April 11, 2008
March 28, 2008
So I have only thrown up twice this week.
Quick! Let me know you've read that sentence (use some hand signals, or just cough kind of pointedly) so I can delete it. My blog has become a passive aggressive ASSHOLE, and has somehow artificial-intelligenced itself into my digestive tract so anytime I mention feeling relatively okay it decides to punish me.
(Shit. I bet it's reading that paragraph right now. Quick! Pretend we're talking about something else.)
...and then I was like, OH MY GOD, there's a llama in the backyard! But it was only the hydrangea.
Dog butts: for when you cannot think of an appropriate segue.
So I'm somewhere in the vicinity of 11 weeks, and starting to feel like I might just make it out of this thing alive. Last week was definitely the worst -- I threw up pretty much every night, was unable to eat dinner, and then woke up every morning with crashing blood sugar and ravenous hunger, but was always faced with three smaller beings who insist on being fed first, even though SOME OF THEM eat food that smells like rancid-cold-cut-and-mackerel salad, I AM NOT SAYING WHO.
Whut? Can't I horf cat fud in peace over here?
(By the way, since I am a crumbly emotional mess these days, I feel the need to counter all my dogthing-mocking with a declaration of love for the hamsterdog. She may need a diet, probably a bath and definitely a less disproportionate headsize-to-body ratio, and my GOD, must she have an aneurysm EVERY time the mailman walks by, but she really DOES get plenty of love and affection and clearly, way too much ham.)
My next OB appointment isn't for another week and a half, which means the reassurance from my last visit is starting to wear off and I'm fighting the urge to call and invent a pressing reason why I need an ultrasound RIGHT NOW, since "I only threw up twice this week!" or "I dunno, I think I feel a little less gassy" won't really cut it.
I rented a doppler last time, and ended up accidentally keeping it (and paying monthly rent on it) for close to 18 months, and then stupidly sent it back when I was one damn payment away from owning the damn thing outright. (Every once in awhile, though, I get a $10 check from them, presumably from people who stumble upon the referral number I posted ages ago. So I'll probably break even in about 23 years, provided I keep my Google Page Rank up.)
Needless to say, I am not allowed to rent another doppler ever.
Oh, and about this. I still don't know. Your comments certainly got me jazzed for the idea of a big birthday reveal moment, but then a minute later I get distracted by something and change my mind. Jason is firmly in the find-out camp, but is willing to go along with whatever I ultimately decide, probably because he KNOWS I won't really be able to hold out and will eventually cave, so it's safe to indulge me for now. So...realistically, I'm guessing we'll find out, unless the baby is modest and keeps his legs crossed for the next few ultrasounds.
(Yeah, I said his. In a way, I think the whole issue is moot, because I'm fairly sure it's another boy.)
Still fairly sure it's a Wonderpet.
The belly at dawn, as compared to the belly at night, with a day's worth of bloat. Ah, dignity. I must have left it in my other pants. The ones I can't button, no matter what time of day it is. Stupid pants.
March 26, 2008
Oh hi. I'm busy. Very busy. Very busy with various digestive quandaries, including: seriously, how hard is it to make a damn slice of toast in the morning, especially since you KNOW that's all it takes to stave off the vomiting, you frigging dumbass? and also: hmm, since I just threw up a still-eerily intact prenatal vitamin, does that mean I have to take another one?
That last question is actually rather complicated, since prenatal vitamins have gone ALL KINDS OF FANCY now, and I am now required to take TWO pills everyday. One being the run-of-the-mill multivitamin, and the other being a space-age omega-3 DHA capsule, and only the fishy-tasting DHA pill seemed to come up undigested but the two pills are sealed together in the little foil packets so I cant just take another DHA pill and aaaaahhhhhhh mah baby needs its brain pillz! Or could I maybe get away with a My First Flintstones? I do love the taste of purple.
I was describing the new generation of prenatal vitamins to my sister-in-law this weekend, and she was rather appalled. "So babies are already smarter than their parents by the time they're BORN?" she asked. "That's bullshit. I wouldn't stand for it. Mothers are entitled to being the smart ones for AT LEAST six extra months or so."
She's got a point. However, my family does have a lot of hopes and dreams riding on this next generation.
And how is that going, so far?
(You know, I still vaguely feel like I belong more on that couch than behind the camera. None of those kids even bother calling me "Aunt Amy" because I was always the young and cool one. I got free passes to Sesame Place and never knew what the going rate for birthday cash was so I always overestimated and I'd totally let you use my head as the center support beam for your Ultimate Fort. But now I am just another Old Person Barking High-Pitched Commands At Toddlers While Teenagers Silently Wish For Death.)
In less bershon-y moments, here's a sequence I call "And Suddenly, There Was Cake."
Oh, and PS:
Was not included in grandbaby photo. Was not given any cake. Hate this family. Going to poop in sumbody's luggage.
March 07, 2008
My god, this blog. It is astoundingly boring.
So. Very. Very. Boring.
It is not updated often enough for my discriminating tastes, either.
And this kid is much too old to be very interesting.
