A Million Tiny Onesies

Okay, so this is random and possibly a little creepy, but are any local readers out there currently expecting a baby boy?

Because...

I have somehow mysteriously managed to acquire a metric buttload of baby boy clothing over the years. 

The plan was to pass most of it along to a friend of mine who was pregnant, but she had a girl. Then another friend got pregnant but SHE'S having a girl. Everybody everywhere, with the girls. I guess it's because I HOGGED ALL THE BOYS. THE UNIVERSE IS TAPPED OUT OF PENISES. Sorry, ladies.

(Okay, that's kind of a lie. I did have one friend who had a boy last winter. And I was all, "I SHALL GIVE YOU ALL THE CLOTHES!" But that was before everything was sorted and boxed up all neatly-like and it turned out I was way, WAY too disorganized to make that promise.)

(And also emotionally unprepared, as I got predictably sentimental and hoard-y about the newborn clothing. The pile of "special" and "meaningful" outfits kept growing and growing, as I suddenly couldn't bear the thought of parting with a single itty-bitty Circo-brand onesie or factory-outlet footie sleeper. I feel more ready now. Kind of. Mostly because I keep tripping over the goddamn boxes.)

(Also because Jason won't let me put them up in the attic "just in case." JUST IN CASE HIS ASS, AMY. WE'RE DONE.)

(Just don't tell him about the box of newborn cloth diaper supplies I've hidden in the back of the closet. NOBODY IS GETTING THEIR MITTS ON MAH ABSURDLY TINY DIAPERZ.)

Anyway, before I just donate the whole lot of it, I figured I'd float the offer out: I literally have mountains of hand-me-downs here, covering most sizes and seasons. (Noah and Ezra were early-fall babies, so June-born Ike basically got an entirely new wardrobe his first year. The photo is everything from newborn to 12 months, but I expect to also have a stash of 12-18 month stuff available VERY SOON, FOR MY 15 MONTH OLD IS GIGANTIC.) It's all clean and in very good condition, though our local consignment shops would surely turn their noses up at the non-fancy-pants brands, WHATEVER. I'd just kind of like to know someone is USING it, you know? Need a snowsuit? Carseat bunting? Onesies? Jammies? Overalls and dress shirts and some stupid-tiny bathing suits? A full collection of every Trumpette sock ever made?

If you can arrange to meet me somewhere in the near-ish vicinity (and promise not to murder me and stuff), shoot me an email (amy @ amalah.com) and we'll talk. Tawk, even. 

(Likewise, if anyone in the area is looking to unload winter boys' clothing in the size 6/7 range, ME! ME! RAISES HAND! PICK ME!)

(Metric buttloads of hand-me-downs and yet he's almost always naked and baby-beefcake. That's some good Alanis-Morissette-definition irony right there.)

UPDATE: Aaaaaand done. I think. For the most part. Assuming everybody actually takes everything they've requested, I'm fresh outta baby clothes. Absolutely thrilled everything will get put to good, loving use, and especially all touched and mushy that the majority of the clothes are going to families who REALLY EXTRA MEGA NEED THEM. You guys are good friends and good people.

If you have baby clothes of your own to give away, I highly recommend scanning the comments section for some excellent charity/donation ideas. (Which have made me realize it's ALSO time to stop hoarding my maternity stuff and pass that along as well.)

Almost Four But Not Quite Yet

Ezra, on the other hand, has one more week of summer vacation before he goes back to school.

He didn't realize this. He was so disappointed. 

Back to the manual labor grind, then.

(He takes this task very seriously, in case you couldn't tell. We have the watered-est garden in at least three counties, I'd reckon.)

Ezra will be four years old soon, which is weird. Not in the "OMG FOURRRR?" sense, but in the sense that...really? He's not already four? Or five? 

I sometimes forget that he's only three, usually right up until the moment when he suddenly lets his three-ness show through in the most spectacular three-like fashion. And then I remember how small he still really is, and how relatively easy we've had it with him. He wants to please and help and do things and make us happy. He waters the garden, he helps with the dishes, he cuts Ike's banana into perfect slices for him every morning, he puts groceries away. 

He is the reason I found a brand-new container of chicken stock in the freezer, frozen solid. 

