He's Right, You Know

Me: So. Noah.

Noah: LOOK OUT! DINOSAURS! 

Me: What? Oh. Listen.

Noah: THE DINOSAURS ARE GOING TO EAT OUR THANKSGIVING, MOMMY.

Me: Awesome. Listen. For real. Mommy and Daddy have something important to tell you.

Noah: Okaywhat.

Me: Well...Mommy is going to have another baby. 

Noah: ...

Me: You're going to have another baby brother or sister! What do you think?

Noah: But we already HAVE a baby.

Me: Yeah, but...

Noah: Another baby would be TOO MUCH BABIES.

Me: I think we'll...

Noah: And our house will be TOO FULL. WITH BABIES.

Me: Maybe we'll get a bigger house someday, then.

Noah: ARGH FIIIINE. 

Me: So are you okay? Another baby brother or sister is okay? 

Noah: It's too much babies.

Me: Yeah, probably. Do you want some pumpkin pie now?

Noah: Uh-huh. But not for the baby. Babies don't get any pie.

A few minutes later...

Noah: Mommy?

Me: Yes, buddy?

Noah: Can I watch the baby come out of you this time?

Me: Uh. No. 

Post-Glurge

Well, hello! Everybody back to the grind after the hallowed day of national gluttony? Nobody got run over or squished too badly on the crazy batshit day of national consumerism-ism? Anybody want some leftover pie? I've got...three, I think, still. 

But not this one. 

Our holiday was fantastic, thank you for maybe thinking of asking, just now, once I said that.

The turkey was our most delicious ever, thanks to Jason's brine (he won't tell me what's in it, the bastard) and my basting (which I will tell you because I am giver AND a showoff; it's butter + thyme + honey + apple cider). He also made challah bread stuffing and homemade cranberry sauce (the secret ingredient to THAT is, no lie, vodka). I made a cauliflower and broccoli gratin with so much cheddar cheese and cream that I successfully destroyed the nutritional benefits of every vegetable from here to the White House garden.

Including the ones Ezra made. 

He then covered them in parchment paper and braised them in a little shitload of butter. He ate them too! Dipped in the vodka-spiked cranberry sauce, at least. He went really, really nuts for the cranberry sauce.

Damnedest thing, right?

In addition to his cooking skills, Ezra also provided a festive centerpiece for the table.

Noah wore a tie for exactly how long it took me to snap this picture. But at least he ate something. 

Then all the vodka tryptophan kicked in right when it was time to do the dishes. 

Oh, and one more, because you've been so good. 

The first look at the beginnings of The Belly. And a possible hoarding problem.

I must say, I am INORDINATELY pleased with the timing of this pregnancy. There is seriously nothing better in the world than officially hitting the second trimester riiiiiiiiiight after Thanksgiving, so one is completely justified in going directly from eating stuffing and gravy for breakfast to the expansive, forgiving comfort of elastic-waist maternity pants. That stupid pregnancy newsletter thing says the baby is still only the size of a "medium shrimp" but whatever. There's placenta and accessories in there too. Plus pie. A lot of pie. 

PS Today's the last day to enter -- or boost your winning chances -- the Windows 7 phone giveaway. And the one at Mamapop as well. Comments will be closed tonight, winner selected and contacted first thing tomorrow while me and my busted-ass iPhone with the shattered screen sit in a corner and sulk. AT LEAST I STILL HAVE PIE.

Holiday Bonus

Remember that fuzzy little blob-thing I posted about six weeks ago?

Well. BAM! 

12 weeks, two days. Absolutely perfect and adorable (that ARM! the little SHOULDER BLADE! the EAR that you can just barely make out before the image goes all blobby and wonky!). All expected and required parts present and accounted for. 

Including...

Well. Okay, it's really, really difficult to determine the sex of the baby FOR DEFINITE SURE at 12 weeks, but I'm just going to break it to you and let you down easy because about four bazillion million of you have been screaming for a GIRL GIRL GIRL, but...

Yeah. Right now, things are looking familiarly, unmistakably...dangly and boyish down there. Prepare yourselves.

