Monday Hodgepodge

Picture of the day:

I would have cut the crust off your sandwich for you, kid. All you had to do was ask.

Secondary picture of the day:

<insert BANG BANG THUMP THUMP WHO THOUGHT THIS WAS A GOOD IDEA before viewing>

Story of the day, in which my husband goes to extraordinary lengths to conceal the fact that we'd forgotten that the refrigerator repairman was coming to the house and were not home at the agreed-upon appointment time:

We were at a park with the boys when Jason's phone rang. He recognized the number and was all, OH SHIT OH RIGHT THAT, but instead of answering like a grown-up and admitting that hey, we're not home right now, something came up, give us 20 minutes before you send the guy over (as they were only calling to confirm our at-home-ness before dispatching the repairman), he inexplicably launched us all into a confusing campaign of intrigue and subterfuge, opting to call them back once we were on our way home to claim that oh yes, my wife is at home, I don't know why she's not picking up the phone there, maybe she's outside! Let me try to reach her.

Then he hung up, waited five minutes and called them back to say that yes, my wife is at home, send the repairman over. And he drove on, confident in his strategy of deception because the office was XX minutes away and we were only X minutes away, and when I pointed out that they probably just dispatched the guy from wherever his last job was, which could have been around the damn corner from our damn house for all we damn knew, Jason looked a little concerned, but still maintained that his plan was masterful and brilliant, if possibly a tad pointless, because I didn't quite get WHY we were going through all this, since I was pretty sure this was why the company had the call-before-dispatching-even-if-you-have-an-appointment policy to begin with, BUT ANYWAY, there was no reasoning with him, he was either posessed or mad with power or both, plus it was kind of amusing, especially when I turned around to remind Noah about the importance of always telling the truth, except for when you forget to update your Google calendar. The Baby Jesus says it's okay then, and that's the real reason why Easter is always a different date every year.

But then! Just when we thought we were going to get away with our evil scheme! We pull onto our street and realize that the REPAIRMAN WAS ALREADY THERE. OUR WEB OF LIES WAS UNRAVELING BEFORE OUR VERY EYES. So Jason drives by really fast and goes around a little loopy cul-de-sac thing, stops the car and orders me and Noah out of the car and instructs us to walk the rest of the way home and claim that we were playing outside around the corner, and then Jason drove back to the house and pretended like he had no idea where we were and let the guy in. The guy who:

1) I'm pretty sure saw our car sort-of pull up and then speed off to hide around the corner, and
2) Probably passed the very area where I claimed Noah and I had been playing, and
3) Was very grumpy, and probably more than a little pleased to report that our refrigerator is actually quite fucked and must be replaced after all, you lying sacks of shit.

THE END.

The Life Less Documented

Funny thing about using this old laptop: I don't like using it, therefore I turn it off and put it down a lot. I wander away from it -- and the Internet -- in favor of shit like laundry or unloading the dishwasher or those-bananas-are-ripe-I-should-make-some-banana-bread-type whims. And while I doubt anybody is coming here to read about my super-extra-hot-damn-exciting life or anything, believe me when I tell you that WOW, this week has been boring. I've been boring. I've transcended boring. I've actually died of boredom and then risen from the dead to become boring's own personal messiah.

Although last night Jason and I had a date night, and on the way home Jason was challenged to a fistfight on the Metro by a tweaked out meth head who thought it would be a good idea to start calling a fellow white dude the n-word and then scream I'M FIVE FOOT EIGHT, MOTHERFUCKER repeatedly until the next station stop, where Jason told him to get off and wait for him on the platform. "I'll be right there," he said. "And we'll go at it."

The guy did, although his hopped-up excitement quickly turned to confusion as he watched the train pull away and leave him behind. Jason merrily waved at him through the window while I finally got brave enough to pull my head out of my handbag, where I had been "busy" looking for my "phone" during the whole ridiculous encounter.

***

Ezra would like to report that he discovered his toes, and they are FABULOUS. He is also blowing raspberries, eating us out of house and home (I'm glad I pledged to make his baby food this time because this kid would have a serious 10-pack-a-day Gerber habit), and just being all-around fabulous in general.

Significantly less fabulous: his two (TWO!) bottom teeth making a joint appearance, green beans (whatever, dude, I'm hiding them in your yams and there's nothing you can do about it) and any moment in time where Noah is not in his line of sight because Noah is TOTALLY the coolest.