He gets jealous of Ike, naturally — if you stop to coo over him in public you can expect Ezra to immediately jazz-hand his way back into the center of attention. "I GOTS MUSCLES! I'M SUPER FAST! ONE TIME I ATE A BUG!"

His jealousy is mostly unwarranted, because he's openly the favorite of just about everybody he meets. Noah likely isn't interested in anything you've got going on (unless your forehead is currently screening an Adventure Time marathon, that is), and Ike is too enthralled with walking and climbing to cuddle much these days, but Ezra...oh you best believe Ezra is up for some cuddling. Ezra will cuddle you SO HARD your heart just might explode a little bit. 

He attacks our legs and necks dozens of times a day and hangs on our bodies like a little rhesus monkey, happily shrieking MOMMY I LOVE YOU! while I try not to fall the hell over. And try not to get annoyed by the sudden assault on my balance, and remind myself that yeah, I WAS trying to unload the dishwasher but it can wait. One day he's going to stop doing this and I will miss it. 

Oh, I will miss it. But I also can't wait to see what this kid will do next.  

P.S. Do you think I should remove the blue sparkly toenail polish (that he insisted on) before school starts? 

I dunno. I think he makes it work. 

First Grade, First Grade

On Friday I took Noah to his school's Open House. We met his new teachers, checked out his classrooms, and I was completely thrilled to see that the school assigned him to the teachers of his dreams, to exactly the kind of teachers Noah has historically responded best to and worked hardest to please.  

(Young, babyfaced-types with gobs of enthusiasm and no fear of Bribery With Snacks.)

(I am about 99% sure his special ed teacher from last year hand-picked them for us.)

Before we left, Noah insisted on visiting every former teacher and classroom. There were big hugs and high fives and marveling over his missing front teeth from his kindergarten teachers (and yes, Hot Teacher Is Still Hot, Only Now More Tan And How Did I Not Notice The Tattoos Oh My God), and then we stopped in to visit his preschool teacher. He had the same teacher for two full years of the Preschool Education Program (PEP), though it already feels like forever ago.

Noah ran in and gave her a hug and they chatted about his summer (BEACH WATERSLIDES BEACH AND 14 MILLION HOURS OF LEGO), and I stood there and stupidly beamed at him, all big and huge and grown-up looking. 

And then I saw the other parents. The other parents with the terrified, nervous faces, because it's not the same for them. A classroom visit is never just an informal, no-big-thing. For them, this visit is loaded with meaning, with promise, and with a million things that could go wrong. What if my child doesn't like it here? What if they have a fit, a tantrum, an "episode?" Are the other kids "the same" as my child? Better? Or worse? Autism? SPD? Downs? Non-verbal? Is that kid still in a diaper? Does anyone notice that my child is still in a diaper? 

And:

What if this teacher can't help? What if this wasn't the right decision?

I knew what they were thinking because I remember thinking all of those things, forever ago. 

I tried to make eye contact and smile at a couple of them, perhaps so I could work in an encouraging comment about how wonderful this teacher is, or how happy we were with the program or something.

But they were all watching Noah. Handsome, bubbly, talkative Noah, proudly announcing his first grader status and talking about waterslides.

He was all the encouragement I could possibly offer to any parent in that room. Look at him. Listen to him. You'll get here too. It's scary and overwhelming right now but you can do this. Keep swimming. Keep fighting. You'll get here too.

He's a first grader now. Officially.

Bring it on. 

Stupid Girl Does a Stupid Thing, Part Three

I woke up on day three with three immediate thoughts:

1) Jason had already left for a business trip and would be away until the next day, oh dear God.

2) If I even SUSPECTED that I was taking my mood/hunger/whatever out on my children again, I would stop that very instant. That. Very. Instant.

3) Hot christ on a ham sandwich, I feel hungover. 

I don't know if it was belated caffeine withdrawal or what, but I had a terrible headache. (And it only NOW just occurred to me that I didn't even consider taking anything for it. I don't know why, as I'm usually hitting the Advil or Excedrin at the first twinge of head-discomfort. More evidence of juice-related Stockholm Syndrome, maybe?)

