog, a dog she carried around in a sling, therefore she felt entitled to offer me advice about babywearing, up to and including reaching out to grab my baby's foot and attempting to shove it into the sling because she was afraid I would let a door slam on it. My facial expression may have read "holy FUCK do not TOUCH him," but my head position just screamed, "oh, how INTERESTING, please do go on!"

NOTE: If you're wondering how I was carrying the baby around in a sling if my neck was so grievously injured, I can tell you: leftover c-section Percocet*. It actually worked so well that it freaked me out a litle bit. Like, OH! This shit is fantastic! I totally get Celebrity Rehab now! I'm sorry I judged you, Jeff Conaway! I'm going...to stop after one dose, I think. Maybe give the heating pad another try.

The neck injury was caused by too much Wii Bowling, by the way. When you reach Pro status your ball gets all sparkly and stuff.

*For the record, I feel overwhelmingly un-pregnant. I'm telling you now, I'm confident it's a big fat no. Although I did have one of those OH SHIT, FLIPPER-BABY moments a few hours after taking the Percocet and had to go Google it. Luckily I was reassured that one measly little incident of borderline prescription drug abuse would not result in a flipper-baby. I was also reassured because Percocet makes everything alllllll riiiiiiight.

***

Okay. So on to Noah's summer camp, which has nothing to do with my neck. I don't think. Yet. Give me another can of Coke and a solid hour of naptime and I just might get ridiculous enough to try to end this entry with some sappy, circular metaphor of some kind. And then I'll be all, "BOO-YAH" and you'll be all, "I SAID UNSUBSCRIBE,."

You guys, the camp is SO GREAT. Every morning Noah waits impatiently outside the classroom door while the therapists and grad students finish up their strategy session, he barrels in at top speed and checks out every play/sensory/tactile station that's been set up around the room. He may wave me off or grant me a quick kiss goodbye...but probably not. He gets pretty busy pretty quickly. He plays in the ball pit and rode on a scooter -- I know he did these things because HE TOLD ME SO, HIMSELF, AFTER I ASKED.

<places hand on heart, faints dramatically, re-injures neck>

They've started him on the Wilbarger Protocol, two times per morning session. After Noah's very first transition-related tantrum at circle time (AGAIN with the fucking circle time; I seriously wonder if Noah would be more interested if they called it octogon or trapezoid time), the OT managed to get him to tell her why he was so upset: he put his hands over his head, attempted cover both his eyes and ears, and said, "It too much. It hurts."

<is just going to type the rest of this entry from down here on the floor, if that's all right.>

The brushing technique is one of those weird, quacky-sounding OT things -- deep massage with a plastic surgical brush? what? -- but apparently, it's working rather well. It calms him down and reduces the endless wandering, fidgeting, reciting. And he is an angel -- AN ANGEL CHILD FROM HEAVEN -- for hours after camp. Today he announced it was time for a nap and I pouted, because man, we're having so much fun! I wanna keep playing! I don't wanna put you down for a nap! Stay here and tell Mama about the ball pit again!

They've also given Noah a specific diagnosis from under the big umbrella of sensory processing/integration disorders: Dyspraxia. While other therapists we've met with have left it non-specific, because Noah exhibits behaviors from ALL OVER the goddamn place, this team believes Noah will actually benefit from a more targeted diagnosis and treatment plan. Since getting their assessment, I pulled out my old dog-eared copy of the Out-of-Sync Child and reviewed my answers to all the zillions of checklists it contains, and would you believe that 99% of the sticking boxes from the stinking dyspraxia lists are checked off, and yet I still fretted more about whether Noah was OVER-responsive or UNDER-responsive, because THOSE checklists were split about 50/50, so WHAT DOES THAT MEEEEEAN?

It means learn how to read a fucking graph, asshole.

Anyway. Camp is great! Hooray camp!

Actually. Hang on. Lemme fix that.

Noah is great! Hooray Noah!

