Pretty in Plaid

If you're local in Chicago, you should totally head out to see the fabulous and talented Jen Lancaster this evening at the Webster Place Barnes and Noble. Jen will be signing copies of her latest New York Times Bestseller, "Pretty in Plaid."

I will be there. You'll know it's me because I will be the one trying not to yak in the back row.

And if you can't come out and support Jen, you can buy her book!

Speak your mind

So I have this daughter named Emmie. You might think I forget about her, what with the fact that I barely ever devote blog posts to her anymore. But Jack is so much more -- how shall we put it -- full of life, so his antics usually get more press just because I couldn't make that shit up and I have to write it down so people actually believe me when I say 3 years old might kill me.

But back to my Sweet Girl. In the last week, Miss Emily has learned to say "Uh-Oh" and "Owie" and "Yucky." Important words in this house, considering both "owie" and "uh-oh" directly relate to the amount of beatdowns she takes at the hands of her brother. And her "yucky" is just too cute for words. So small and sweet-sounding coming out of her mouth.

She's also into animal sounds. But by far her favorite word, as it always has been, is still DaDa. Which is now said loud and with emphasis -- like Da-DAAA! If she even thinks she hears a whisper of Josh's shadow in the general vicinity, she starts yelling for him. When I take her downstairs, heaven help the people on the other end of poor Josh's conference call because they can surely hear her yelling through the closed office door.

This is such a cute age, I forgot how much fun it is. Even the tantrums are funny. Especially compared to a 3-year-old tantrum. Because they don't play, those are the real thing. Emmie's tantrums consist of her throwing herself on the floor and sobbing because a toy was snatched away or, God forbid, I don't grant her highness' wish of a cup of milk instantly. Yesterday I had to remind her to breathe after she freaked out over not being able to get milk out of a straw cup because she insisted on tipping it upside down to drink. The perspective of a second-time parent is a godsend. I just smile and wait her out. This too shall pass.

Ramble on

And a happy belated Memorial Day to y'all, too. Over said weekend, I actually uttered the words, "Man, I love the short week." And then I realized what a complete and total IDIOT I am. Really? Short week? As if I only work five days a week to begin with, so a national holiday means more days off.

I kill myself sometimes.

The actual holiday did see me sleeping late, compliments of visiting grandparents. So that was nice. And thanks to more grandparents hosting the children for a sleepover for a few days at the beginning of the weekend, I also got to sleep late on Friday AND Saturday. So I guess I did get a real holiday. How about that?

In other news, I am 11 weeks pregnant today. According to pregnancy math, that means I am starting my 12th week. And that means the first trimester is about to be behind me. Most of the stupid pregnancy books (such as "What to Expect When You're Expecting" aka "What We Can Scare the Hell Out of You About When You're Expecting") tell you that the morning sickness should be declining at this point. That would be a DAMN LIE. The afternoon/evening sickness is worse than ever for me right now. And knowing my history, I have at least another three weeks of this torture to go.

I have no funny way to tie this post all together, so I am just leaving it like this. I am lucky I woke up long enough to post something semi-coherent at all.

School's out for the summer

Way back in September, when I took my baby to preschool for the first time, I remember thinking that the end of the year was so far off. Today, he graduated from his first year of preschool. But I am not sure how that is possible as I just brought him home from the hospital and dressed him in frog hats.

School was such a great experience for him and I think he's sad it's over. He adored his teachers, Miss Liz (MissWiz, always pronounced as one word) and Miss Melissa (Miss Wissa) and all of his friends. He loved getting out of the car each morning and lining up with all the kids. He enjoyed running around in gym class. And he really liked snack time.

As the year went on, he matured and learned how to sit in the circle. I remember lamenting that he would never participate in circle time and freaking out that he always wanted to do his own thing. And you know what, like almost all of the commenters said he would, he eventually started getting it. People on the Internets are really smart!

Like all 3-year-olds, he had his moments. Like when he went through a phase of screaming at the top of lungs. And dumping whole bins of toys out. And pushing his friends. But like all phases, they passed. And the sweet little boy I know and love outweighed the evil, smirky little boy who sometimes made appearances.