Not that all this pregnancy puking and hot dog binge talk is all that appetizing.
In sum, I am in ur charming family portrait, expressing mah disdain. Pfft.
OG Homie aka Ceiba!
January 23, 2008
Or, Turf Wars Among the Small Ones
Or, Geez, Amy, Maybe You Should Turn Up the Heat?
I SENSES WEAKNESS.
You think I care, dogthing? I HAS A TENT.
SHADOW DOG IS SHADOWY.
YET...OMFG IS THAT KIBBLE?
Mwa ha ha.
Mine. All mine.
There was a brief stand-off...and then...
Blue Steel FTW! aka I Will Fuck You Up And Good, Dogthing.
(Okay, so this was terribly non-dramatic in the retelling, and not nearly as amusing as actually watching the every-changing-custody of the sunbeam, and wow, I'm actually now kind of ashamed that this is the sort of thing that I regularly depend on to kill a good 45 minutes of the day, so I'm just gonna go ahead and post some pictures of my kid.)
September 26, 2007
(With more movie title format weirdness. I don't know why I'm having trouble letting it go. Possibly I think I am clever. Possibly tomorrow I will realize the truth.)
Captain Corelli's Mandoline
Jason's thumb tip appears to be growing back. Or so he says, because I refuse to look at it. He keeps trying to make me look at it. I keep threatening to no longer help him with his shirt buttons.
By the way, this is what a mandoline looks like. This is also what a mandoline THAT IS BEING USED PROPERLY looks like. Take away the jolly little plastic vegetable hat and you'll see what went so very wrong for Jason. Laws of physics, people. Don't fuck with them.
Cujo and the Chocolate Factory
Our dinner party guests brought dessert on Saturday...a deliciously decadent chocolate cake. So decadent, in fact, that we accidentally left about half of it sitting on the kitchen counter overnight, after we all slumped off to bed in a food coma.
The next morning, after determining that it was indeed too stale to eat, even as a toaster-breakfast-cake thing, we threw it in the trash. Which somehow ended up sitting by the back door because SOMEBODY WHO POSSIBLY IS DEFICIENT IN THE THUMB DEPARTMENT didn't feel like taking the 15 steps or so to the garbage can in the back yard.
I walked into the kitchen a little later and saw the bag ripped open...and Ceiba literally up to her beady little eyeballs in chocolate cake.
"CEIBA!" I screamed. "NO! STOP! IT'LL GO RIGHT TO YOUR THIGHS!"
We called the vet in a panic and tried to figure out how to describe exactly how much cake she'd eaten ("Well, there were about three or four slices left -- small slices, you know, girl slices -- and she ate about half of them, plus all the icing, although a lot of it is still on her ears") and also what kind of chocolate she'd eaten since we didn't have the ingredient list. They basically told us to sit around and watch her for a few hours, and that even if she wasn't poisoned, she'd probably be puking and having diarrhea a fair amount.
We Googled the best way to check a dog's pulse.
We had Noah's plastic splash mat all ready in case we were too far away from the back door.
Damn dog is FINE. Not even a single runny poop. Cast-iron stomach, I swear.
This mean I can has chocolate chip waffles now?
Dork: The Movie
One really, really weird thing about parenthood that I was completely unprepared for is how your definition of "celebrity" changes. Anyone who makes your kid happy is totally your new rock star.
Suddenly you develop a little crush on your elderly pediatrician and you start trying to figure out which of the Wiggles is the cutest and honestly, I would drive two hours to take Noah to meet Joe from Blue's Clues because OMFG JOE FROM BLUE'S CLUES.
So with that said, I want you to just try to imagine the hysterical, Beatles-worthy scream that erupted from my mouth when I got the following attachment from an employee at Signing Time:
I cannot even explain the full effect this photo has on me. It makes me want to be a better person.
P.P.S Contractually obligated to link to it. Sorry. But not, because = whore.
P.P.P.S Also sorry for the dearth of Noah photos this week...I am selfishly hoarding them all until I've finalized my choices for his little birthday video/photo montage thing.
P.P.P.P.S My music choice for this year's video is William Shatner. I am officially the biggest weirdo I know.
September 12, 2007
I are not fat.
I are victim of sensashunalistic tabloid society and unrealistic body image ideels.
Also bad camera angles. Feel v. exployted.
Gained two pounds mebbe. Small one says I can has waffles. Look at face and say I cannot has waffles.
Go on. I dare.
Snausage is teh new hourglass anyways. Read it n Vogue.
Would open VMAs next year and look wicked hott but are boycottin with my boy Kanye.
Love, but u cannot has be under my umbrella becuz u called me fat,
September 10, 2007
Since her last public appearance on this blog, Ceiba has porked up a little. A tad. A few pounds and ounces. A mere 25% of her body weight. Or so.
Where mah spangly bra and hotpants be at, bitches?
The scientific community is baffled, as her kibble -- her healthy, low-fat, high-protein, crazy-expensive for the preshus-shookie-ookie-kums kibble -- remains largely untouched. And yet there's something about the neck rolls and rotund torso that suggest WAFFLES. LOTS AND LOTS OF WAFFLES.