Actually, wait. I'm the one who's probably going to end up with three boy children running around without any pants on while beating each other with Wii lightsabers and yes, that actually did happen last night and yes, there is video, but HELL. If anyone should be getting "prepared" it should be ME and should probably involve some helmets and whiskey. Screw you guys.  Happy Thanksgiving and whatever. 

(THAT LITTLE ARM OH MY GOD I JUST WANT TO CHEW ON IT ALREADY.)

Turkey Run

DISCLOSURE TALKYSPEAK: Thanks to American Express for sponsoring posts today about small businesses.  American Express is presenting Small Business Saturday, a way to honor the local merchants who are the backbone of the economy, this Saturday, November 27.  They're offering statement credits to people who shop at small businesses, advertising for small-business owners, and donations to Girls Inc. for "Likes" of the Small Business Saturday page on Facebook.  Join the celebration by clicking the "Like" button at the bottom of this entry and then visiting the Facebook page to learn more about the program and read the terms and conditions that apply. 

ACTUAL AMALAH-TYPE TALKYSPEAK: 

I cannot lie. I just spent three hours in the car. Three long, torturous hours. Procuring our Thanksgiving turkey. 

It wasn't supposed to take three hours, of course. Half hour up to the farm, 15 minutes there selecting the bird, another 20 minutes or so wandering around with the boys, visiting with the -- ahem -- pardoned birds still wandering around the pens and the cows and what-have-you, taking adorable photos with them all decked out in Thanksgiving-y outfits I done picked out special...and then a half hour trip back, high on life and the knowledge that HOT DAMN, that is one delicious-looking, never-frozen turkey sitting on the passenger seat there. 

Most turkeys from the grocery store around here -- and all of them at the farmers' markets -- have to arrive frozen. Buying directly from the farm is the best way to get fresh, never-frozen bird, and as we discovered about three or four Thanksgivings ago, the difference will blow the top of your skull off. Figuratively speaking, with only the teensiest dash of hyperbole. So ever since, we've made the trek up to Maple Lawn turkey farm and lugged the thing home in a big-ass cooler. 

This year, it was my turn to make the trip. The day got away from me and I left a smidge closer to rush hour than I would have liked, but hey, I was driving to the COUNTRY. There's no rush hour in the COUNTRY. Come on, kids! Grab the camera and the earth-toned sweaters, and let's make some memories.

It took us an hour to get there. Noah fell asleep. Ezra demanded my entire stash of for-emergency-only granola bars. We hit traffic and red lights and detours and fender benders. It started drizzling at one point and the entire driving population of suburban-to-rural Maryland lost its damn mind. 

And when we got there, it was already too dark to take any pictures of the turkeys or the cows. But it wasn't too dark to see the line. THE LINE. 

The line for turkeys stretched across the barnyard to the...uh...turkey dispensin' barn, I guess, where it wrapped around and looped back and forth about four times inside. Most people came armed with their preorder slips and wheelie coolers -- except for me, who came armed with only a clunky SLR camera and two stir-crazy children. 

But we waited. "Everybody" swore they'd never seen a line or demand like this, even though "everybody" also swore that they'd been buying turkeys from this farm for years. That math didn't really compute, but I didn't really care. I was...happy for the farm. Happy to see the dozens and dozens of people buying their food directly from the growers and caretakers of that food. The other parents explaining to their children that yes, the turkeys in that pen over there were, in fact, the same thing that they now carried wrapped in butcher's paper and a plastic bag. Everybody, despite being gobsmacked by the line and worn out from the drive, readily swearing up and down that it was worth it. Buying from here was worth it. 

"You should have seen my mother-in-law's face," the woman behind me said, as I eavesdropped on her conversation with another stranger in line. "You can't screw these turkeys up, but SHE doesn't know that."

Eventually, it was our turn. One of the farmers asked Noah and Ezra if they were excited for Turkey Day, and they both obliged him with an enthusiastic "GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE!" on cue. I selected our bird -- which cost just about a buck less per pound than the equivalent organic birds at the supermarket -- and wearily corralled the boys back outside, where it was now way, way, WAY too dark to get the pictures I'd hoped for. 

