Yes, Michael Jackson has passed away. I wasn't a fan, haven't been for many years (like everyone else in the free world, though, I loved Thriller - the album, the song, and the video), and think MJ was super creepy in his later years. Not "eccentric". Creepy. That is just my own opinion; having said that, he was still a father to three (four?) children and they are now without a father. That is the saddest part.
Farrah Fawcett also passed away yesterday. I was a bit young for Charlie's Angels but my sister, who is 4 years older than I, loved that show. I am dismayed to see that because Farrah Fawcett had the bad timing to pass away hours before Michael Jackson, her death and her life have been overshadowed in the media. I don't believe it is any small thing for a famous actress to fight her battle with cancer (anal cancer, even. Who knew there was such a thing? Not me, until Farrah Fawcett had it.) in the public eye.
Ok, but here's the point of this post: I was listening to the radio this morning, and here is the story that caught my attention. "A 75-year old woman from Small Town, Alberta was airlifted in serious but stable condition to Big City, Alberta after being pinned to a fence by a bull." What. The. Hell. At 75 years old, who the hell would go into the bull pen? At 75 years old, who lives through being pinned to a fence by a 2000 lb animal? I am fairly certain that even if the pressure of the bull pinning me to the fence didn't kill me, I would die from fright.
Just sayin'.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
A Post About Birthing #1
Since I like to think of this blog as my journal (only it's read by thousands hundreds tens ones of people), I am going to write stuff here that I don't want to forget. When I am older and the Some-timers (part-time Alzheimer's) sets in, I want be able to look back and read and laugh at what a jackass I was remember. Hopefully. Unless I become so doddering I forget how to use a laptop. Or even what a laptop is. (OAP Me: "Jesus, what kind of a waffle iron is this?!")
So now, I write the story of the Hurricane's birth. Walk with me, as we meander through the extended, make-a-short-story-long, gory journey of the first time my vagina morphed from Fun Tunnel to a scene straight from an Alien movie.
I went into labor in the early afternoon on February 3, 2005. Hot Stuff, my mother, and I went into town and hung out at D's house because my contractions were not too bad. I was not nervous or scared, really (only because I had no f*cking idea what was about to happen), but my mom and hubby were both very antsy. We decided to go to the hospital shortly after 5pm because my contractions were 5 minutes apart and getting stronger (HA!!). After a quick exam, the nurse said that I was only 2cm dilated but because my membranes were bulging through the opening, I was going to be admitted.
Then followed a very, very long night of my mom, Hot Stuff, and D taking turns sitting with me as I progressed very slowly. I cried some. And I said, "I'm sorry, I can't help it," a lot during my crying jags. I don't really know why I kept apologizing for crying, except that I was in labor and there is no rationale for labor behaviour.
I had a shot of Demerol at about 2:30am, and then again at around 7am the following morning, February 4th. (I am still, after 3 kids, more scared of a needle in my back than giving birth.) I remember the nurses getting me out of bed and one of them saying to my darling husband, "Take your wife into the shower, it's very relaxing. We're going to tidy up in here and then we'll check her." I would like to meet the person who first thought of this brilliant idea of "showering as relaxation during labor." Then I would like to give that individual a 30-second head start. It was, by far, the most un-relaxing thing, ever. Because I am not already the size of a whale, I should get in a coffin-sized shower. Because I am not uncomfortable enough, I should be soaking wet so that the exact spot where the shower is hitting my skin is warm, but the rest of my wet self is f*cking hypothermic. Of course, my loving husband is the one holding the shower nozzle, and is hosing me off like he is pressure-washing his truck. Top to bottom. Side to side. Top to bottom. Diagonally. "No, please, honey, get in close with that nozzle to really get those dried-on stubborn bugs off my headlights." That shower was over, el pronto. I was freezing cold, shaking, and cursing: all of which make labor so much more enjoyable.
After I dried off, a nurse (not the one who suggested the "relaxing" shower, I believe that girl hit the bricks while I was still in the bathroom. She obviously has excellent survival instincts), checked me out and pronounced me 9.5cm dilated. So the doctor was called and I was given a birthing ball to bounce on. Now THAT was heaven. Oh, the bouncing, glorious bouncing. That movement produces a bit of anti-gravity in the Ut'R'Us so that the baby and fluid are shifted up for nanoseconds at a time, relieving pressure on the pelvic floor. I didn't want to stop. But they made me. My doctor arrived, checked me out, and pronounced me ready to go sometime before noon. I was up on the birthing bed and he said to me, "This is going to feel so f*cking good to have this pressure relieved that you will think I shot you up with heroin." I might have misunderstood, as he could have easily said, "I am going to break your water now."
I will not go into the play-by-play for hard labor as most of it is a haze. What I do remember: being sweaty. Being in pain. A nitrous tank was wheeled in, because by that point it was too late for me to have another shot in the ass. I took one inhale and almost threw up. "No nitrous for me," I said. So my husband grabbed the mask from my hand and hauled back on that sucker like it was oxygen and he was a drowning man. At some point, I pooped on the table and then said, "Oh my God, did I just poop on the table?" It took until 3:36pm for the Hurricane to be born. I pushed and pushed and pushed, but his forehead was stuck up on my pubic bone. There was an intern assisting my doctor, and he let her use the vacuum sucker to try to dislodge my baby, but it slid off baby's head. Three times. Finally, my doctor said, "You really have to jam it on," and boy, did he. I think he pushed the baby right back up. Into my esophagus. Whatever, it worked. The doctor was able to pull my stubborn child out of my exhausted body. (I later found out that as baby was coming out, a pediatrician/surgeon was coming into my room to take me to OR for an emergency C-section.)