The boys would be with a babysitter all morning, so I decided I could safely keep going before switching to Bitch-Mood High-Alert Mode. Despite the headache, I actually really WANTED to finish the cleanse and not quit — especially once I got on the scale and realized I was down over three pounds. (I started at 13 pounds above my goal weight, 18 above the "ideal" [bleeeeaaarrrrgh nevergoingtohappen] weight for my height/frame. Thanks third pregnancy and also pâte à choux!) After spending most of the summer losing and gaining the same two or three pounds, this wasn't anything crazy spectacular, but it at least felt like a nice push in the correct downward direction.

And for the first time I realized I was no longer fantasizing about going on a day-long crazy food-binge on Thursday.

On Monday, I was planning a post-cleanse celebration along these lines:

But now...not so much. I didn't want to immediately gain that weight back OR go back to my old eating habits. I never experienced any of the endorphin highs or heightened sense of buzzing mental clarity shit the Hardcore Juice People like to promise (sorry, Hardcore Juice People), but I did gain a practical appreciation for:

1) How much useless, extra snacking I do throughout the day (iz food diary timez!), 

2) How few calories I really needed to maintain my (low) level of physical activity,

3) Yeah, I need to stop looking at carbs/dairy/meat as the only foods that are "satisfying," and

4) Sorry, wine. I love you, but I will never get this weight off with you hanging around as often as you do.

Anyway, I know this is all terribly boring (AND SO HELLA OBVIOUS), but as someone who has been such a vocal tub-thumper for organic homemade baby food and so anti-HFCS/artificial dyes/colors and all that, I feel like I owe it to you guys to admit that I still have a long way to go when it comes to what I cram down my own feedhole sometimes. 

(I still totes bought that song on iTunes though. Imma add it to my running playlist!)

Anyway, compared to day one and day two, day three was almost criminally easy. At 3 pm, I helped myself to a single spoonful of peanut butter to ward off Teh Crazies, and chugged the coconut water instead of sipping it. At 4 pm, I drank the beet shot and made a cup of the ginger "tea." At 5 pm, right before I needed to make dinner for the kids (since Jason was away and couldn't save me from having to be in the kitchen with All Of The Delicious Solid Food Things), I started on the second-to-last vegetable juice.

And mostly, I simply refused to let myself be a jerk. Huh.

I made pasta with turkey meatballs for the kids, gave everybody a chocolate chip cookie for dessert, then got them cleaned and jammied and brushed up in time to watch the new Lego Ninjago episode at 8 pm.

I drank the very last almond milk while they watched it. It was pretty anticlimactic, since there was no one around to high five or congratulate me. 

I mean, besides Baby Ike. But I think he was mostly hoping the bottle was full of more cookies. 

After that (and a phone call from Daddy), we all went to bed. The end.

***

I lost five pounds while on the cleanse, which put me back in a range on the scale I have not been able to crack since Ike was born, no matter what I did. As of this morning's (Friday's) weigh-in, I'm down a completely unbelievable eight.

WUT.

I've eased back into "real" food, while trying to establish better habits (fruits! vegetables! no white sugar or endless snacking on three-pounds-o-cheese!) and also re-re-re-started a cardio kickboxing routine. Yesterday, I even briefly considered driving back to the juice bar for a couple more bottles (since I know I can coast until 3 pm, at which point I'd be free to eat whatever I wanted), but eh, didn't really have time. Plus: COFFEE IS SO DELICIOUS I MISSED YOU. 

(I also took the boys to Chipotle for dinner, but went as healthy as possible for myself, and you know what? I didn't die and I wasn't miserable. THAT'S HOW GRATEFUL I AM TO SIMPLY HAVE FOOD TO CHEW. YAY SALAD.)

No, I have no plans to buy a juicer or do regularly monthly cleanses, since I'm not really sold on them as anything other than an extreme (and expensive) crash diet, albeit one that involves a lot of really good-for-you ingredients. And as someone gently — and rightly — pointed out in the comments on Day One, I do have a history of disordered eating (though it's all well over a decade ago at this point).

Still, though, I'm very aware that I still need to be careful, even if I do legitimately have weight I need to lose. I don't want my children to ever hear or see me obsessing over weight and making food an issue...plus there's the fact that with Mom only drinking Weird Juices, we went three days without a real sit-down family dinner, and I mostly defaulted to easy, convenience foods for them. 