I can has chili cheez fries?
OMFG SMALL ONE HAS COOKIE COOKIE COOKIE
Eh. Fuckkit. zzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Max is also overweight, but that's nothing new. He's been overeating to fill a nutsack-shaped void for YEARS now.
I eat kibble while Lard Dog sleep. Is win-win.
August 30, 2007
Okay, now that I think we've got everything working with the new design, and now that my designer is off to Ecuador, thus fleeing the country and my emails, let me see if I can completely blow it the fuck up by posting a video window that will probably be too wide for the margins. Come on, it'll be fun!
It seems like people are still questioning the proper pronunciation of "Amalah." AIM-a-la. Like how you pronounce Amy? AIM-ee? Oh, whatever, here's me having a conversation with my dog about it.
Just be happy I didn't name my kid D'Artagnaienalyah or something. Because you know it was on our short list.
Speaking of Noah, hey! Remember that time we qualified for free speech therapy? Our first session is on Tuesday morning.
He's made some progress in the past few weeks, although nothing to suggest that a true language explosion is right around the corner -- he's still gaining language right in step with a five- or six-month delay, but progress is progress, and I'm extremely confident that he's going to respond really well to the therapy. Plus, it's like free babysitting. I plan to paint my toenails.
We scored a gigantic set of Signing Time DVDs this week. My expectations were...not very high, since I've been faithfully signing (More! Milk! Eat! All done! Cookie! Cracker! WTF!) with Noah for over a month now and he's shown the same level of interest as back when I tried the infant signing with him. Which to say, zero. Mom, you're so lame.
But we started watching them about two days ago, and Noah...well, he likes them, but he likes pretty much everything on the glowing teevee box, especially since we've drastically limited his intake of Dora and Blue.
Well, let's not get CRAZY here. We do need to be good playdate hosts, now.
He wanders in and out of the room, which is fine, since I prefer that to the enthralled, slack-jawed video stare (see, uh, above), but I doubted he was actually taking any of the signs in, especially since he continued to pointedly ignore my clumsy attempts to sign along.
This morning he finished his milk and cereal and then, without a moment's hesitation, he said "eat" for the very first time while making the sign for "more."
Uh. Holy crap.
Baby Einstein? You just got PWN3D.
June 06, 2007
JASON: So. Anything interesting happen today?
AMY: I spent the whole day dealing with shit.
JASON: Ooh, was there some kind of Internet drama?
AMY: No. Like actual, physical shit. I spent the whole day dealing with feces.
JASON. Ooh, Noah?
AMY: Well, yes. Noah kept saying he had to go apoopoo but wouldn't go on the potty and he wanted to watch the Potty Time With Elmo video 14 dozen times and then Max pooped in the office twice and Ceiba crapped on the stairs.
AMY: Yeah. It was an enriching day. I do good work.
I've been in a bit of a cranky funk this week and feeling immensely sorry for myself for no reason at all.
Well, okay, unless you count this as a valid reason for funkitude:
Of course, after cursing the coffee maker out for RISING AGAINST ME, FOR MAKING EVERYTHING WORSE, I realized I'd forgotten to put the inner plastic basket thing in before the filter and thus this was all my own fault but COME ON, I was still totally ready to cry about it.
Or, you know, grab a straw and suck that shit up off the countertop.
Same thing with all the pet poop. Max, in a fit of old age and/or belated moving-related rebellion, has decided he will not use his litter box if it is not P-E-R-F-E-C-T-L-Y clean. Which means I must scoop it out after he goes EVERY TIME and sift it and add fresh litter EVERY TIME, or else he relieves himself six inches to the right of the box. As I am extremely lazy and forgetful and also trying to prove a point that he's being ridiculous, just CRAP IN THE BOX ALREADY, he's been having a lot of accidents.
So I clean it all up and always manage to spill litter on the floor, and then I grab the mini-handvac thing and of course, it's never fully charged because I am extremely lazy and never remember to charge it, but at the time I am all, WOE IS ME and *SHAKES FIST AT THE HEAVENS* and that's when I punch myself in the face because dude, it's some kitty litter on the carpet, get a damn grip and call the vet already.
(Seriously. Can you believe this is the most interesting story I've managed to come up with all week?)
(Does your brain itch as it atrophies? Or is it more of a stinging-type sensation?)
Several months ago I blamed a similar funk on the weather. Which is completely gorgeous right now. Except maybe it's a little too hot, plus there are mosquitoes, and I get a sinus headache from all the fucking grass and nature and shit.
Basically, hi. I'm a whiny little bitch who is never happy. Also probably on the rag.
But look! Here's some baby beefcake.
(Hey. Anybody want to join my little ray-of-sunshine ass for a Top Chef open thread tonight at the Mamapop forums? It'll be just like you're sitting in my living room, except you don't have to put up with me asking for foot rubs. Also sometimes I get a little gassy after dinner, so yeah. Forums are totally the way to watch TV with me.)
(Also, of COURSE it was reaction number 3. What kind of mature human being do you people take me for?)