School gave him a chance to be his own person, outside of me. And gave me a chance to spend some one-on-one time with Emmie so she could figure out who she was, minus her constant companion. And it allowed me to miss him twice each week and experience the sweet joy that is seeing his face light up as he comes out of the classroom and throws himself into my arms after school. Never once in the nine months he was there did I fail to return that smile and hug -- it was truly the best part of my day.

Each Tuesday and Thursday, he would jump out of the car, grab his backpack and his lunchbox, kiss me goodbye and leave with a huge smile on his face. Never once did he say he didn't want to go, never once did he cry or want to leave early. I hope his love of school continues for years to come. He's already talking about his "new school" next year and how he's very excited about it.

Now we'll be back to trying not to kill each other every day for the next month. He will go to a little day camp three days a week for three hours starting at the end of June. Again, I think he'll love it and excel. What's not love about running around, getting wet and drinking from the water fountain?

Top-mom award issued to me today

With the first trimester crabbiness in full effect these days, I realize that my patience is running on the thin side. At least I see it, but that doesn't stop it from happening.

This morning, we made an early stop at the park because it was so nice out. Jack loves hanging out in the sandbox and while Emmie tolerates it for a few minutes, she spends most of her time plotting how to run away from me to the big-kid equipment on the other side of the park. She hasn't yet figured out I am faster than her, but I am sure that'll come.

While both of them managed to play nicely within two feet of each other, I took a seat on the side of the sandbox to observe. Of course a Super Mom was actually IN the sand with her kid, digging trenches with a truck and talking sweetly to him about how squishy the sand was and wasn't this fun? Blow me -- she's got one kid and waaaay too much energy for 9 a.m.

The nannies and I sat on the side, you know, like normal people. Jack brought a bucket the size of Rhode Island over to where I was sitting and promptly dropped it -- and it's concrete-like mixture of wet sand -- on my pinky toe.

My natural reaction was to yell out. My first instinct before having children would have been to drop an F-bomb, but I have since curtailed that kind of potty-mouthedness. Instead, I said through gritted teeth in a raised voice, "God BLESS IT Jack, that hurt."

Super Mom just stared at me. The nannies didn't blink an eye.

I immediately regretted losing it. Jack ran off to the other side of the sandbox, but I wanted to make nice with him so I called him over.

"Jackie, come here," I said sweetly.

He came within a foot of me and as I tried to hug him and tell him I was sorry I yelled, he ran away laughing. Great, now I look not only like a jackass, but like a child abuser because my kid flinches when I try to comfort him. Awesome.

Super Mom then kissed her kid and offered him ice cream on the way home. My eyes rolled so far up in my head I am not sure I will ever see properly again. You win, Super Mom, you win.

Margaritaville

Temperatures in the 80s, sunshine and a great breeze: today was the beginning of summer in Chicago. To celebrate, a mommy friend in the neighborhood hosted a "margarita and popsicle" playdate this afternoon.

Now despite not being able to have a margarita, it was an incredibly satisfying outing for several reasons.

First, my friend has a small, fenced-in yard. So we could plop the kids down on the grass and not worry about chasing them hither and yon. Second, they had a blow-up pool. You would think letting my kids get soaking wet in their clothes would send my eye a-twitchin' but you would be wrong. Third, with 13 kids 3 years and younger, there were enough children running around that no one noticed my older one caking mud on himself and my younger one eating sidewalk chalk. Fourth, it took place at the Witching Hour of 4 p.m. And every mom knows the worst time of day for parents is the hour right before dinner.

The moms hung out, with drinks and celebrity gossip ("Jon and Kate Plus Eight" marriage scandal, y'all!,) and the kids played in the pool and ate watermelon and popsicles and juice. Water was thrown around, mud puddles were jumped in and everyone went home with red juice stains around his or her mouth.

It was chill and just before dinnertime, we all departed for our respective houses. No fights, no crying, no hitting. In my book, that's a successful playdate. Especially with 13 kids.

If only I could haven had a margarita...