Deodorant Wars IV: The New Class

(Part One, Two, Three)

I originally planned to rewrite the theme song for Saved By The Bell with all new deodorant-inspired lyrics. I got as far as "When I wake up in the mornin' and my pits give out a warnin' and I don't think that I'll ever stay dry" before I thought better of it. MOVING ON. Let's meet our fresh new cast members:

DEGREE SEXY INTRIGUE: Hi! Yes. For real. I'm SEXY INTRIGUE from Degree's new "Fine Fragrance Collection." Because apparently deodorant has gone and gotten itself a big ol' complex about being one of those boring, utilitarian things that everybody uses. No! Deodorants are FANCY now. Fancy and fine and blinged out to the maxx. We're like recession perfume. Caviar for your armpits. You may not have a job or much money anymore, but goddammit, you've got a deodorant with a GOLD STICKER ON IT, bitches.

Let's take a closer look at that label:

(Sexy! And intriguing! I could stare at those...um...amoeba-like puffed-rice animal-spot things all day. I feel like this is the EXACT design that would result if you asked The Girls Next Door to come up with something.)

SECRET SCENT EXPRESSIONS: Whatever, gold labels are nice, but look at me! I SPARKLE. Like a certain abstinent teen-angsty vampire that apparently All The Kids Today are going bonkers over. I wonder if there's a way I could cash in on the Twilight franchise even MORE directly...

Also available: Cool Melon Cullen and Wet Werewolf.

DEGREE GIRL: Hi! I'm Degree Girl. I smell like Just Dance. I'm...okay, I'm just totally ridiculous.

SUAVE: I cost a dollar.

NATURALLY FRESH: Hi, I'm Naturally Fresh. A Spray Mist That Cares About Breast Cancer. But not about what Snopes says. I care about YOU. And your health. As you can see by my all-inclusive label, I don't care whether you're a man or a woman: Use me and you will ALL die alone. And smelly. Fine, I don't work very well, but it's the thought that counts. Right?

COMING UP LATER THIS SEASON, ON DEODORANT WARS, THE NEW CLASS:

Romance!

Special-guest star DEGREE CLINICAL PROTECTION helps Suave get a date by making him do a lot of push-ups. Naturally Fresh provides the "just be yourself!" bullshit. In the end, everybody learns and loves and laughs.

And on a Very Special Episode, very special guest star Dried-Out Empty Tube Of Degree Ultra-Clear stops by to have a talk with the girls about not having sex on prom night.

(Dear IRS, Yes, I am indeed submitting a receipt for a ridiculous number of deodorants as a business expense. As you can see, I am a serious businesswoman conducting very serious business.)

I Asked a Bottle of Red Wine to be My Life Coach, and Look Where It Got Me

Conclusion to Amy Takes Her Foot-in-Mouth Show On the Road: Holy awkward SHITBALLS, people. She walked by me this morning and didn't even LOOK at me. And then picked her son up EARLY this afternoon. Probably just to avoid me, because I am sure I made that much of an impression and there couldn't possibly be any other explanation, like a doctor's appointment or a vacation or...okay, there are possibly a few other explanations. But me and my mad social skillz remain suspicious. Suspicious and lonely and very glad we were both too lazy to follow-through on the cookie idea.

Over the last few weeks I've read more than a smattering of blog entries addressing the whole "are we done having babies" question. A good number of them were written by women with babies somewhere around Ezra's age. And they of course got me thinking about writing a similar entry, because I haven't had an original thought bash around my skull since at least 2004. (Unless you include the thing with the talking deodorants. Then I am a national treasure of useless creative vision.)

A few weeks after Ezra was born, I tentatively said something to Jason about the topic. Something like, "We're done, right?" And he immediately said yes, we're done.

So I asked him when, you know, he planned on calling the doctor, as per our longstanding agreement on the division of childbearing and childpreventing duties. And then he immediately said, oh, wait, I didn't mean THAT done.

Noah was going to be our only child -- a plan that lasted about five weeks or so. The whole experience was exactly like a roller coaster -- terrifying, thrilling, hard on the eardrums -- and we were already shrieking "LET'S GO DO THAT AGAIN!" before the safety bars had even been released.