Instead, we marched back to the car and prepared to leave. Suddenly, Noah started to shriek and laugh. I looked over out the window...just in time to see two or three dairy cows stick their heads over the fence I'd pulled in next to, close enough for Noah and I to reach out our windows and touch the tips of their noses. They mooed in approval before moving away. 

Yep. Just like every year: Totally worth it. 

Dad

The chemo isn't working. 

I didn't expect it to. 

He felt "better" after a blood transfusion last week. His numbers were "better."

I didn't expect that to last, and it didn't. At all. 

I talked to him on the phone on his 81st birthday last week. For just a few minutes. Then he said he had to go and hung up. 

This was also expected.

He is translucent. He is blue and grey. Like a cancer-stricken extra on a medical drama, wearing too much pancake makeup. He is immobile and helpless, short-tempered and miserable. He is a bundle of medical checks and balances, with one medication causing X but preventing Y and yet none of them having any effect at all on Z.

It's happening slower than I expected. 

That's not necessarily a good thing. 

Which is confusing. Guilt-inducing. Unexpected. 

The doctors are finally talking about stopping treatment, about making decisions, about being comfortable.

Because the cancer is too aggressive, because the chemo isn't working, because he is already much older than 81 and so sick and has no bone marrow and no platelets and no hemoglobin and no options. Because he is blue and grey and miserable and fighting for one last year as the desperate months go by. 

He doesn't hear any of that. He hears fight. Chance. Odds. Win. 

He is stubborn. Obstinate. Downright impossible. 

And brave.

I would never, ever expect anything less.  

Don't Stand So Close To Me

Weirdest pregnancy symptom yet: Claustrophobia.

Well, not even that, exactly. Kind of combination of a fear of crowds (demophobia!) combined with a violent knee-jerky reaction to invasions of my personal space. Like, if you accidentally bump into me in the grocery store aisle, don't be surprised if I start involuntarily shrieking and karate-chopping the shelves of soup cans. 

Jason noticed I seemed increasingly jumpy right from the start. I'm usually a big-time hugger, and very demonstrative and in-your-face with my compulsive need! For affection! Because I like you! Hi! Gimme a cuddle!

Instead, ever since getting all knocked up, I would startle if he brushed into me and sort-of flailingly seek to extricate myself from bear hugs and whenever the boys would do their patented EVERYBODY PILE ON MOMMY couch trick I'd slither to the floor and escape, and not in a HA HA FUN MOMMY way. More of a BACK THE HELL OFF ME, YOU ANIMALS way.

And then things got serious a few weeks ago, when I foolishly waited too long to head downtown for the Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear. I knew it would be bad, but not...that bad. I couldn't leave for the Metro until after Noah's soccer practice, but I was planning to meet Tracey and Charlie at their hotel a few stops before I figured things would get REALLY crazy and walk the rest of the way. Where we would quickly and easily be able to meet up with some of the other Mamapop writers at the rally. Because la la laaaaa I don't really understand how my hometown works sometimes. 

NEWSFLASH, DUMBASH: Things were crazy everywhere. I am pretty sure the entire DC-area population plus a bajillion tourists were all funneling into the Metro system at the exact same time. Platforms were mobbed, trains were packed, wait times were agonizing, Metro pass lines were...I don't even think you could call them "lines" anymore. More like "zombie hoards fighting over the dead horse entrails in The Walking Dead."

I DON'T KNOW HOW THIS MACHINE WOOOOORRRRRKS. I NEED TO RECHARGE MY SMARTTRIP PASSSSSSSS. HOW MUCH TO RIDE TO JUDICIARY SQUAAAAAARREEE? BRAAAAAIIIINSSSS.

Long story short: I finally got on a train. And found myself far away from a door or window, smushed right in the middle of a crowd of people who were all taller than me, trying to avoid my face crashing into their armpits with every lurch of the train, standing on my tiptoes in order to get anything close to what I'd consider fresh air. 

And I immediately, quietly, started to freak the FUCK OUT. 

For the record, I have never been on a Metro train -- crowded or otherwise -- with a pack of NICER people. Two guys helped me shimmy and inch my coat off once the cold sweats and labored breathing started. Another guy kept talking to me, alternating between distracting me and assuring me that everything was going to be okay, once he realized that I was, in fact, starting to freak the fuck out. 