When my son was finally born, he was not breathing and the cord was wrapped around his neck. The doctor grabbed the baby and brought him over to the warming table. I stared, in a daze, not processing that my baby wasn't crying. I was just.. staring. I can still see my doctor grab the baby, hold him upside down, and start rubbing the sides of baby's chest to get him to breathe. Then the doctor put my baby down and stuck the oxygen on him while rubbing baby's chest. Then back up in the air, upside down. Then back to oxygen. And me, still staring, not comprehending that my baby isn't fucking breathing. Know what I was thinking while watching this? 'Huh, just like you do for puppies. Like 101 Dalmations.' It seemed like I watched this for half an hour; it was less than 1 minute. My husband is standing next to my bed, holding my hand, completely engrossed. All of a sudden, I hear my husband say, "I can't do this," and he starts walking out of the room. Just exactly as he got to the door, our little baby finally cried. A big, huge, I am really, really fucking pissed off at you people and I am gonna give you hell for this cry. And then, I cried. And magically, Hot Stuff was back at my side. Crying tears of relief. I have never, ever before or since seen my husband scared like that. Once my Hurricane was cleaned up, I got to hold him. Then my waterworks really started.
Every mother thinks her child is the most beautiful, perfect, breathless piece of beauty to ever exist on Earth. Until a few years later you look back at pictures and see that your l'il slice o' heaven looks more like Mr. Magoo than anything else. Or, in our case, Mr. Magoo after he got attacked by a vacuum cleaner that also punched him in the forehead, thus giving him an open wound on his head and facial swelling.
Now, he is a healthy, happy, exuberant 4 year old Hurricane. I would do it all over again.
So now, I write the story of the Hurricane's birth. Walk with me, as we meander through the extended, make-a-short-story-long, gory journey of the first time my vagina morphed from Fun Tunnel to a scene straight from an Alien movie.
I went into labor in the early afternoon on February 3, 2005. Hot Stuff, my mother, and I went into town and hung out at D's house because my contractions were not too bad. I was not nervous or scared, really (only because I had no f*cking idea what was about to happen), but my mom and hubby were both very antsy. We decided to go to the hospital shortly after 5pm because my contractions were 5 minutes apart and getting stronger (HA!!). After a quick exam, the nurse said that I was only 2cm dilated but because my membranes were bulging through the opening, I was going to be admitted.
Then followed a very, very long night of my mom, Hot Stuff, and D taking turns sitting with me as I progressed very slowly. I cried some. And I said, "I'm sorry, I can't help it," a lot during my crying jags. I don't really know why I kept apologizing for crying, except that I was in labor and there is no rationale for labor behaviour.
I had a shot of Demerol at about 2:30am, and then again at around 7am the following morning, February 4th. (I am still, after 3 kids, more scared of a needle in my back than giving birth.) I remember the nurses getting me out of bed and one of them saying to my darling husband, "Take your wife into the shower, it's very relaxing. We're going to tidy up in here and then we'll check her." I would like to meet the person who first thought of this brilliant idea of "showering as relaxation during labor." Then I would like to give that individual a 30-second head start. It was, by far, the most un-relaxing thing, ever. Because I am not already the size of a whale, I should get in a coffin-sized shower. Because I am not uncomfortable enough, I should be soaking wet so that the exact spot where the shower is hitting my skin is warm, but the rest of my wet self is f*cking hypothermic. Of course, my loving husband is the one holding the shower nozzle, and is hosing me off like he is pressure-washing his truck. Top to bottom. Side to side. Top to bottom. Diagonally. "No, please, honey, get in close with that nozzle to really get those dried-on stubborn bugs off my headlights." That shower was over, el pronto. I was freezing cold, shaking, and cursing: all of which make labor so much more enjoyable.
After I dried off, a nurse (not the one who suggested the "relaxing" shower, I believe that girl hit the bricks while I was still in the bathroom. She obviously has excellent survival instincts), checked me out and pronounced me 9.5cm dilated. So the doctor was called and I was given a birthing ball to bounce on. Now THAT was heaven. Oh, the bouncing, glorious bouncing. That movement produces a bit of anti-gravity in the Ut'R'Us so that the baby and fluid are shifted up for nanoseconds at a time, relieving pressure on the pelvic floor. I didn't want to stop. But they made me. My doctor arrived, checked me out, and pronounced me ready to go sometime before noon. I was up on the birthing bed and he said to me, "This is going to feel so f*cking good to have this pressure relieved that you will think I shot you up with heroin." I might have misunderstood, as he could have easily said, "I am going to break your water now."
I will not go into the play-by-play for hard labor as most of it is a haze. What I do remember: being sweaty. Being in pain. A nitrous tank was wheeled in, because by that point it was too late for me to have another shot in the ass. I took one inhale and almost threw up. "No nitrous for me," I said. So my husband grabbed the mask from my hand and hauled back on that sucker like it was oxygen and he was a drowning man. At some point, I pooped on the table and then said, "Oh my God, did I just poop on the table?" It took until 3:36pm for the Hurricane to be born. I pushed and pushed and pushed, but his forehead was stuck up on my pubic bone. There was an intern assisting my doctor, and he let her use the vacuum sucker to try to dislodge my baby, but it slid off baby's head. Three times. Finally, my doctor said, "You really have to jam it on," and boy, did he. I think he pushed the baby right back up. Into my esophagus. Whatever, it worked. The doctor was able to pull my stubborn child out of my exhausted body. (I later found out that as baby was coming out, a pediatrician/surgeon was coming into my room to take me to OR for an emergency C-section.)