***

Noah would like to know why nobody ever told him about Little Einsteins. Mommy would like to know who the fuck thought up the concept of a cartoon rocket powered by preschoolers patting on their thighs and the rocket has a jet for a nemesis and they plant seeds that sprout fucking harpsichords and why is the theme song so damn catchy and seriously, if I ever meet the person responsible on the Metro I actually WILL meet them on the platform and go at it.

("We're going on a trip in our favorite rocket ship." It's DRUGS, people. DRUUUUUGS.)

***

And here is where I was going to include a cute little video as atonement for the silence-y week around here, but it turns out my camera hates this laptop as much as I do. I've spent 45 minutes trying to at least get the two of them to acknowledge each other to no avail, and look, there's banana bread in the kitchen and you're lucky I've managed to pay attention to this post long enough to finish this last sentenc

A Bunch of Turkeys

(Photo-heavy post warning. Click below or skip it completely. It's like your very own Matrix blue pill/red pill conundrum!)

NOT FUNNY, CONTINUED

Well. We're all still alive. So that's something.

I'll spare you most of the slightly horrific, nose-blow-by-blow details of my weekend, except for:

1) Chest cold, i.e. coughing up my fucking toe bones.

2) Sinus infection, i.e. OH MY GOD EVERYBODY PLEASE STOP HAMMERING ON MY FACE.

3) Double ear infection, i.e. Noah no longer getting any sympathy for his SINGLE ear infection, like WHATEVER.

4) Pinkeye, i.e. or possibly "just" the double ear infection leaking out of both of my eyes.

5) Hives from an allergic reaction to the doses of antibiotic I swiped from Noah, i.e. HIVES? YOU THINK I GIVE A SHIT ABOUT SOME PUSSY ASS HIVES AT THIS POINT? Show me anaphylatic shock and then we'll talk.

Yeah.

My spirit was officially broken around 5 am on Sunday morning, when I woke up with both eyes sealed shut, realizing just how sick I still was, and trying to cry because I just wanted to feel better, but being unable to cry because my eyes were fucking sealed shut.

Luckily, darkest before dawn and all that. I am feeling better, save for the sensation that the left side of my face -- from my eardrums down to my back teeth -- is being used to banish contestants from The Gong Show.

Jason and I had our dinner out on Friday, even though I wasn't feeling very well, but I was worried that we only had a short window before my in-laws' stomach bug came and wiped us all out. I was also possibly a little feverish, and thus convinced that my house had turned into the hotel room from Ocean's Thirteen, become sentient and hellbent on my ultimate destruction.

But! Feeling better. I'm pretty sure. Noah is much better (including the rash/burn/horror of the Clorox Wipes Incident, for which my father-in-law is still apologizing and I'm still struggling to achieve balance between "honest mistake" and "OMFGWTFBBQBZZZT"), Ezra is the healthiest person in the house, and Jason is messing it all up by JUST NOW coming down with the chest cold that started all of this. I've offered to squirt breastmilk in his eyes in case he gets the pinkeye part, but I think he's leaning towards using Noah's leftover eye drops. (I used both, oh yes I did.) I did not extend the same offer to my in-laws, who just officially left us to parent our children, OUR PLURAL CHILDREN, alone.

And I'm pretty sure that no one else is going to come help us out. Not now or not ever. Because we lure you here with the promise of cuddly newborns and hilarious toddlers and homemade eggplant parmesan, and then we just sit around and sneeze on you for eight straight days.

That, or we force you to ooh and ahh over barely perceptible differences in the baby's facial expressions.

Flashback! Noah at pretty much the exact same age. That outfit still swallows Ezra whole.

Not Ezra's Birth Story

I've officially started working on Ezra's birth story. So that's...coming up. And all. Just FYI.

So, fine, technically all I've done so far is write "Ezra's Birth Story" in the title box and saved it as a draft. What? I didn't say it was coming up in like, the next five minutes or anything.

In the meantime, HERE! HERE ARE SOME PHOTOS! BECAUSE I NEVER JUST FUCKING POST ENOUGH PHOTOS!