By the clock

Sleep. Sweet, delicious, satisfying sleep. I can't get enough of it these days. I nap each day for two hours -- three on the weekends -- and I feel like I could spend even more time in bed.

But the problem with these naps is that I stay up too late and can't fall asleep. But if I don't nap, the sickness gets the better of me and I turn into a raging bitch by dinnertime. It is a dilemma.

Jack has been cooperating with my need for sleep lately by adhering to the new alarm-clock edict. After dealing with him getting out of bed and yelling for us at the un-Godly hour of 6 a.m., we bought a digital alarm clock for his room. We told him he couldn't get out or call for us until the first number was a 7. And damned if the kid didn't listen!

The first few nights, we're convinced he just laid there and stared at the clock, willing it to turn to 7, even though it was 10 p.m. Because normally he gets out and runs around a few times. But those nights we never heard a peep from him. And he did stay in the bed in the morning. What else can we convince him to do with a clock? This is awesome.

Two days ago, he woke up at 6 and called for me, and I went in a reminded him the clock didn't say 7. I shut the door and went back to bed and SO DID HE. He woke up at 7:15 a.m.

I call this a success. Little does he know we're going to start moving the clock back and his "7" is going to be "9" by the middle of summer. Bwahahaha. The power of being the adult is heady.

Moving platforms

That's it. I am moving to Wordpress. Nothing will change for you readers, but it will take a while to move all my archives over. All 350+ entries. That have to be re-named by hand.

But soldier on I will. Because Blogger is trying to kill me and I won't let it succeed.

Now that THAT's out of the way...

Thank you all for the well-wishes. I am actually pretty excited about the whole thing, not the least of which is because I get to milk another high-risk pregnancy for the next seven months. (Also, one of the great parts about finding out you are nine weeks along is you just magically skip the first two months. Poof! They're gone.)

While this was a surprise, it was not unwanted. I had said since the night I delivered Emmie that I wanted one more baby. Josh was on the fence, but wasn't shutting the door on the issue. We decided if it happened, it happened. Apparently, it happened. Just as I was starting to think about wanting another. So it worked out spectacularly well for me. And yes, I know how lucky I am. I know there are plenty of women out there, including some everyday readers of this very blog, who would give anything to have a child. And I hope this same exact thing happens for them.

I didn't really get into the details of what's to come in my last post. I will go for a detailed ultrasound and genetic testing on June 4. Because I am the dreaded "Advanced Maternal Age" now at 35 years old, I get to undergo even more tests than normal. Which is fun. Because I don't have enough people poking their nose around my uterus during under-35 pregnancies.

Immediately after the ultrasound, I will meet with my Maternal Fetal Medicine specialist. This is the man I owe for bringing me my Jackie, safe and sound. And for making sure my Emily arrived without problems. I wouldn't dream of having anyone else perform my cerclage this time around either. Imagine my surprise to learn he had been elevated to the head of the department since I last pushed a child out of my body. Makes me feel even better, if that's possible.

My cerclage will be placed sometime the week after that. I have a wedding to attend, however, so I am angling to have it done the week of June 15, when I will be 14 weeks. I had it done with Emmie at 15 weeks, so right about the same time.

I have no idea what that means in terms of restrictions. I know last time I was prohibited from lifting anything heavier than a gallon of milk, vaccuming/scrubbing the floors, swimming and exercising. I imagine things will be much the same this time. They better be. Because since Josh won't let me hire a cleaning lady, I get to boss him around about how the housework should be done. I also hear sleeping in until 10 a.m. is mandatory for all women with preventative cerclages.

And for all of you who expressed concern about lumping the birthday in with Christmas, let me assure you it will not be an issue. While my birthday is a full month after Christmas, it was close enough that I would say, "Well, if I don't get (insert insanely popular gift from 1980s here) for Christmas, I want it for my birthday." My mom even instituted a rule that I could not talk about my birthday until Christmas was over. Emmie's is even closer, at just three weeks afterward. Knowing my body like I do, this baby will be born no later than the first week of December. I think we can safely say that is out of the "lumping in" timeframe.