When my son was finally born, he was not breathing and the cord was wrapped around his neck. The doctor grabbed the baby and brought him over to the warming table. I stared, in a daze, not processing that my baby wasn't crying. I was just.. staring. I can still see my doctor grab the baby, hold him upside down, and start rubbing the sides of baby's chest to get him to breathe. Then the doctor put my baby down and stuck the oxygen on him while rubbing baby's chest. Then back up in the air, upside down. Then back to oxygen. And me, still staring, not comprehending that my baby isn't fucking breathing. Know what I was thinking while watching this? 'Huh, just like you do for puppies. Like 101 Dalmations.' It seemed like I watched this for half an hour; it was less than 1 minute. My husband is standing next to my bed, holding my hand, completely engrossed. All of a sudden, I hear my husband say, "I can't do this," and he starts walking out of the room. Just exactly as he got to the door, our little baby finally cried. A big, huge, I am really, really fucking pissed off at you people and I am gonna give you hell for this cry. And then, I cried. And magically, Hot Stuff was back at my side. Crying tears of relief. I have never, ever before or since seen my husband scared like that. Once my Hurricane was cleaned up, I got to hold him. Then my waterworks really started.
Every mother thinks her child is the most beautiful, perfect, breathless piece of beauty to ever exist on Earth. Until a few years later you look back at pictures and see that your l'il slice o' heaven looks more like Mr. Magoo than anything else. Or, in our case, Mr. Magoo after he got attacked by a vacuum cleaner that also punched him in the forehead, thus giving him an open wound on his head and facial swelling.
Now, he is a healthy, happy, exuberant 4 year old Hurricane. I would do it all over again.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Not Me! Monday
Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama.
Oh Monday, Monday..
This week I did not get completely creeped out when I saw the ugliest spider ever in my bedroom who, when I tried to catch him (with a glass and a piece of cardboard, while wearing rubber gloves), ran away... under my bed. I have not slept with one eye open and the "Jaws" theme running through my head every night since. I am not getting goosebumps and an itchy scalp while writing this.
I also did not think I was going nucking futs when I unloaded the groceries and (for the second week in a row) could not find the sugar I was sure I bought. After not scouring the grocery receipt, I did not remember that I left the sugar on the scale. (Yes, I buy bulk sugar. Our last Money Tree died and we haven't got a new one yet. I buy lots of bulk stuff now. Having not very much grocery money sucks.)
I did not make dough for bread, set it on the warm stovetop, and forget about it. I do not have the personal experience to tell you doing that will cause the dough to rise up to the ungreased very top of the largest mixing bowl you can find and boy isn't it fun to try and get it out of the bowl after that.
I did not uh.. "misplace" my children (for enough minutes to cause my heart to stop and try to leap out of my throat in an effort to kill itself) on more than one occasion this week. I also did not fall back asleep for half an hour this morning when Hot Stuff woke me up to say, "I'm on my way to work. Princess is awake downstairs." I did not come flying down the stairs (frankly, I am surprised I did not kill or seriously injure myself. Or at least break some kind of land speed record) and promptly check her over and smell her breath to make sure she hadn't gotten into anything (Which she hadn't. She was too busy making a giant mess in the bathroom sink. And the floor.)
I did not totally forget to call my dad yesterday. I am not the worst daughter in history, especially as my sister did not specifically call to remind me to call my dad.
Speaking of Father's Day, I did not get totally burned and shut down by Hot Stuff when I went to bed last night. Here's how it did not go down:
I put on my cleanest, 3rd least-rattiest exercise shirt and some stretch pants (yes, I go to bed in exercise clothes with hopes that I will be motivated to workout first thing in the morning cause, hey! I'm already wearing the clothes), climbed into bed and said, "Hey, it's Father's Day. Want some Father's Day booty?"
"Nah, not feeling it tonight," he said.
"Really?" I ask in my sexiest voice, as I drape myself all over him, drawing circles on his hairy man-beast chest.
"No, I'm good."
"Are you sure? I don't have my peeerrrrioooddd."
Silence.
"Um. Wow. Thanks.. gonna pass."
I think it was the shirt.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Firstborn
There is something different about the relationship between mother and firstborn vs. mother and.. otherborns (? What? Yeah, I made it up). I was so sure about everything when I first had my Hurricane; strangely, I didn't suffer from the lack of self-confidence that many first time moms do (oh, don't think I got off easy; I was really insecure when I had my second child). I knew exactly what I wanted to do; how I wanted to nurse him, dress him, change his bum, bathe him, how to handle a fever, etc., and I did it exactly the way I thought I should. Every day for the first 3.79 years of his life, even after the Princess came along, Hurricane and I would snuggle on the couch first thing in the morning. In the quiet livingroom, no radio, no TV. Sometimes for 3 minutes, sometimes for 20 minutes. We cuddled. I sniffed him. He talked baby jibberish. Magical, it was.
Of course, time marches on (Metallica, anyone?); another new baby comes into the mix. Things get too busy with two crying babies, little Hurricane gets to be little-bit-bigger Hurricane and no longer wants to cuddle with Mama Bear on the couch and let her sniff him, or Mama Bear doesn't have time to cuddle with the Hurricane right then.