Those caveats aside, I'm glad I tried it. I'm glad I stuck with it. It really did force me to own up to some very bad habits and think more about the kinds of food that make my body happy, not just mah feeeeelings. (Which almost always want carbs, sugar and cheese, incidentally.) I may do a less extreme version (like a juice-until-dinner plan) at some point, and I'll definitely stop in at the juice bar when I'm in the neighborhood for some of my favorites instead of hitting the Starbucks. 

And now I'll also definitely stop talking about it, and we can all get back to our regularly-scheduled blog programming of...well, probably the same sort of boring shit, only with more baby pictures. 

Stupid Girl Does a Stupid Thing, Part Two

I woke up on day two of the godforsaken motherfucking juice cleanse fully expecting to feel sub-human. I'd read at least a dozen bloggers' experiences with three-day cleanses and it seemed like day two was the day you broke out, leached toxins out your liver and fingernails, sprouted gills and breathed fire...you know, stuff like that. Especially since prevailing pseudo-wisdom seems to be that the more "toxic" you are when you start, the worse you feel as your body rids itself of all the toxins and garbage and the persistent coating of congealed Velveeta in your colon. 

So I was surprised to realize that I felt totally fine. I didn't even feel hungry. Maybe it wasn't working? Maybe it was all a load of horseshit, perhaps? (IMAGINE THAT!)

Either way, I was determined to go on, if only to have something to blog about. FOR THE BLOG! TO THE JUICE!

Day two started out much, much easier. It helped that I had that dermatologist appointment to suck up most of the morning and keep my mind off the clock-watching and idle-snack-obsessing. (Getting your Rare Congenital Ear Lump photographed by the Inventor of Accutane does make for a pretty amusing morning.) I didn't miss coffee, didn't feel headache-y or lightheaded or anything like that. I also did not experience any of the — ahem — gastrointestinal side effects many people describe. (Sure was peeing a lot, though, lawdy.) And the juices all tasted bizarrely, insanely delicious. I AM JUICE CLEANSE MASTER, SAVE FOR THAT ONE THING WITH THE RUBBER-PIZZA-CHEESE SHHHHH. 

Though once again, the late afternoon began to drag. And drag. Especially with nothing to look forward to than that blasted horrid-tasting coconut water. (You know your brain has gone 'round the crazy bend when you start thinking, DAYUM, I could sure go for some more cucumber-and-kale juice instead of coconut water, yo.)

And despite my plan to drink the "dinner" juice earlier, I got distracted with the kids and kind of forgot, and by the time I realized it I had fully morphed into a Grump Monster.

And I'm not kidding. You guys, I was AWFUL. Everything set me off. EVERYTHING. I snapped. I scolded. I yelled. 

(In my defense, my kids were behaving a little extra turd-y and screechily fighting over EVERYTHING, but instead of like, coming up with a suitable distracting activity or sending them outside, I simply tried to referee uselessly from the couch, and then blamed THEM for my uselessness.)

The worst moment came when I realized Ezra had abandoned a nearly-full milk box behind the couch in the living room, which Ike had found and upended, causing a GIANT FLOOD of milk all over the floor (and himself). And I lost it. Lost my temper, my cool, my entire grip on reality and perspective. 

I know a lot of mothers have had that moment when you realize you need to excuse yourself and spend a few moments staring at your horrible, angry, snarled-up face in the bathroom mirror, counting to 10 or 100 or 1000. But let me tell you, it adds a whole new level of shame and guilt when you're locked in there with a $9 spinach/kale/romaine/celery juice-thing, knowing that you just lost your shit at a three-and-a-half-year-old because you're purposely depriving yourself for nebulous, questionable reasons. 

I eventually emerged from the bathroom and tearfully apologized to both Ezra and Noah. They both seemed to already be Over It and unfazed (such is the impotence of my fury, I suppose), but I'm still not, even two days later. Boys — and especially Ezra — if you ever get bored enough to go back and read this crap: I am so, so sorry. There was no excuse for me to yell at you like that. I hope you forgive me, because I was a total asshole. 

And once again, the instant I drank the "dinner" juice (or whatever you want to call it), my world and mood were righted, and I felt fine. FINE. I was a Juice Cleanse Werewolf, who needed to be locked away in solitude between the hours of 3 and 5 pm, at which point I could emerge and not be completely batshit insane. 

After we put the kids to bed I curled up on the couch with the almond milk and watched — what else? — The Hunger Games. 