(Though one girl kept whacking me in the face with her ponytail. I did not enjoy that.)

At every stop, the doors would open to a discouraged-yet-hopeful looking mob on the platform. Like us, they'd probably watched a good half-dozen trains pass them by already and were getting a tad desperate. So they'd try to push their way on. One or two always seemed to succeed, just by being forceful enough. My tiny bit of space got smaller and smaller; I became convinced that I no longer had adequate room to fully inflate my lungs and expand my rib cage. 

After one stop, another girl barreled off the train in a panic. She was sobbing, and her friends hollered in protest from the aisle. "Where are you going? What are you doing?"

Her only response: GET ME OFF GET ME OFF GET ME OFF

I made it about four stops, and as the train slowed down to open the doors AGAIN and allow more people to PUSH and PILE IN and OH MY GOD...I started shrieking. 

GET ME OFF GET ME OFF GET ME OFF

I got off the train. I found a seat and sat there gasping for awhile. Then I got on a train going in the other direction to go home. It was still full of people who were trying to get to the rally -- they'd all simply given up on getting aboard a downtown-headed train and figured they'd ride out to the 'burbs to where the crowds died down and reboard. They figured they wouldn't have to go any further than the stop I'd started at. I tried to warn them but shut up once everybody glared at me.

Sure enough, when we got back to my home stop, the crowd had easily doubled in size. Zombies, everywhere, lugging giant humorous signs and folding picnic chairs, like haaaaaaaa, yeah. You might as well just open that thing and park your ass right here, because this is probably the closest you're gonna get to downtown until AT LEAST Tuesday. 

This was all happening between 10 and 11 in the morning. I stopped shaking like a leaf sometime around...2 or 3 in the afternoon? I missed the rally, but my disappointment was easily offset with my relief over NOT TOTALLY DYING ON THAT STUPID TRAIN. 

Last weekend we went to a concert. The Black Crowes at the 9:30 Club. It's a smallish, standing-room-only venue that always packs about 17 million more people than one would expect for a smallish, standing-room-only venue. Still, it was nothing like that Metro car. Still, I found myself freaking out every time a club employee pushed past us with cases of beer to restock the nearby bar, every time someone tried to push by to angle for better real estate, and at several points during the night I had to turn around and put my forehead on the nearby wall because at least the wall was somewhat predictable in its movements and I felt like I could get fresh air if I breathed it directly from the notches in the bead-board paneling. I spent most of the time concentrating on NOT VOMITING. And watching this one drunk girl burst into tears every 10 minutes because she was havingsomuchfun and lovedtheBlackCrowessomuch and was also reallyfreakingdrunk.

A big, barrel-chested guy pushed through our area -- my defensive angled-out, pointy elbows did nothing to deter him -- and got STUCK directly in front of me. WEDGED, is more like it Our torsos were TOUCHING. I swear my clothing was ABSORBING HIS SWEAT. 

Jason says he saw my eyes bulge out of my head and my hands ball up into fists...right as the guy finally managed to squeeze past and on his way. 

About five minutes later, he caught me right before I started to black out. We decided that maybe we'd heard enough. They'd already played Josephine and She Talks To Angels, and I firmly believed that nothing -- not even Hard to Handle -- was worth DYING OF CONTACT WITH OTHER PEOPLE'S SWEATY T-SHIRTS over. 

So anyway. That's been happening. More often than it probably should. The good news is that most of the time, I can avoid closed-in crowds like that, and am now fine if my children play the PILE ON MOMMY game...just one at a time.

The bad news is that I have standing-room only tickets to another giant sold-out concert in February. I'm thinking of constructing a giant adult-sized hamster-ball bubble with yellow STAND BACK 50 FEET caution tape all over it.

I actually don't think I'll look too out of place. It's Lady Gaga, after all. 

Enterprising

Since so many of you asked, no, we were not able to figure out the mystery of Bearius Care in time for Noah's birthday. So instead we attempted to distract him with a lot of Star Wars crap and brightly-colored wrapping paper. It worked.

Didn't stop us from trying to make it up to him a few weeks later, once we discovered what he was actually talking about. 

So it wasn't a young Captain Kirk action figure with a vintage convertible and super-extreme cliff-clutching action, but he did happily identify it as the "grown-up Bearius Care ship."