Then little-bit-bigger Hurricane gets to be even-bigger-now Hurricane and is living life to the Extreme Max, man (insomuch as a 4 year old can). I feel like I am losing my little firstborn baby boy. I feel like I am running and running, but no matter how hard I try, I can't catch him. I want to reach out to him and yell, "Wait! I just need you to stop for a while until I catch up with the other two babies - don't grow anymore, ok? I just need more time with you before you get too big and I'm scared we will lose this.. whatever this is, ok?"
I guess because my other two little ones are still little, and I can make them cuddle with me, I don't feel those losses yet. Or maybe it's because after 3.64 years of cuddles everyday with my Hurricane who smells like dirty dog and baby soap, I miss that everyday-ness. (Yeah, I totally did it again there.)
Since I am all about being part of the solution, here's my input: what if moms got 10 minutes each morning to cuddle with the little baby their big kid once used to be? Think how wonderful it would be: so your 8 year old is a total shit today and you want to throttle him/her? What, your 16 year old just told you to f*ck off? Pffft.. wait until tomorrow; you'll get 10 minutes to cuddle with the adorable little toddler he/she used to be. Not so bad now, hey?
I am totally going to do this once I figure out how to warp reality to my will. Without benefit of superpowers (didn't win that genetic jackpot), voodoo (too much like work), or any sort of astral or meta-physical training. (I failed physics 101 in college. Twice.) Who's with me?
Of course, time marches on (Metallica, anyone?); another new baby comes into the mix. Things get too busy with two crying babies, little Hurricane gets to be little-bit-bigger Hurricane and no longer wants to cuddle with Mama Bear on the couch and let her sniff him, or Mama Bear doesn't have time to cuddle with the Hurricane right then.
Then little-bit-bigger Hurricane gets to be even-bigger-now Hurricane and is living life to the Extreme Max, man (insomuch as a 4 year old can). I feel like I am losing my little firstborn baby boy. I feel like I am running and running, but no matter how hard I try, I can't catch him. I want to reach out to him and yell, "Wait! I just need you to stop for a while until I catch up with the other two babies - don't grow anymore, ok? I just need more time with you before you get too big and I'm scared we will lose this.. whatever this is, ok?"
I guess because my other two little ones are still little, and I can make them cuddle with me, I don't feel those losses yet. Or maybe it's because after 3.64 years of cuddles everyday with my Hurricane who smells like dirty dog and baby soap, I miss that everyday-ness. (Yeah, I totally did it again there.)
Since I am all about being part of the solution, here's my input: what if moms got 10 minutes each morning to cuddle with the little baby their big kid once used to be? Think how wonderful it would be: so your 8 year old is a total shit today and you want to throttle him/her? What, your 16 year old just told you to f*ck off? Pffft.. wait until tomorrow; you'll get 10 minutes to cuddle with the adorable little toddler he/she used to be. Not so bad now, hey?
I am totally going to do this once I figure out how to warp reality to my will. Without benefit of superpowers (didn't win that genetic jackpot), voodoo (too much like work), or any sort of astral or meta-physical training. (I failed physics 101 in college. Twice.) Who's with me?
Monday, June 15, 2009
Not Me! Monday
Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. You can head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have not been doing this week.
Ahh, returning to Not Me! Monday.
What didn't I do this week?
Well, I didn't grab a clean diaper and whack two mosquitoes with it, wipe off mosquito guts, then put the diaper on my child. That. would. be. disgusting.
I also did not dress in a slightly see-through tank top (with a matching color but slightly darker bra underneath) and head into town to do some running around on Friday. (It sounds trampy when I write it, but really, it wasn't. I was wearing one of those La Senza super push up bras that makes my sweater puppies look really good.) While in town, I did not stop to get Frosty Shakes from Wendy's (my new favorite Free Day treat) and get caught in a torrential downpour when walking from the restaurant back to the truck, while carrying 4 drinks (Me to Wendy's counter guy: "Oh, no thanks. I don't need a drink tray, I'd rather struggle. Why? Because I'm a f*cking moron."). Good thing that slightly see-through tank top did not go completely see-through. That would be un-classy of me. Greatest Sister Ever (who was with me) did not pee her pants a little from laughing at me.
I did not totally forget to Engage Brain and give my 19 month old daughter a small Frosty Shake of her own with an easily removable lid. If I did do that, it would have led to her ripping the lid off and using her hand as a spoon to scoop out said Frosty Shake, then turning the cup upside down and dumping chocolate shake all over her, and then touching everything within reach; leaving chocolate all over her carseat, the back of my seat, the door, the window, herself. That would have been just stupid. Good thing I did not do that.
After not completely soaking through my slightly see-through tanktop, I did not have to stop at another grocery store, forcing me to mad-dash through the still pounding rain yet again. Even if this did happen, I would definitely not have ripped apart the truck only to realize that I had forgotten any sort of outerwear/sweater to cover up my indecent self.
The lady behind the counter at Superstore did not look at me like I had walked in wearing only cowboy boots and pasties.
Remember when I didn't wear jeans and a black shirt in the blazing sun and spend all evening sweating like a fat guy after too many bear claws? Yeah, I don't either. Good thing I didn't do it again on Saturday. Only this time, I did not wear jeans and a black t-shirt to our locale parade and fun day. I did not spend 4 hours (again, no sunscreen on me) walking around getting a sexy sunburn on my arms, not giving myself farmer's tan and gorgeous pit stains. (Black shirts do show sweat marks - especially sweat marks that creep down from armpit to hem and around the front and back).