Oh! Also. I am sick. Sick as a dog. And just like with both my kids, I get sick in the afternoon and it stretches to the evening. I am averse to sweets, crave salty and can't get enough macaroni and cheese and fish sticks. Just like the first two pregnancies. No puking, just constant nausea. Josh has been forced to work at home for the last two weeks because of some insane quarantine, which has been immensely helpful when I need to lie down and not hear about food for an hour or two before dinner time.

So there you have it. All the details you ever needed. You need to know more -- leave a comment with your question and I will address it for you.

Three times the blog material

I sat down to compose the first line of this post and after a few dozen deletes, decided to just come out with it.

I am pregnant. As in, having a third child.

(I hear crickets chirping, I can wait until you all pick yourselves up off the floor to go on.)

Ahh, you're back with me now. Trust me when I tell you, that was about the reaction I had when I found myself staring two pink lines in the face one morning. That, coupled with some "holy shits" and a few F-bombs.

Considering I had NO IDEA I was pregnant, and just taking the test because it was lying around and I was being stupid, my reaction was rather laid back. Josh's was similar, except with the bonus of me being able to see every last drop of blood drain from his face. Fact: Josh gets very pale when the entire contents of his bloodstream is pooled in his legs.

So we spent a few weeks getting used to the idea while I waited for a doctor's appointment. When the big day finally arrived last Friday, they said they would do a quick ultrasound in the office to date the pregnancy and after the standard bloodwork and paperwork, I would be on my merry way.

My quick ultrasound ended with the doctor telling me "I don't want to alarm you, but I definitely see two of something in there and I wouldn't go telling people you're having twins, but I think you need a real ultrasound as soon as possible next week." And she added that I was about seven weeks along.

I'm sorry, what? That's not possible. I mean sure, I am seven weeks along with ONE FREAKING BABY. Lalalalala, that's me covering my ears and not listening to this talk of "two" or "twins." I mean, have you met my cervix? It's a freaking Shrinky Dink. There is no way it could ever, not even a little bit, keep two children inside of me.

I am not sure how I had the strength to get up off the table and leave, but I did. I tried to schedule an ultrasound for Monday, but the scheduler had called in sick. Sorry, call on Monday. Oh my holy hell, I might be committed to a mental ward before Monday. And then wouldn't they feel bad? No? Oh, OK.

So I came home to tell Josh, who promptly died. I had to resuscitate him right in the living room -- good thing I know CPR -- and after I brought him back to life, he entered a catatonic state.

We spent the weekend properly freaking the eff out, but I kept insisting it was only one. I wasn't twice as sick. I wasn't twice as tired. And besides, I hadn't really pissed any diety or fate off that much lately, so there was no way they were trying to get back at me for something.

Monday morning, I called the nice ultrasound department at 9 a.m. That would be the office I have probably visited 50 times over the last four years. The one with the entire wing named after me, paid for by my insurance company. The nice receptionist said they could not even schedule an ultrasound until they had my chart for this pregnancy from my OB. Which is located one floor directly above them. And had been requested three days prior. Someone will call you back, she said.

An hour later, my panic levels rising, I called back to see if they had the records. Nope. I called my OB's office myself at that point and hysterically asked them to PLEASE. SEND. THE. DAMN. RECORDS.

Three hours after that, I had to go get my bloodwork done (I had forgotten my insurance card the week before) and I figured if I staged a sit-in at the ultrasound department, they couldn't ignore me. So I stopped by the office and alle-freaking-luia, they had the paperwork. I turned it on thick, explaining how I was freaking out and I brought a book -- look! a 700-page book! -- and was ready to wait as long as it took. The poor nurse took one look at my face and saw my desperation and said she could get me in an hour later.

When the tech called my name, I leaped out of my chair and made it to the door in a single step. Even in my pregnant state I'm like a gazelle. It's a gift. She said we were going to do this abdominally and I was sad for second, wishing for the dildocam. But whatever, she's the boss. There will plenty of those in a few weeks time anyway, I am not missing out.