Next: Day three. And yes, there was a day three, and it was real and it was SPECTACULAR. (Also kind of anti-climactic.) 

Stupid Girl Does a Stupid Thing, Part One

At some point last week, I got it into my head that I wanted to try one of those three-day juice cleanse things. And by "wanted" I mean, "wanted to spout idle Big Talk about possibly trying one of those three-day juice cleanse things, because come on." 

Our time at the beach was a week-long experiment in testing the limits of just how much garbage the human body can consume. Results: A LOT. After seven days of nothing but heavily processed cheese, carbs, sugar, meat and booze, I was desperately craving a salad and felt an acute need to just...reset. (Also: the scale. FUCK YOU SCALLLLLLE.)

And so I convinced myself that a juice fast was just the fad-thing I needed to undo some of the damage and start fresh. 

Three days + 18 jars of juice (plus three "shots" of beet juice and one ginger) = the weirdest and possibly dumbest impulse buy of my life. 

I hauled it all home from a fancy local juice bar that I had never even set foot in before, arranged it neatly in our basement fridge...and then stared at it for awhile, while the imminent expiration dates mocked me, as there was no putting it off. We're not pasteurized, bitch! What have you gotten yourself into NOW? 

DAY ONE

Day one started out bright and full of promise. I was shocked to find that I did not hate the first juice (a blend of water, lemon, cayenne and coconut), and that it was actually a decent replacement for coffee, since it was tart and bracing. CLEARLY I WAS GOING TO ROCK AT THIS. 

Juice two was a cucumber...thing, and gave me my first real inkling of what I was in for. In my puny brain, I guess I'd been envisioning something thicker and more substantial, like three days of fruit-and-vegetable smoothies. 

No. It's juice, you idiot. Watery, texture-less, completely liquid juice. 

"Shiiiiiit," went my puny brain.

I carefully spaced the drinks out every two hours, as instructed, and found myself in a logic war with my stomach. My "breakfast" is typically nothing more than a pot of black coffee, and I don't usually eat lunch until well after noon, after the kids are done with theirs and the sitter leaves. So it wasn't like I was replacing a daily smorgasbord of pancakes and eggs benedict with juices. And yet after two juices I was STARVING. I mean, I wasn't really, but I was OBSESSING. 

"Lunch" was a carrot juice, which was thankfully thicker than the first two but still woefully lacking in TEXTURE to CHEW. It was filling, at least, but my stomach just felt...bored. GIVE ME SOMETHING TO DO!, it seemed to growl. I HAVE NOTHING TO NOM! THIS IS BULLSHIT!

I tried to focus on work but felt kind of sluggish and spongy, mostly because I was only half a day in and already discouraged that there was no way I'd ever make it three days without bailing. I didn't feel pure and natural and pumped full of raw, accessible vitamins — I felt cranky and hungry and wanted to be left alone with a goddamn bag of string cheese. 

I hit the lowest point around 3 pm. The sitter had left around 1, I was still trying to finish work I'd been unable to complete that morning thanks to my brain fog, and the kids were all lively and awake and demanding entertainment. I started to feel a little lightheaded and in desperate need for a nap, and juice number four was coconut water and I learned that I FUCKING HATE COCONUT WATER. It was the first one that I honestly had a hard time getting down. You people, with the coconut water? With the VOLUNTARY coconut water? I do not get you, you people. 

After awhile I stuck it back in the fridge and switched to regular water, then made some sad, cleanse-friendly "tea." Hot water, a little lemon and a small bit of the ginger shot. At this point I was so desperate for ANY variety of ANY kind that even the switch to hot water was like, total amazeballs. And I found if I added enough ginger juice it became super spicy, which made my bored-as-hell tastebuds happy. YOU GOT US SOME WATER SALSA YAAAAYYYYY!

But basically, the hours of 3-5 pm on day one were the worst. I wasn't experiencing any of the "detox" symptoms I'd braced myself for (especially since I'd done NOTHING to prepare for the cleanse, like eliminating caffeine/meat/dairy/alcohol in the days prior, but leapt right in the morning after indulging in chocolate-chip cookies and red wine the night before, because I am a winner)...I was just hungry. So very, very hungry. And NOT in the mood for juice number five, some bright green thing full of kale and romaine and celery and stuff. 