Putting together the swing set today did not almost come to blows because Hot Stuff is not so frustrating he makes me start looking for brick walls to beat my face against. I did not jump in the truck after less than 5 minutes of "teamwork" and head into town bitching the whole way to my sister about husbands who feel the need to pull out a drill and drill holes where holes shouldn't be drilled, instead of reading instructions.
I did not get back from town and have a big ole smirk on my face when I noticed that Hot Stuff had put the swingset together the way I told him it was supposed to go. I also did not rub it in a few times. That is uncouth and I would not do that. Nope! Not me!
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Take this job and love it.
I went back to work when my first son was only 2.5 months. (Don't stop me if you've heard this one before.) Not really back to work, but I had to finish nursing school so I didn't really have a choice. Technically, I was working for free. Yes, apparently slavery is still legal, but now they call it "practicum placement." I finished when he was 4 or 5 months old, and it just seemed natural to slide right into a job.
When my daughter was born, I took the first few months off, then started going back to work on Fridays only. It was kind of a nice balance, because I was already preggo again, but it gave me time to be a grown up with other grown ups, and do the job I love.
Little Dude is now 7 months old, and for the last few months I have been gearing up in my mind to go back to work. Only.. it's not going to happen. The cost of daycare for 3 kids is astronomical. Because my husband made "too much money" (HA! As if! There is no such thing, stupid Canada Revenue and stupid Alberta government) last year, we do not qualify for daycare. It does not matter that we are just making ends meet this year due to the screeching halt of the oil and gas industry.
I am still struggling with the concept that I will not be going back to nursing for the forseeable future. I love my job. I love the fact that, in a small way, I make a difference. I have had bad days at work before, but never a day so bad that I wanted to quit.
This is kind of late in coming (although I am one of those people who seem to be a few steps behind everyone else in learning these big facts of life), but I just realized that being a stay at home mom is a job, and I should treat it like a job. With a schedule and stuff. Not just willy-nilly the way I have been doing it until now. So far, though, I have come to the conclusion that being a stay at home mom is not as easy for me as going to work. (Big revelation coming...now!) I am just not that creative when it comes to finding fun stuff for my kids to do that also has a bit of learning thrown in. That doesn't cost much. Or is free. We live in the country so most activities require driving into the city. I would love to take my kids for walks where we live, but we live right on a secondary highway that has lots of big rig traffic.
Oh, woe is me.
We did just buy the kids a swing set that Hot Stuff and I are going to put together tomorrow, so that will keep them busy for.. 15 minutes. Until somebody falls off/gets pushed off/starts crying because the other kid is on the swing they want to use. That is, of course, assuming Hot Stuff and I actually manage to put the swing set together without bodily injury - either from the heavy pieces or each other. Assembling things is not one of our stronger Team Sports. Once you throw a fussy baby and two other kids "trying to help" and it pretty much becomes a 3-acre cage match.
When my daughter was born, I took the first few months off, then started going back to work on Fridays only. It was kind of a nice balance, because I was already preggo again, but it gave me time to be a grown up with other grown ups, and do the job I love.
Little Dude is now 7 months old, and for the last few months I have been gearing up in my mind to go back to work. Only.. it's not going to happen. The cost of daycare for 3 kids is astronomical. Because my husband made "too much money" (HA! As if! There is no such thing, stupid Canada Revenue and stupid Alberta government) last year, we do not qualify for daycare. It does not matter that we are just making ends meet this year due to the screeching halt of the oil and gas industry.
I am still struggling with the concept that I will not be going back to nursing for the forseeable future. I love my job. I love the fact that, in a small way, I make a difference. I have had bad days at work before, but never a day so bad that I wanted to quit.
This is kind of late in coming (although I am one of those people who seem to be a few steps behind everyone else in learning these big facts of life), but I just realized that being a stay at home mom is a job, and I should treat it like a job. With a schedule and stuff. Not just willy-nilly the way I have been doing it until now. So far, though, I have come to the conclusion that being a stay at home mom is not as easy for me as going to work. (Big revelation coming...now!) I am just not that creative when it comes to finding fun stuff for my kids to do that also has a bit of learning thrown in. That doesn't cost much. Or is free. We live in the country so most activities require driving into the city. I would love to take my kids for walks where we live, but we live right on a secondary highway that has lots of big rig traffic.
Oh, woe is me.
We did just buy the kids a swing set that Hot Stuff and I are going to put together tomorrow, so that will keep them busy for.. 15 minutes. Until somebody falls off/gets pushed off/starts crying because the other kid is on the swing they want to use. That is, of course, assuming Hot Stuff and I actually manage to put the swing set together without bodily injury - either from the heavy pieces or each other. Assembling things is not one of our stronger Team Sports. Once you throw a fussy baby and two other kids "trying to help" and it pretty much becomes a 3-acre cage match.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Questions of Great Importance.
Who the hell put our gas meter right next to the front door? And why do mosquitoes like to hang out around our gas meter? And who keeps leaving the effing door open so said mosquitoes can come in and take up residence like vagrant squatters? I don't believe in killing living things without a reason, but I make an exception for mosquitoes. Filthy beggars.
What possessed my husband to use gasoline to "disable" an anthill? (His karma is f*cked now.)
Why does my son the Hurricane think it's hilarious to hide on mom and dad, so we are running around checking the barn and other outbuildings and freaking out with hearts that stopped beating until we hear a little voice coming from the couch?