The Storch is strong with this one. I'm not entirely sure my genes were even in the room this time. Family members agree that he looks a lot like his Great-Great-Uncle Morty. Who looked exactly like what you would imagine a Great-Great-Uncle Morty looked like.

When I was a little girl, I used to pretend that I was a mommy to identical quintuplet girls. Their names were Priscilla, Penelope, Tiffany, Princessia and Rosepetal. I'm thinking that real life turned out much better.

Noah's also been much better. When he acts up (and it's nothing major, like hitting or running out in the street or drag racing down at the old culvert for pinks), we ignore him. Turn our backs, leave the room, refuse to acknowledge the Fit of Brat. When he does anything vaguely nice or lovely, we make a huge deal out of it.  Turns out that it's totally our attention that he wants! And he'll do whatever seems to get our attention! Good or bad! This is parenting rocket science here, folks. Don't be intimidated by my advanced discoveries or anything.

He's really, really enchanted by Baby Brother.

(I have about 5764635258 photos like this, by the way. And I will most likely force you to look at most of them.)

Occasionally I make it into the photos too. This is also a pretty common pose, minus the bed ever being made.

Four, Three, Two Days

Yep. Still pregnant. TiVo has two more days to come out peacefully before we go in after him.

(Comparison shot at 40 weeks from last time, although slightly more STRAIGHT-ON CLOSE-UP OH-THE-HORROR.)

And yes! These were taken in the same mirror as every other belly shot I've taken over the past year. The completely different furniture? Yeah. I did that. It needed to be done. The itching and the leg twitching and the terrible, terrible screaming wouldn't stop until I could say that truly, we have officially rearranged the furniture in every damn room in the house.

(Last night I had just upended both of our bedside endtables [the doors were opening the wrong way and each needed to be swapped to the other side, but of course that meant the contents needed to be swapped and while I was there I MIGHT AS WELL completely purge and reorganize them, I mean, really] when I realized that I was supposed to be meeting a bunch of bloggers who are here for the DC BlogHer mini-thing going on, which of course I didn't register for because hello! Still pregnant on October 13th? Fuck that idea and you and everything else in the entire world grrrarrr.)

(I made it to the dinner on time. I'm sure I was fucking DELIGHTFUL ray of sunshine. I ate a burrito and later woke up at 4 am timing what I hoped were contractions but were probably just gas.)

Now.

I know we've all had a lot of laughs at my expense regarding the crazy, crazy nesting thing that I do. I fully own up to the fact that I go way beyond nesting. Fuck twigs and feathers and dusting the baseboards -- I'd probably up and build a house from the ground up if you'd let me. Unhappy with your home renovation project? Don't hire just another contractor to take over -- get yourself a nine-months-pregnant lady in there. Extreme Nesting: Hardhat Oh-My-God-How-Am-I-Not-In-Labor-Already Edition.

But.

If you want to know why there is currently about five or six inches of a metal drill bit sticking out of my roof, let me assure you that I had NOTHING TO DO WITH IT.

Okay, maybe a little bit, since it was my idea to turn our cluttered, unused office area into more of a dressing/walk-in closet area, and this meant we also needed to rearrange the rest of the bedroom furniture, which meant moving the TV, which meant the cable outlet was now on the wrong wall, which meant a visible curling cable wire snaking across the room, lying in wait to jump up and snag you in the ankles, POSSIBLY WHILE YOU WERE HOLDING A NEWBORN, which meant we needed to run cable into a different wall.

Jason was all over this job, because POWER TOOLS. In particular, his BIG FUCKING ASS DRILL BIT, long enough to drill through walls and God knows what else. Lesser men's egos, perhaps.

It actually seemed simple enough, what with a closet on the other side of the wall and the attic above and he started drilling through the closet ceiling and then heading up to the attic to check for the hole to drop the cable into and...hmm. No hole. Must drill more! Harder, deeper, MOAR.

This went on a few times. No hole in the attic flooring. More drilling. Then...the drill bit got lodged in something. Jason guessed a two-by-four. And he couldn't get it out. The drill's motor coughed and choked and then gave up the ghost.

"Goddamit," he said. "I think I have to go buy a more powerful drill."