Within two seconds of seeing my uterus on the screen, it was determined there was ONE embryo. One nine-week-old embryo wiggling it's arms and legs, with it's heart beating away at a solid 175 bpm. Yep, two weeks further along than we guessed, but very much all alone. (Due date: December 15)

I almost kissed the technician. I think she might have been taken aback, especially since I was thinking about using tongue. But come on, this woman just saved me from certain doom. I walked out of there on air.

When I arrived home and told Josh the joyous news, he looked relieved, but not entirely giddy, as I was. I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, saying, "Josh, get on board! It could be so much worse."

And that my friends, is the mantra for this third pregnancy, "It could have been so much worse." The embryo will feel so special someday when it reads this blog.


A study in contrasts: Emmie is thrilled, Jack not so much.

Smells like teen spirit

This weekend, I experienced the hell on earth that is known as "a three-hour drive with your 3-year-old and almost-16-month-old where no one naps." Not only did Jack spend 2.75 of the three hours kicking and pushing my seatback, Emmie screamed every 15 seconds for milk. Which ran out approximately 30 minutes into the drive.

Josh was the driver, which left me to contort my body into various pretzel configurations trying to find toys on the floor that would amuse Emmie for 10 seconds before she would fling them down and scream for milk. I was doling Cheerios out left and right, thinking they would placate the masses. I was wrong. The masses started throwing them. At my head.

About halfway through the trip, Jack announced he had to go pee on the potty. We normally take him to a McDonald's bathroom in these situations because they are present about every 10 miles, are usually very clean and run less risk of me being kidnapped from the stall. (True story: when I was little, one of my aunts told me that you had to be careful in bathrooms because people would kidnap you and you would never see your family again. I somehow turned this into "gas station bathrooms" in my warped mind and am fearful of truck stops now.)

But we had just passed a McDonald's and another one wasn't coming up any time soon, so we decided to chance it at a gas station.

We walk in and find the women's bathroom (you think I was letting Josh taking my preshuuusssssh baaaabyyyyy into a men's room at a gas station? Christ almighty, I might as well let him lick a toilet.) and open the door. I am not afraid to tell you the truth: someone was either very ill or definitely needed to get some fiber in her diet.

And in my very first "kids say the darndest thing" moment, Jack yelled, "Mommy, did somebody poop in here?"

I try to downplay it, saying in a quiet voice, "I don't know, buddy, maybe."

"Mommy, it smells like somebody pooped in here. They did! They did!" he said in a gleeful voice.

Yep, that's my kid. He's talking about poop in gas station bathrooms and I'm writing about it on the internet. I'm not sure which is worse.

Gimme an E-L-M-O

Waaaaay back in February, we saw that Sesame Street Live was going to have a show in the area this weekend. Knowing our son's proclivity for red, furry characters, we thought we would buy tickets for the three of us for his birthday.

Being the seasoned parents that we are (read: not stupid when it comes to matters of time) we did not clue Jack in to the purchase of said tickets. There was no way he would understand that we bought him tickets to a show three months later and would ask us every day between then and the show when we were going to see Elmo.

The big day arrived today and we decided to keep it a secret until the last minute. We drove all the way to the suburbs and walked in to the theater before asking him why he thought we were there. I think the giant souvenir stands might have given him a clue, but he claimed to not know.

"We're here to see Elmo, buddy!" we exclaimed. His face lit up and he said, "Right now?"

Yep, right now.



The usher escorted us to our seats and we were delighted to find they were in the front row. I could totally throw my thong at Cookie Monster! This was a huge score. Not to mention we were seated on the aisle, right next to the stairs where the characters all came down into the crowd.

The lights and music came on right on schedule and the look on Jack's face said it all. He was ecstatic. He danced and clapped and when the characters came into the audience, he hugged and high-fived them.



He was not, however, the little boy who left his seat at least 10 rows back and an entire section over and walked up on the stage during the show. What the hell? His grandmother kept saying, "Come on now, come on!" Seriously lady, he never should have walked three feet away from you. He waltzes 30 feet away and you don't see him until he climbs up on stage and tries to dance with Elmo?