Why does my own stupidity still amaze me, after living with myself for 31 years? ie. Wearing jeans (and a tank top.. with no sunscreen on my pale self) on a sweltering, sun-glaring down, feelin' like a french fry kind of day. And forgetting to bring a bottle of water to soccer, forcing me to steal precious water from my children's water bottles.
I have discovered that my darling baby, Little Dude, is not actually human. He is a Baby Alligator. Have you ever tried dressing/feeding/giving a bottle to/changing the diaper of a Baby Alligator? It is as fun and easy as it sounds.
The Hurricane has a new passion in life: temporary tattoos. Grandma bought the Hurricane a bag of Bakugan temporary tattoos. I am not talking about a little strip of oh, say, 3 or 4 tattoos (what I would consider a reasonable amount). This is the Jumbo Super Mega Pack of tattoos. This bag must have at least 50 temporary tattoos. (Boy those grandparents really stick it to ya, don't they? Being all fun and spoiling kids.) My little boy was over the moon!! He ever so patiently cut them all out, one by one, put them all back into the bag, one by one, making sure his little sister was suitably warned to maintain a specified distance during the cutting and bagging process.. and then snuck into the bathroom. He walked out looking like some kind of lifer that escaped from the Treehouse TV version of a maximum security penitentiary. His arms are covered in Bakugan tattoos. He has 4 on one arm and 5 on the other. From elbows to hands. I almost don't want to make eye contact because I hear that's an insult in the Pen. I checked his toothbrush to make sure he hadn't filed it down to make a shiv. Just in case. I had no idea "misspent youth" started this young.
What possessed my husband to use gasoline to "disable" an anthill? (His karma is f*cked now.)
Why does my son the Hurricane think it's hilarious to hide on mom and dad, so we are running around checking the barn and other outbuildings and freaking out with hearts that stopped beating until we hear a little voice coming from the couch?
Why does my own stupidity still amaze me, after living with myself for 31 years? ie. Wearing jeans (and a tank top.. with no sunscreen on my pale self) on a sweltering, sun-glaring down, feelin' like a french fry kind of day. And forgetting to bring a bottle of water to soccer, forcing me to steal precious water from my children's water bottles.
I have discovered that my darling baby, Little Dude, is not actually human. He is a Baby Alligator. Have you ever tried dressing/feeding/giving a bottle to/changing the diaper of a Baby Alligator? It is as fun and easy as it sounds.
The Hurricane has a new passion in life: temporary tattoos. Grandma bought the Hurricane a bag of Bakugan temporary tattoos. I am not talking about a little strip of oh, say, 3 or 4 tattoos (what I would consider a reasonable amount). This is the Jumbo Super Mega Pack of tattoos. This bag must have at least 50 temporary tattoos. (Boy those grandparents really stick it to ya, don't they? Being all fun and spoiling kids.) My little boy was over the moon!! He ever so patiently cut them all out, one by one, put them all back into the bag, one by one, making sure his little sister was suitably warned to maintain a specified distance during the cutting and bagging process.. and then snuck into the bathroom. He walked out looking like some kind of lifer that escaped from the Treehouse TV version of a maximum security penitentiary. His arms are covered in Bakugan tattoos. He has 4 on one arm and 5 on the other. From elbows to hands. I almost don't want to make eye contact because I hear that's an insult in the Pen. I checked his toothbrush to make sure he hadn't filed it down to make a shiv. Just in case. I had no idea "misspent youth" started this young.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Foamy Bat vs. Face
As a mother of little children who figure life with their siblings is a Death Match and must turn everything into a weapon with which to bludgeon each other, I have had opportunity to visit my local Emergency Room a couple of times.
Invariably, one or more concerned souls looks at my small bundle of hot mess and says, "Oh, your little one has a boo-boo, poor dear." I wish I had the nerve to say something inspiring, other than, "Yeah."
Something like, "Actually, I'm having a herpes flare-up and I'm here to get a UV treatment and some more Valtrex."
Or, "The officer told me to wait here so I can be admitted to the Psych Ward. But I'm smarter than them, you'll see."
Or, "I tested positive for Tuberculosis, but don't worry, I don't think I'm contagious anymore. What day is it again?"
Results of Foamy Bat vs. Face:
Love hurts.
Invariably, one or more concerned souls looks at my small bundle of hot mess and says, "Oh, your little one has a boo-boo, poor dear." I wish I had the nerve to say something inspiring, other than, "Yeah."
Something like, "Actually, I'm having a herpes flare-up and I'm here to get a UV treatment and some more Valtrex."
Or, "The officer told me to wait here so I can be admitted to the Psych Ward. But I'm smarter than them, you'll see."
Or, "I tested positive for Tuberculosis, but don't worry, I don't think I'm contagious anymore. What day is it again?"
Results of Foamy Bat vs. Face:
Love hurts.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
They're going to take me away (hee hee)
My face hurts from fake-smiling so much this week. Mostly the week with the in-laws went well, although there were some awkward fake-smiley moments. Such as the moment my husband asked me (in front of his mother) if I was going to "play nice" when his sister (aka Slightly Psycho) came over to visit. Such as the moment my mother in-law rolled in at midnight one night and I came downstairs when the dog barked, only to see Dear Ma stagger in and weave to the bathroom. Such as the moment the next day when Father Inlaw claimed she only had two glasses of wine. Such as every single moment of my nephew's birthday on Friday afternoon (who has a kid's party on a weekday afternoon??), especially the moment at 5:30 when I realized I was half an hour late to pick my sister up and yelled, in front of lots of small kids and their mothers, "Oh Sh*t!! I forgot to pick up M!!" and then proceed to toss my baby like a football to my husband.