Specifically, the lowest, worst moment was when Jason came home from work and the reality hit me: I was going to have to sit there sipping juice while my asshole family got to eat real, actual food right in front of me. 

Jason stuck a pizza in the oven for the boys and — upon seeing my pale, frantic face and hearing my near-weeping over this voluntary thing that I had voluntarily signed up for — opted to only eat a salad for dinner. 

"BUT YOU STILL GET TO CHEWWWWW!" I practically wailed at him, then hid in the living room to escape the amazing, delicious smell of shitty frozen pizza warming up in the oven. 

I thought about quitting, yes. I tried to talk myself into a revised plan of drinking the juices during the day and then eating a "sensible" small dinner at night. I'd made a huge mistake, clearly. I should have worked up to this more slowly, getting back into better eating habits post-vacation for awhile and OH MY GOD I WOULD EAT MY SOFA RIGHT NOW BRING ME SOME KETCHUP.

I started in on the green juice and took a shot of the beet juice. Both of them were...surprisingly good, if texture-less. That was still the biggest issue — I liked and appreciated the fresh taste of all the vegetable juices, but missed the satisfaction and satiated feeling that comes with you know, EATING those vegetables.

Then I made the mistake of going into the kitchen to check on my children. Noah had done his patented trick of flipping the pizza upside down, then carefully eating every bite of crust and sauce while leaving the cheese behind. (He loves cheese, just not melted cheese. And yet he insists pizza is his favorite. I don't know. I don't even bother trying to figure it out anymore.) I picked up his plate and walked towards the sink and...

That cheese. That disgusting, leftover slab of sub-par mozzarella that my child had meticulously separated from his pizza slice...

...was suddenly the most irresistible piece of food I have ever encountered in my entire life.

So I ate it. I cheated on my fancy three-day juice cleanse with a hunk of cold cheese from a boxed frozen pizza.

And it was DELICIOUS. Oh, my GOD it tasted so good. Like grease tinged with regret.

And then I finished my salad-juice and finally felt...full. So much that I considered skipping the final drink of the day — a raw vanilla almond milk — but then decided to have it before bed. It was absolutely goddamned delicious and proteinariffic, like some kind of glorious vegan milkshake I never would have liked before but now! NOW! Oh, God bless you, almond milk, for being Not Juice and for having wee tiny flecks of almonds in you that I can FEEL with my TONGUE and gaaahhhhslobberdrool. 

I realized if I'd started the final two juices sooner, I possibly could have avoided the worst of the out-of-my-mind-with-hunger pangs, because I went to bed completely full and satisfied and slept like a rock. Maybe I could actually do this.

Or maybe it was just Stockholm Syndrome brought on by the almond milk. 

Next: Day two brings it on, in a brought-en-est z-snap fashion

She's Lump

I had a dermatologist appointment this morning — my super-exciting annual mole check. Sexy, right?  Sorry to shatter any fantasies about what my hot, droopy mother-of-three body might look like in person, because seriously: I am covered in weird-ass moles.

The good news is that none of my weird-ass moles are dangerously weird. They are all perfectly normal-weird. Hooray!

(Though I still requested a quick liquid-nitrogen blast to the face for a normal-but-crazy-annoying sun spot I developed on my cheek during pregnancy. I go back in a month for another one, or possibly a follow-up with a laser. What a wonderful time to be alive! Nitrogen blasts at your convenience! Prescription-strength lasers! Botulism shots on a walk-in basis!)

But then, there's my ear. My ear is apparently very, very weird.

For about as long as I can remember, I've had a small lump in front of my right ear. It's under the skin, perfectly round, and not particularly hard OR soft. It never hurt or anything, it was just...well, weird. I remember going to a doctor about it when I was very young, but don't really remember what the diagnosis was. Extra cartilage? A benign cyst?

No idea, and my mom doesn't remember either. Something of the "mumble mumble fine harmless as long as it doesn't change or get bigger mumble" variety. 

Welp. Fine. Until it changed and got bigger.

I think it started when I was pregnant with Ike, then continued after he was born, but now it's a LUMP. An annoying, visible lump. It's super itchy and freaks me out when I touch it, because it manages to be both solid and immovable while also...squishy and fluid-filled. 

(OH HI WERE YOU EATING? I'm sorry, maybe I should have just let everybody Google around for pictures of my bizarre skin condition. Because THAT always goes so well.)