Needless to say, I was annoyed, because we really don't have the money right now for a more powerful drill. In my mind, since Jason told me we didn't have the money right now for a trip to Ikea for Storage Solutions (thus necessitating the relocation of old beat-up dressers instead of the actual walk-in-closet coordinating system of my organizational wet dreams), we don't have the money right now for ANYTHING. Especially drills that I will never use and will not help me categorize my shoes by heel height.

Jason left to go the hardware store. I continued sorting my pajamas in nursing-friendly and non-nursing-friendly categories, then got to work on my annotated and footnoted list of things that need to go into the hospital bag right before we leave.

(Samples: iPOD & HEADPHONES --> buy that damn Kid Rock song off iTunes first okay shut up; PILLOW & NURSING PILLOW --> pack in shopping bag for swiping hospital supplies later.)

A few minutes later he came back inside.

"Well. Okay." he said. "I realize why I couldn't find the hole in the attic now."

"And?"

"The hole is...in our roof."

So. Yes. While drilling through the closet ceiling, my husband drilled too close to the edge of the house and into a front vestibule-ish thing and THAT is why there is a drill bit sticking up out of our roof right now.

(Alternate caption: Luuuucyyyyy!)

I think that's all I need to say about that, except that I laughed and laughed until tears poured down my face and I could only barely manage to tell Jason that while I don't think I've ever been this furious with him, the thought of him having to call a professional roofer and explain this one makes it all so completely worth it.

Last Hurrah

Oh, right. We went away for a few days right there.

It was great. Until everybody got sick. Noah threw up purple Tylenol on Jason's aunt and uncle's guest bed, and then on his uncle.

(For any rookie parent who might see "Children's Tylenol Meltaways" on the shelf at CVS and think, "Oh! I bet those are easier than the liquids," let me just tell you that "MELTAWAY" does not necessarily mean the same thing to Tylenol as it does to you and me. For example, that it melts. Away. In a reasonable amount of time before your child can work himself up into a royal state over OMG THERE IS SOMETHING PURPLE IN MY MOUTH THAT TASTES LIKE SUGAR BUT I AM SICK AND PISSED OFF AND I SPIT OUT YOUR PURPLE SUGAR TABLET REPEATEDLY UNTIL THERE IS PURPLE SUGAR SLIME EVERYWHERE AND THEN I SHALL VOMIT ON PURPOSE JUST IN CASE I MANAGED TO ABSORB A SINGLE ATOM OF MEDICINE.)

(Oh, and then you'll look at the bottle and realize that the dosage is TWO TABLETS, and even if you wise up enough to mash and/or dissolve the second tablet in a sippy cup, your child is SO ON TO YOU NOW, so...have some paper towels nearby, is all I'm saying.)

He's fine now, more or less. He woke up the next morning fever-free and clamoring for da beach! da BEACH! GO TO DA BEACH RIGHT NOW! But still, our last vacation as a family of three was a little less than the magical special time we'd planned for.

At least I didn't go into labor, other than the six or seven body-shatteringly painful contractions I had late on Saturday night while Jason slept obliviously nearby, dead to the world from Theraflu. I think my uterus was tired of being overshadowed by other people's head colds and got a little uppity about it.   

HOWEVER, I did learn that I do still, in fact, have it going ON, as I got catcalled at from some drunkish dude who said, and I quote, "HEY BABY, I KNOW LAMAZE" as I waddled by.

I opted to ignore him with grace and dignity and extra chins.

34 Weeks

Yes, yes, I know, I know. I'm getting dangerously close to the point where I simply cannot go a day without at least posting that yes, there is no baby yet and all is well with my womb. I'm sorry. It's just that the baby's sock drawer is not going to repeatedly arrange and rearrange itself, y'all.

I've also been blowing my writerly load via dozens of long emails to my husband, since we've learned that we are only allowed to argue about politics via electronic methods. Otherwise we get a tad...shrill with each other, as during major election years our usually happy existence as independents ends, and we retreat to our separate party corners and hiss and spit and furiously send each other links that SO TOTALLY prove that the other person is a complete fucking idiot.

And while I usually just end up defaulting to the surefire "I am never sleeping with you again unless you pull your head at least PARTWAY out of your ass," I'm thinking that's not going to be particularly effective this time.

I mean, check OUT this slammin' physique. Wouldn't YOU be okay with letting the Bush tax cuts expire as planned in 2010 for a chance at that ass?