Oh my garsh, I sure am glad I have somewhere to put these thoughts. You'd never know how uncomfortable I am around my sister-in-law, as I work very hard to be polite for the sake of my husband and in-laws, but I would rather electrocute my nipples than put that much effort into something. Especially fake-smiling.
Life Lesson: If you let your 20 month old girl and her 4 year old brother play while both are under the alleged "eagle eye" of your husband, said 4 year old will get annoyed, pick up a hard plastic scratchy-foam-covered bat and smoke said 20 month old girl in the eye. Hilarity ensues. And by hilarity I mean blood curdling screaming, daddy yelling, 4 year old wailing, 40 minutes driving to two eye doctors to find out they are both closed, heading over to emerg because you're grossed out by eye injury stuff and have an out-of-control imagination, 2 hrs waiting, suspicious and huffy looks from others, doctor saying baby's ok after a 2 minute assessment, driving home in weekend traffic hilarity.
Wow. My girl has quite a shiner. I wanted to get her a shirt that says, "You should see the other guy." My husband, sick wacko that he is, thinks we should get her a shirt that says, "Daddy loves me."
Oh my garsh, I sure am glad I have somewhere to put these thoughts. You'd never know how uncomfortable I am around my sister-in-law, as I work very hard to be polite for the sake of my husband and in-laws, but I would rather electrocute my nipples than put that much effort into something. Especially fake-smiling.
Life Lesson: If you let your 20 month old girl and her 4 year old brother play while both are under the alleged "eagle eye" of your husband, said 4 year old will get annoyed, pick up a hard plastic scratchy-foam-covered bat and smoke said 20 month old girl in the eye. Hilarity ensues. And by hilarity I mean blood curdling screaming, daddy yelling, 4 year old wailing, 40 minutes driving to two eye doctors to find out they are both closed, heading over to emerg because you're grossed out by eye injury stuff and have an out-of-control imagination, 2 hrs waiting, suspicious and huffy looks from others, doctor saying baby's ok after a 2 minute assessment, driving home in weekend traffic hilarity.
Wow. My girl has quite a shiner. I wanted to get her a shirt that says, "You should see the other guy." My husband, sick wacko that he is, thinks we should get her a shirt that says, "Daddy loves me."
Thursday, June 4, 2009
I weigh 160.5lbs
Just sayin'.
For the last mmm.. 1000 weeks (as I weigh weekly), I have been unable to break under 160 lbs. It is fa-reaking frustrating sometimes!! I am asking for-- nay, begging, for suggestions from any or all of the... 4 of you who may be reading this. (Yeah, I said 4. So what if I am grossly inflating my readership?) I am sticking to my diet like white on rice and have increased the intensity of my workouts.
I have also tried snorting massive amounts of cocaine and speed to boost my energy, nicely balanced out by shooting steroids into my ass cheeks. (That was a joke. No, it's ok, I laughed.)
Speaking of white and ass, wow, I am one fish-belly white-assed chick. My face, which because I am always in a flop sweat from running from kid to kid and am always 10 minutes late for everything, is normallybeet-red and sweaty apple-cheeked, so you can't tell how post-mortem pale I am. I made the mistake of putting shorts on yesterday and now I am legally blind. Only because I am such a computer geek good typist can I still type my blog. Can you tell I just figured out (read: googled) how to do the crossed out words thing?
The whole reason I put on shorts (other than it was so freaking hot I Confessed & Repented) was to get some sun on my legs while I gardened, but I think I am actually so white that the UV rays are being reflected back toward the sun instead of being absorbed.
Sidenote: Ooooh.. I just got busted by Hot-Stuff. I never actually told him I had a blog (because then I knew he would want to read it, and frankly, I wanted one little corner of privacy to myself), I always just told him I read other people's blogs. I am a terrible wife and a lousy human being.
I digress.
Me gardening is a novel concept. I have no idea what I'm doing. I bought seeds, germinated them, forgot about them, planted them too late, they all died. I bought already germinated (by professional amateur gardeners) plants that looked like they had a fighting chance. Brought them home, left them out overnight, forgot to water them, put them in the garden and watered the sh*t out of those puppies. A couple of them look kind of wilty and a couple of the tall ones (flowers don't have names for me; they are classified by height and color; ie. 'the tall purple ones' or 'the short green things') are already falling over. I am already deciding what plants I am going to get andmurderize tenderly care for next. After these ones die.
For the last mmm.. 1000 weeks (as I weigh weekly), I have been unable to break under 160 lbs. It is fa-reaking frustrating sometimes!! I am asking for-- nay, begging, for suggestions from any or all of the... 4 of you who may be reading this. (Yeah, I said 4. So what if I am grossly inflating my readership?) I am sticking to my diet like white on rice and have increased the intensity of my workouts.
I have also tried snorting massive amounts of cocaine and speed to boost my energy, nicely balanced out by shooting steroids into my ass cheeks. (That was a joke. No, it's ok, I laughed.)
Speaking of white and ass, wow, I am one fish-belly white-assed chick. My face, which because I am always in a flop sweat from running from kid to kid and am always 10 minutes late for everything, is normally
The whole reason I put on shorts (other than it was so freaking hot I Confessed & Repented) was to get some sun on my legs while I gardened, but I think I am actually so white that the UV rays are being reflected back toward the sun instead of being absorbed.