So I think we did pretty okay.

(Here. Sorry. I think the other one wanted some attention or something.)

LIVE LONG AND PROSPERCHEEEEEEEEEEEESE.

The Mystery of Bearius Care

Suddenly, all Noah wanted to talk about was "Bearius Care." I don't remember exactly when it started, but it was all "Bearius Care" this and "Bearius Care" that. 

"Who is Bearius Care?" I'd ask, over and over again. 

"Bearius Care is Bearius Care," Noah would answer, like duh. 

Occasionally, we'd get a clue: Noah would spot a little mop-haired boy on the playground and run after him, screeching gleefully. "It's Bearius Care! Hi Bearius Care!" Child actors in TV commercials sometimes got a reaction too. He mostly seemed to invoke the name while playing with certain toy cars, but also sometimes space ships. And once while reading a book with a picture of a desert.

But he simply would not, could not, just flat-out explain who Bearius Care was or give us any background or context. 

(Other than the fact that Bearius Care was, of course, completely face-meltingly AWESOMMMME.)

It drove me so batty after awhile -- WHO IS BEARIUS CARE? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? LET ME INTO YOUR LIFE, CHILD! -- that I eventually turned to Google.

I knew I was at least dealing with a mispronunciation, but I am pretttttty good at Google, if I do say so myself. Once, after Noah spent an entire month asking to watch the "Rolly Race Car show," I managed to figure out that he was actually talking about Roary the Racing Car, NOT TO MENTION that I've successfully written an advice column for four-and-a-half years now with absolutely no other qualifications or skills beyond being pretty good at Google.

This time, though, I came up empty. Care Bears? Bears That Dare? Various Bears? Marius Stares? Nefarious Lairs? 

Nothing. 

"What do you want for your birthday, Noah?"
 
"BEARIUS CARE!" 

Crap, man. 

In desperation -- like seriously, this was bugging me like a bar argument where you have the name of that movie that that guy was in right on the tip of your tongue but are totally spacing on it right now arrrrrgh let me think -- I emailed his preschool teacher, in case maybe it was a book or a video or something he'd seen there.

"You know, I've been meaning to ask you the same thing," she replied. 

So I gave up. I figured either Noah had simply made something up completely, or was obsessed with a hopeless composite of so may things that we'd never know exactly who or what Bearius Care is or was.

Until a few days later. When we decided to watch a DVD. We let Noah pick.

 

Bearius Care = James Tiberius Kirk. 

Just FYI. Nerds. The end. 

Less is Perfect

Noah plays soccer now. 

Long-time readers may remember that a couple years ago, Noah was "not ready" for his preschool's extracurricular soccer program. He was "disruptive" and "challenging." The other children were genuinely trying to learn "the basics of the game" but Noah was a "distraction." We were asked to "no longer send him." Our money would "credited" toward our next tuition payment, of course.

Basically, he was kicked out. He was three.

Every year since then, in the early fall and spring, Jason has optimistically mentioned soccer. Maybe we should try again? Maybe he's ready now? But then we'd look at the local schedules and team sizes and refund policies and inevitably get skittish and back off the idea. 

But Noah plays soccer now.

He plays with his classmates from the public special ed preschool program. He plays wherever we, the parents, can snag a gym slot or open field at a local playground. Jason is the coach, along with another dad. Parents and older siblings usually help out, keeping the kids focused, and nobody cares if somebody is having a bad day and doesn't want to play or is bothered by the grass or their soccer shorts or needs a regular gentle push back in the direction of the action.

The kids do jumping jacks and stretches and dribble and kick the ball into mini-pop-up goals or between cones. If everybody can at least kick the ball around a couple times and get a big round of applause for the attempt before everything descends into chaos, t's a good practice, and all any of us parents are really looking for. 

It's not slick or fancy or likely to get anyone scouted for the major leagues. It's better than that. It's perfect.

 

***

Oh, hey. So would anybody like one of those brand-new super-fancy Windows Phone 7? For free? Because guess what you will never guess what.

Just leave a comment on this post about -- oh, I don't know -- a time when less turned out to be perfect for you too, and you could win.