That's what I thought, suckahs. (And that IS a maternity tank. Those extra four inches of visible fishbelly are so fierce.)

If current "plans" hold -- and oh, I do so love using the word "plans" in regard to ANYTHING birth-related, since it makes me think of "birth plans" and how all the pregnancy books list that as something one should pack for the hospital ("darling, can you please fetch me my chapstick, Yanni CD and seven-page birth plan from the suitcase? It's in the front pocket. No, that's the back-up copy, I mean the one I had laminated.") --  I'll be having this baby in about five weeks.

And...we feel ready, more or less. Oh sure, we still haven't gotten all the various baby gear down from the attic yet and I'm still only assuming that the car seat is where I think I left it, and a full inventory of Noah's infant hand-me-downs reveals a horrifying shortage of 3-6 month sized feetie jammies but...eh. We're ready. We've been gripped with crazy baby fever over the past few weeks, which is convenient! What timing!

Whenever we see someone out and about with an infant, our conversations go something like this:

NOM, I say. SMUSHY BABY THERE MMMM.

GOOD, Jason says, SQUAWKY NEWBORN CHOMP.

Then we nod and go back to gnawing on bones and bitching about Geico ads. (And short- vs. long-term solutions to the energy crisis and Iraq timetables and OH MY GOD SARAH PALIN.)

I'm not sure when it happened -- the 3D ultrasound, the crazy visible kicks and rolls and undulations of mah belleh, the discovery of baby socks that look like shoes, the temporary threat that things might in fact NOT be as perfect and surefire as we thought? I don't know. But here we are, at 34 weeks, and we are finally able to have a conversation about The Baby that doesn't involve a heaping hot dose of TERROR and WHAT HAVE WE DONE? Undo! Ctrl-Z!

My only frustration is that we don't have a name. (Jason changed his mind. Don't even get me started. He changed his mind but has not offered a single usable alternative and WOW, YOU MIGHT EVEN SAY HE FLIP-FLOPPED, MUCH LIKE A CERTAIN PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE.) (Okay, I'll stop now.) Jason wants to name the baby after he's here, in the hospital. Which is fine, except that I secretly continue to use "the name" in my head and I seriously doubt I'll be able to think of him as anything else, but I have decided to exert my energy elsewhere. The aforementioned sock drawer. The search for the perfect coming-home outfit, which is driving Jason crazy because I think I have rejected every pair of blue feetie jammies in the tri-state area as being either 1) Not special enough, 2) Too frou-frou, 3) Not boyish enough, 4) Too boyish, oh my God, my newborn is not coming home clad in MONSTER TRUCKS, and 5) I dunno, I just don't think raccoons are the statement I'd like to make on the birth announcements. Don't you have something in a teddy bear motif?

And...Jesus, I should stop before I make our household sound ANY MORE INSANE.

Quick! Look! Pet photos!

Way to keep it classy there, everybody.

Bait & Tackle

The other day, while getting Noah ready for his nap, I noticed something. Something...odd...and white? What is that? The odd-and-possibly-white thing was on a...how shall I say...very delicate and highly valuable part of his anatomy. A part that I have probably not been allowed contact with since he mastered his hand/eye coordination enough to meet every attempt to clean or examine said part with a tremendous thwack.

THAT'S MINE, LADY. BACK OFF.

So my attempts to determine the origins of the odd white-ish thing were rather futile. I assumed it was a bit of paper, and if you're wondering why "a bit of paper" was the obvious, most-likely answer I can guess right now that you have not changed many diapers in your life, my friend, because sooner or later you will come to expect stray Cheerios and Mr. Potato Head parts falling out all the time. It's not like they have POCKETS, or anything.

Eventually I realized that the...thing....appeared to actually be connected to his...thing. Like, possibly with skin. Like it possibly WAS skin.

I wasn't entirely sure that was possible, but...I DON'T KNOW. I DON'T UNDERSTAND THIS EQUIPMENT. So I opted to go with my default solution for All Things Involving That Thing, which is...Vaseline.

(Shut up. I learned that one from the hospital. It was the closest thing to an instruction manual as we got -- the nurse handed us a small tub of Vaseline and told us to use it "down there" with a super-scientific wave of her hand.)

So I dug out the Vaseline, wrastled the child to the floor and gooped the whole area up. Then I slapped a pull-up on him, sent him to bed and congratulated myself on a job half-assed.