Thanks to Google, I'd managed to diagnose myself with a variety of Things, ranging from benign and no-big-deal to OH MY GOD YOUR BRAIN IS FILLING WITH CANCER THIS VERY SECOND. 

I wasn't sure the dermatologist was the best place to take the lump, but I had the appointment set up already and figured I could get a recommendation for an ENT or whatever kind of doctor they felt would be the appropriate medical destination for the lump.

(Lump. Lump! It's starting to not even feel like a real word the more I type it.)

Turns out, the dermatologist knew exactly what it was, and it was NONE of the things I'd researched on Google. It's basically a rogue, malformed sinus that I've had since birth, since I was an embryo. "Like, it happens when the cells are still splitting," she explained, not without a slight hint of OMFG THIS IS SO COOL excitement. 

The next thing I knew, I was the show-and-tell exhibit of the entire practice. Two physician's assistants came in to ooh and ahh over the lump. Medical references were pulled out and passed around. An official multi-word diagnosis was announced to me (and then promptly forgotten). Usually, this sort of thing is accompanied by a small extra hole for draining, but I don't have that, so that's why the lump is getting bigger and more uncomfortable.

So basically, the lump is full of face-juice and probably boogers. Great. Just...great. 

But that still didn't mean my disgusting aural mucus blob wasn't HOT SHIT at the dermatologist's office. My doctor pulled in another dermatologist to look at it, a much older gentleman I've never seen at the practice before.

My doctor introduced him to me. "He invented ACCUTANE," she added proudly.

So. Okay. How does one respond to that? I mean, if you were normal and not at all a failure at basic human interaction (aka me)? You came in for a mole check and suddenly the inventor of Accutane is standing three feet away from you and would like to see the weird thing you've got going on with your ear. 

I think I stammered out something about it being nice to meet him and like, wow and shit, I've seen your medication advertised on the teevee, hurrr durrrr, and then apologized for the lump really being kind of boring looking. It's just skin, you know? No blood or oozing or tiny fetus in fetu teeth sticking out of it, or anything cool like that.

The doctors hmm'd and ahhh'd over the lump and I was given several cards for several local plastic surgeons who could determine whether it should be drained or surgically removed, and then the older doctor asked if he could take a picture.

 "Oh...kay?" I said. 

And that's how I ended up getting a photo of my weird-ass ear lump taken by the Inventor of Accutane this morning for future medical posterity, or perhaps his personal scrapbook of weird-ass dermatological shit. I didn't ask.

 

Baby vs. Ocean

We're back. Back to real life and all the procrastinating that comes with it (laundry! school orientations! haircuts! who needs shoes/pants/respectable-looking-underwear/etc.), which means oh hi look I got you some baby pictures.

Much like McKayla Maroney, Baby Ike is not impressed. Nice try, Delaware. But I've been to Aruba.

Wait. Hold up. 

WHAT JUST HAPPENED YOU GUYS

Whoa. That was kind of a thing.

(And! Then!)

ERMAHGERD

AH MAH GAH

Bring it, ocean.

And that's how Baby Ike spent his summer vacation. Just like that, over and over and over again, I don't care if you're tired and want to sit down, keep me in the magic water place with the squishy floor all day. 

Beach Houseness

We're at the beach this week, with Tracey and fam and the life-size cardboard stand-up of Harry Potter we swiped from Sparklecorn for the express purpose of beach house shenanigans. 

Do not:

1) Turn corners.

2) Enter bathrooms.

3) Wonder what that shadow is out on the balcony HOLY SHIT, or...

4) Get into bed without checking to see if some asshole friend did this even though it stopped being funny four days ago, Christ.

(I am kidding. IT IS SO STILL FUNNY.)

Also, do not eat this.

(This is pork carnitas tacos topped with Velveeta dip, green tomatillo salsa and microwaved White Castle burgers.)

(I'm kidding. You should totally eat this. IT WAS HORRIBLY HIDEOUSLY DELICIOUS AND WE ARE ALL VERY ASHAMED.)

Also, Baby Ike is so blond it's officially ridiculous. Officially! I'm getting a certificate drawn up and everything. Later. At some point. First we gotta go to the beach again. Sigh. AND STUFF. 