You can comment once per day, from now until November 29th at 11:59 pm EST. I'll pick one random winner. Obviously, you'll need to comment using a valid email address (which only I can see) so I can contact you and stuff and get all the info needed to get you your new phone. 

(Oh, and we've got this same giveaway going over at Mamapop too, for double your winning pleasure.)

This giveaway is brought to you by the new Windows Phone 7. Learn more about Windows Phone online and see it in person at local T-Mobile stores today. Important: click here for the official rules.

It's National Blog Posting Month. Which Means I Barely Posted At All.

I know.

I know I know I KNOW. 

If you are looking for someone to blame for the sporadic posting, blame the fetus. Which I know you won't actually do, because what are you gonna say? BAD FETUS! STUPID UNBORN CHILD! YOU'RE MESSING WITH SOMETHING VAGUELY ENTERTAINING THAT I OCCASIONALLY CHECK OVER LUNCH BREAK IF I REMEMBER SO KNOCK IT THE FUCK OFF!

Yeah, go ahead. It can't hear you anyway. It doesn't even have any ears yet. Nyah.

No, but seriously. This week was quick and mighty payback for a whole heapload of bragging I did last weekend. I told at least four or five separate family members that I feel great! Easiest first trimester yet! I had two or three uncomfortable days there but I seem to be past all that now! Already! I can't believe it! Just a couple weeks to go until the second trimester so maybe I've escaped the worst of it all together!

So, of course, I am currently on day number five of the same low-grade, persistent headache. It goes away with some Tylenol but then creeps back within an hour or two. I have thrown up almost every night this week, usually dashing down the hall to the bathroom in the middle of bedtime stories with Noah and Ezra. I don't have morning sickness; I have It's Officially Impossible To Get Through Knuffle Bunny Free Without Crying Or Puking Or Both evening sickness. 

After a good round of barfing, it's usually straight to bed. Until I wake up at midnight, and then again at 3:30 to pee, and then at 5:15 with the headache, and then at 6:45 when my lousy, still-effed-up-from-Daylight-Savings children start howling for Cheerios. 

And then! It turns out that there is nothing that can lull me to sleep better than the soothing, pristine whiteness that is the blank New Post page for my blog. I stare at it, I peck at a key or two, and then...

*startles*

Wait, what was I talking about? 

Eh. Probably wasn't anything important.

***

What else happened this week? Well, I wrote a lot of other things other places, including making Joel McHale vaguely uncomfortable on the phone, I completed some cross stitch projects for our kitchen, learned the importance of getting three different estimates for home improvement projects because the first one will be all, "THAT WILL BE FOUR THOUSAND DOLLARS" and you will cry, because you do not have four thousand dollars, but then estimate number two will be all, "THAT WILL BE SIGNIFICANTLY LESS THAN FOUR THOUSAND DOLLARS" and estimate number three will say, "IT'S A LIMBO CONTEST! HOW LOW CAN WE GO! PRETTY DAMN LOW, AS IT TURNS OUT!"

Jason's ready to make a decision, but now I'm tempted to keep going. Maybe after another estimate or two we'll get somebody to do the job for five bucks and a couple cans of tuna fish. 

(The job involves replacing carpet with laminate flooring in the basement, in case you've got a hankering for tuna. I could possibly go as high as to include mayonnaise, as well.)

***

I attended the first parent-teacher conference of the year and learned that NOT ONLY did my temperamental question mark of a son willingly sit down and participate in a standardized  kindergarten placement test, he completely ACED the thing. Top marks, across all subject areas. I have absolutely no punchline to that story; I included it simply to brag. Because this is that sort of blog. 

I'll spare you the whole story about Ezra vomiting up an entire meal of stuffed shells in the car yesterday, though. I mean, I guess that kind of IS the whole story. Moving on.

***

I dropped my phone on the sidewalk and shattered the screen (and apparently damaged the battery somehow, because it's no longer holding a charge). I have exactly two months left on my contract, which means I've found it terribly amusing to show the phone to Jason and wail about it only having two months to go before retirement! And then this!!!11!

He laughed the first time. I don't know what his problem was all those other times. 

***

Okay, the headache is back and I'm tired. You can go away now.