He was also not the little boy who got lost at intermission. That little boy, Ethan, was crying that he lost his Mommy. Hello, Ethan's Mommy ... how did your kid leave his seat and you didn't notice? Not only that, but there was no sign of any woman frantically searching for a little boy. If that was Jack, I would have been screaming his name in panic. (Judge much, Amy? Why yes, yes I do.)

In the end, I determined the 90-minute show was 30 minutes too long. They should bag the intermission and cut the show time to an hour. Little kids just don't have the attention span for that. By the second half, Jack was asking if we were going home yet.



But I don't think I will forget the look on his face any time soon. It actually brought a tear to my eye to see him experience such joy. I am so glad I could give him that experience.

Nice change of pace

For all the time I spend pissing and moaning about how awful the sibling relations are in this house, I need to share some good news as well. For the last week, Jack has really calmed down. We have had several days without any hitting or violence at all. We've had lots of sharing and playing nicely and tickling and kisses.

I'm not sure what precipitated this change. It could be the spankings I administered (I jest! No spanking here.) or the change in the weather, allowing us to get outside and get a lot more fresh air. It could be him chilling out a little or me paying more attention to everyone and heading off negative energy before it manifests itself as a problem.

I don't mind saying I don't know what changed. But I am thrilled and pleased with the way things are going.

You can check out my soon-to-be-published parenting book, "How to Get Your Kid To Stop Hitting His Sister Without Knowing What You Did," at a bookstore near you soon. It will include little gems like, "Offer a special snack if he withdraws his hand from a fist" and "Go to the park, even if it's raining, if you suspect aggression is running high."

Best-seller, for sure.

Testing 1,2,3

Oh Blogger, this little love-hate relationship we have is starting to roll too much to the hate side, if you ask me. First I couldn't publish this weekend. Then you let someone hack my RSS feed. Now you won't publish me again.

And I have funny things to say. Like how Jack is getting a pony because he made a heart at school today that said he loved Mommy because "she takes care of me." And how Emmie thinks it's funny to eat sand. And how Josh can't go to work because the company he is working at right now won't let people living outside the city in which it is located travel to the office because of swine flu fears.

But no, you are a bitch and you won't publish any of it.

Or maybe you do. In which case we'll go about our business and inevitably have this conversation again in a few weeks because I am too cheap to pony up for Wordpress so I endure these ridiculous outages.

Innocence personified

Does this look like the face of a child who beats his sister, throws himself on the ground screaming and thinks his mother is kidding when she uses the word no?



Jack loved hanging out with his great-grandma at her 90th birthday party recently. I am sure it's because he enjoyed her company and not because there was cake.

Fixed!

My friend, Kevin, is a freaking genius. He fixed the whole Google Reader redirecting to p*o&r$n problem. I love him. He got the whole pan of blondies I just made this morning as a thank-you.

Long story short, there was a hidden file I could not see in my FTP folder that would redirect people when referred by AOL, MSN or Google. That's why if you came straight to the blog by URL, it was fine.

Thanks to everyone who notified me of the problems. And sorry if you really liked the other content better than the blog.

Don't use Google Reader

If you read this blog through Google Reader, don't. My RSS feed has somehow been hacked in Reader and will redirect you to a Russian p*o&r$n site. I mean, unless you like that sort of thing, then by all means, keep on keeping on.

For now, I am shutting off the RSS feed. We spent hours searching the code for my site last night and couldn't find anything. My super-awesome IT security husband (who admonished me for not changing my password and not making it strong enough) has deduced someone has somehow hacked Google's DNS for my blog's feed. It's the only explanation for now.

If you go straight to www.snarkymommy.com, or to any of my links by using the URL, you are fine. We also tested other feed-readers and there was no issue with those.

In the meantime, I have shut off the RSS feed. I will let you know when this is solved. And of course, Google is being less than helpful with this issue. You'd think I wasn't a multi-million-unique-visitor-a-month blogger who makes $40,000 per month in ad revenue. Oh wait, that's NOT me. Damn.