I thought about calling Jason to describe the Odd White Thing -- perhaps, as the owner of a similar set of plumbing, he would know what to do? But then I pictured him sitting there, in a gorgeous pin-striped suit, around a gleaming conference table with a dozen Important Clients, who perhaps have briefcases full of money in front of them, and it's all up to Jason to nail the presentation when suddenly his phone rings and he explains that oh, sorry, he HAS to take this, because his dear sweet wife is pregnant, and instead I get on the phone and start asking him about whether guys occasionally, I don't know, gouge divots in themselves with their fingernails, or something?

(Jason wears flat-front khakis to work most days, and as far as I know he doesn't generally ever get paid in briefcases full of money.)

But I figured maybe I should try to solve this one on my own. Right! To Google! Except...hmm. I wasn't exactly sure how to phrase this one. I didn't want to see...like, PICTURES. Nor did I really want any information whatsoever about all the many OPTIONS for male anatomy injuries and I certainly didn't want to include the word "toddler" in there because that just opens up a whole new cache of worms.  It was just like the time I was convinced the FBI was going to storm my house and take my son away because I was the pervert on BabyCenter.com looking for What To Do When Your Child Seems To Maybe Enjoy A Bit Of Private Time With The Sofa Cushions If You Know What I Mean. I thought about maybe emailing some bloggers who had sons. Or calling my mom.

Mostly I just wanted to hear someone tell me to "Put a little Vaseline on it, he'll be fine."

I ended up going with option B: Doing Nothing At All. I waited until he woke up from his nap and tried to examine it again, with limited success. It LOOKED like it might be a little better. Sort of...pinkish and not so white? I tried to quiz him about the origins of the Thing, which was SO HELPFUL. Apparently, a dinosaur did it.

Noted. How about some more Vaseline?

My phone rang. It was Jason. He was on his way home. I blurted out the whole story, about the odd white thing that now looks kind of pink and I think it might be skin or maybe...a burn? Like...chafing? Shrinkage? Any of this sounding like something run-of-the-mill and normal from your childhood that your mom used to treat with Vaseline on a regular basis?

There was silence. I think he was pulling the car off the highway, just so he could fully wind up and let me have it.

"OH MY GOD DID YOU CALL THE DOCTOR WHY DIDN'T YOU CALL THE DOCTOR WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT PIECES OF FLESH ARE HANGING OFF OUR CHILD'S <REDACTED> AND YOU DIDN'T CALL THE DOCTOR OR TAKE HIM TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM LIKE HOW MUCH SKIN ARE WE TALKING ABOUT HERE CALL THE DOCTOR OH MY GOD."

"But...I put Vaseline on it? And I think it looks better?"

"YOU THINK."

"He won't really let me look at it. He gets mad."

"HE WEIGHS 31 POUNDS."

"But he's a...thrashy 31 pounds."

"WE ARE TALKING. ABOUT. A VERY IMPORTANT. THING. HERE. YOU DO NOT. FUCK. AROUND. WITH THIS."

"Fine. Hold on. I will go look at it again."

"...."

"Never mind."

"WHAT."

"Never mind. It's nothing."

"WHAT."

"It was part of a fruit sticker."

"..."

"It was white with red letters. The Vaseline must have turned it pink. Anyway, it's gone now."

"..."

"Are you okay?"

"...amen."

"Were you praying?"

"I just...I was just really scared there."

"Wow."

"I'll, uh, see you in a few minutes."

"Okay, I love you!"

"I love you too."

AND...FIN!

08/08/08

We've outlasted the marriages of people who predicted the demise of ours. We've ended up a million years from where we started, and from where we probably expected to be. I tumble into tired clichés every time I try to come up with words worthy of this anniversary, this milestone, this day like any other day, really. We'll wake up on 08/09/08 and...keep at it, for another 10, 20, 60 years. If I get to be that lucky.

10 years, in two-and-a-half minutes. It feels like that, sometimes.

10 Years (Take Two) from amalah on Vimeo.

Music: Together Forever in Love by Go Sailor.

(EDIT: Sorry for the video glitch. I uploaded in the middle of major site maintenance at Vimeo and lo, there were Issues. I've reuploaded it and I think everything is working now.)