Open the Gates & Seize the DoofOuchOwBumpShit

So. Okay. Let's get this hideously embarrassing story over with already. I've been putting it off for some reason, like I am laboring under the delusional illusion that I have dignity or something. 

I broke my toe a couple weeks ago, as you may or may not recall. In retrospect, it was a pretty bad break. I think it may have involved a joint in my actual FOOT, not just the toe. So probably a break that should have been checked out and/or coddled for a week or two in a cast shoe or something. Instead of what I did, which was tape it up for a couple days and limp around while insisting I was okay, then going to New York City with a suitcase full of ridiculous shoes. 

Behold! A trifecta of dumbass!

But you know. SHOES. VANITY. HUBRIS. A DESPERATE NEED TO MAKE MY CALVES LOOK SEXY. 

I knew I was in trouble on the very first night, when I "only" wore the pair of strappy wedges and realized that I was having a really hard walking in them. Not just from toe-pain (pshaw! I can medicate that right up with martinis), but from balance issues. I was very weirdly wobbly, at least for me. Was I out of practice? Overly favoring my busted left foot and screwing with my center of gravity? Drrrrrunk?

THE WORLD MAY NEVER KNOW.

So I made a point to start wearing flat sandals whenever I had to walk somewhere, and stashing my ridiculous shoes in my bag to change into once I arrived at my destination. This worked...somewhat, though I did fall flat on my ass at Sparklecorn in front of Avitable during a DRAMATIC RE-ENACTMENT of the moment when a crazy person stole Charlie's conference badge after he ordered her to stop making me cry.

And still. Lo. I did not learn. On Saturday night, we went to see Newsies. I wore my favorite shoes ever (the animal print ones, on the right), a Barbie-doll-riffic pair of platforms that have never given me an ounce of trouble, that have always been comfortable despite looking otherwise, that I have literally sprinted down escalators and across Metro platforms in. 

So of course I fell down the stairs in them. 

We were up in the mezzanine — a steep, terrifying old-school mezzanine — but oh, that part was fine! At intermission I got up to pee and realized that the line was already stretching back down the stairs to the orchestra level. I followed the herd down the stairs and...I don't totally know. I THINK I put my bad foot down on the narrow step and wobbled unexpectedly, then reached out for the railing but missed, while at the same time the crush of people behind me didn't realize I'd stopped and knocked whatever remaining shred of balance I had left.

I fell. Face first. I hit multiple steps with multiple body parts — my knees, my shins, my elbows, my shoulder, MY FACE. 

There was nothing to do but roll into it and hope that I would hit the solid floor eventually and would make it there without breaking anything. The bathroom line saw it all, and I heard the collective gasps of a good dozen people. Everyone — including an usher who saw the whole thing and rushed over — asked if I was okay, and I insisted I was, while also wishing they would all just SHUT UP SHUT UP LET ME GO ON WITH MY LIFE I ALSO STILL REALLY HAVE TO PEE.

I was the person everyone would talk about when they returned to their seats. I was Tai from Clueless, the girl who fell on her butt face, the girl who had no business wearing those stupid shoes. 

I turned down offers of ice and first aid (mostly because I HAD TO PEE AND DO YOU NOT SEE THIS LINE), took my shamey place in line, caught Jason's eye in the crowd and mouthed I JUST FELL DOWN THE STAIRS OMG to him, then inspected the damage in the bathroom. 

My left leg was bleeding — icky wide swaths of carpet-induced cuts — and my right leg was already bruising profusely as were both my elbows. My shoulder ached (that bruise wouldn't show up until later) and the right side of my face around my eye was red and slightly carpet-burned.

I stumbled out and told the usher I'd reconsidered the offer of some ice. They eventually brought me a plastic Duane Reade bag full of ice from the concession stand.

And so I spent the second act trying desperately to ice my various wounds while keeping the crinkly-bag-sounds to a minimum. The humiliated ache from my injured pride, however, raged on. 

(We didn't really care for the show either. Turns out I am a Newsies purist who thinks they changed too damn much from the movie and got all nit-picky about most of my favorite moments being removed. Though obviously my viewing experience may have been clouded by the STAIR-BLOW I TOOK TO MY FACE.) 

I am still sporting a bunch of impressive bruises and cuts, and a newfound ambivalence-slash-terror towards my heel collection. They are assholes and so am I. The end!