And Ezra, of course, was going to be our last child. I tried to savor my pregnancy accordingly: This is the last time I'll feel a baby kicking. The last time I'll prepare a nursery. The last time I'll have the belly and the boobs and the nausea and the fat face and the weird skin and the backaches and the puking for SIX GODFORSAKEN MONTHS.

Right. So maybe I could kind of see the positives of the "no more babies" situation. At times, anyway. Plus, it was finally dawning on me that babies are actually SMALL CHILDREN. Who become slightly bigger children. And that no matter what we do or how hard we pray it to be otherwise, I am going to have to deal with a three-year-old ALL OVER AGAIN.

We're done. Right?

***

Last week Jason and I booked the babysitter and went out for some sushi and a movie. There was a young couple next to us with their baby girl, who was about Ezra's age. I made some kind of involuntary squawk at the sight of her adorable little cotton sundress, and Jason sighed.

"You want a girl, don't you?"

Do I want a girl? Do I really want a girl knowing how hard it is to raise one in this culture of over-sexualized Princess Dora Bratz dolls and Mean Girls and eating disorders and oh God, the INTERNET? Do I really want a girl, a teenage girl, who may end up being exactly like me, or nothing like me, but either way will be all but guaranteed to hate me for at least a few solid good years? Do I really want a girl to come along and blast me out of the comfort zone I've created as being the mother of boys?

"Yes. I think I do."

Jason sighed again and admitted that if we KNEW we'd be guaranteed a girl, he'd love to have another baby. And before I could even mention the A-word (a complicated discussion we've had many times before, for the record) (edited to add: ADOPTION, holy crap, not the other A-word), he went on. "Whatever. Even if we had another boy, I'd be so happy."

He then went on to wax rhapsodic about Ezra, sweet Ezra, the baby who at one time Jason hoped would be a daughter, but who is a son and who is exactly who he is supposed to be and who our family needed, because HOLY CRAP HE IS SO AWESOME.

***

Okay, so maybe we're NOT done. At least, as Jason said, not THAT done. But I am not in a rush, far from it. We have a few more years before my (admittedly already erratic) fertility clock winds down, so perhaps it's best to simply say we're not ruling it out sometime in the future, when the boys are older and a little more mature or at least capable of wiping their own butts. Perhaps, as Noah's issues become a little more understandable and a lot less of a question mark, we could adopt, thus skipping the fairly awful process of trying month after month after month to conceive. Perhaps we will rule it out later down the road, but for now, let's not rush into anything. Let's just leave everyone's anatomy as-is and...you know...BE CAREFUL in the meantime.

Yes. Good plan!

***

So of course this means that I -- she of the 75-day cycles, the wildly erratic and oftentimes completely absent ovulation -- would suddenly start getting regular periods. Like clockwork! Like birth-control-pill regular, down to the HOUR. Down to the hour BEFORE, when I suddenly realize that I've been a raving bitch all day and developed a single angry large pimple right in the middle of my forehead. Of course.

See, here's the thing: When you don't ovulate, you don't get pregnant, even if you want to! And I've spent most of the past six or so years of my life wanting to get pregnant, TRYING to get pregnant, but only very rarely actually succeeding in getting pregnant. And even before that, I generally viewed my condition as a plus, a perk -- who cares about birth control! I've got your birth control RIGHT HERE! <points to barren, uncooperative womb area, ohhhhh yeah>

And here's another thing: As a relatively-inexperienced regular-period-type-of-girl, it turns out that I am also really terrible at math.

And...dates. And...calendars. And stuff. I pulled up my old fertility-charting/period-reminder program this morning and entered in some data and...oh. What? This weekend? When we...and we didn't use...and...oh. OH.

Cough.

No. I don't have any big announcement to make. NO! As I scan what I've written so far I realize it totally sounds like that's what I'm leading up to, but no.

I'm just a 31-year-old mother-of-two in the midst of her Very First Pregnancy Scare, on the short end of the first Two-Week Wait where she honestly has no idea what outcome she's hoping for.

On the one hand: SPECTACULARLY TERRIBLE IDEA.

On the other hand:

I wouldn't kick another one out of bed for eating mini-waffles, you know?