Sidenote: Ooooh.. I just got busted by Hot-Stuff. I never actually told him I had a blog (because then I knew he would want to read it, and frankly, I wanted one little corner of privacy to myself), I always just told him I read other people's blogs. I am a terrible wife and a lousy human being.
I digress.
Me gardening is a novel concept. I have no idea what I'm doing. I bought seeds, germinated them, forgot about them, planted them too late, they all died. I bought already germinated (by professional amateur gardeners) plants that looked like they had a fighting chance. Brought them home, left them out overnight, forgot to water them, put them in the garden and watered the sh*t out of those puppies. A couple of them look kind of wilty and a couple of the tall ones (flowers don't have names for me; they are classified by height and color; ie. 'the tall purple ones' or 'the short green things') are already falling over. I am already deciding what plants I am going to get and
Monday, June 1, 2009
Party like a rock-star
So I'm sitting here wondering what I should blog about. Can't think of a single funny thing right now. (Of course, because I actually have time to write stuff down right now.) I moseyed over to MckMama's blog and randomly selected blogs from her Mr. Linky to read. I found one right here and thought to myself, "Self, I should post a small blurb and link to this blog just in case anyone out there in Internet-land can help." So, if you are a web designer who has some spare time to donate and/or a karmic debt to fill, please click on over and read this post.
My mother-in-law and my step-father-in-law are visiting. Can you believe I enjoy the company of my in-laws? How weird is that? They are staying in the luxurious accomodations of our travel trailer. With no water hook up. We are nothing if not high-class around here.
Today, my in-laws packed up my two older kids and took off for the day. I had a whole unscheduled day of just me and Little Dude. What did I do with my day, you ask? Did I have a ridiculously long bath? Or spend a few (hours) minutes waxing and/or plucking facial hair? Or maybe did I remove the old, chipped polish off my toenails and put pretty, new polish on? Nope. I.. (cue suspenseful music) cleaned my fridge. (Cue fanfare). Ugh. Gross. If there ever was a show called, "Disgusting, Filthy Fridges of the Middle-Middle Class" I would be featured. The world would tsk-tsk my obvious lack of cleaning ability. Why is it that salad dressing never gets thrown out, even after it expires? Is salad dressing that good at disguising itself; the colorful bottles somehow blend right in to the white background of the fridge door? For two years? For shame! I console myself with the idea that because the expiry date was 10 May 08 (or whatever month it was), I must have thought that the year was 2010. Yes, that must be it. I cannot possibly be that lazy or that blind. Thank goodness the baby started fussing when I was almost done; thus saving me from opening the freezer and watching frozen veggies hurling themselves to the floor like lemmings, in order to escape being eaten by the ever-expanding frost.
I have decided that the Pixies What Control Time are f*cking with me. Somehow, everyday, they speed up time between 3:00 and 4:30pm in order to truly mess up my schedule. Where does that hour and a half go? 3:00 rolls around and I'm in good shape, got most of my stuff done, house is clean (relatively... compared to the fridge, it's clean), lots of time before kids need to be picked up, or I need to make supper, or we have to go to soccer. Then, WHAM! it's 4:30, dinner isn't even started, kids are tearing up my nice clean house so that when Daddy gets home at 5, the house is a write-off and we're eating lame supper again because I ran out of time to make a good supper. Stupid Pixies.
My mother-in-law and my step-father-in-law are visiting. Can you believe I enjoy the company of my in-laws? How weird is that? They are staying in the luxurious accomodations of our travel trailer. With no water hook up. We are nothing if not high-class around here.
Today, my in-laws packed up my two older kids and took off for the day. I had a whole unscheduled day of just me and Little Dude. What did I do with my day, you ask? Did I have a ridiculously long bath? Or spend a few (hours) minutes waxing and/or plucking facial hair? Or maybe did I remove the old, chipped polish off my toenails and put pretty, new polish on? Nope. I.. (cue suspenseful music) cleaned my fridge. (Cue fanfare). Ugh. Gross. If there ever was a show called, "Disgusting, Filthy Fridges of the Middle-Middle Class" I would be featured. The world would tsk-tsk my obvious lack of cleaning ability. Why is it that salad dressing never gets thrown out, even after it expires? Is salad dressing that good at disguising itself; the colorful bottles somehow blend right in to the white background of the fridge door? For two years? For shame! I console myself with the idea that because the expiry date was 10 May 08 (or whatever month it was), I must have thought that the year was 2010. Yes, that must be it. I cannot possibly be that lazy or that blind. Thank goodness the baby started fussing when I was almost done; thus saving me from opening the freezer and watching frozen veggies hurling themselves to the floor like lemmings, in order to escape being eaten by the ever-expanding frost.
I have decided that the Pixies What Control Time are f*cking with me. Somehow, everyday, they speed up time between 3:00 and 4:30pm in order to truly mess up my schedule. Where does that hour and a half go? 3:00 rolls around and I'm in good shape, got most of my stuff done, house is clean (relatively... compared to the fridge, it's clean), lots of time before kids need to be picked up, or I need to make supper, or we have to go to soccer. Then, WHAM! it's 4:30, dinner isn't even started, kids are tearing up my nice clean house so that when Daddy gets home at 5, the house is a write-off and we're eating lame supper again because I ran out of time to make a good supper. Stupid Pixies.
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