Conversations with a 3-year-old

Scene: Jack sitting on the potty, me sitting in the chair outside the bathroom in the hallway waiting for him before naptime. He is stalling for time to delay his nap, thus engaging me in conversation while he uses the facilities.

Jack: Mommy, my poop comes out of my tushie?
Me: Yep, it does.
Jack: It's in there with the food?
Me: Yep, it is.
Jack: It is squishing all the food?
Me: Well, no. Your tummy takes the parts of food that it can't use and turns it into poop. So your tummy turns the food into poop.
Jack: (silent for a second) Mommy, my poop talks!
Me: No it doesn't.
Jack: Yes! It does! It goes, "weeeee."
Me: (laughing) Well, sometimes poop makes noise when it comes out. That happens.
Jack: Mommy, sometimes it makes a BIG NOISE!

Seriously, I can't believe the thought process that went into that on his part. To actually wonder how his stomach works and think up explanations is pretty smart. And his eloquence in expressing it ... well he IS a boy.

No segue here whatsoever, but today is my fifth wedding anniversary. Five wonderful years. Two of the best years of my life.

No, really, I love this man and all he brings to my life. He's an amazing father, a perfect match for my sarcastic streak, a ridiculously smart businessman and a fixer of my computer. He helps around the house, lets me sleep in, gets my pregnant ass ice cream, plans ridiculously awesome vacations for us, doesn't yell when I go over budget every week, loves me unconditionally (which can be difficult at times), gets excited when I share breaking sports news with him, laughs at my jokes and always ALWAYS puts the toilet seat down. He's a prince among men. I make fun a lot on this blog, but I would be in big trouble without him. As I told him as part of my vows five years ago tonight, "You've taught me to reach for the stars, but still be aware of reality." Josh, I love you. Thanks for everything you bring to my life.

Someday she will kill me for this post

Yesterday was like any normal day at Chez Snarky -- kids hitting each other, mommy sighing, general whiny-ness on everyone's part -- so I didn't even notice that Emmie was a little crabbier than normal. That and the fact my mom was on Granny Nanny duty, so really, I might have been zoning out a little and trying to pretend I couldn't hear the children whining at me.

We went to the park in the afternoon and tag-teamed the kids running around like maniacs. As an aside, let me tell you that a 3.5-year-old and an 18-month-old will never, ever want to do the same thing at the same time at the park. So you have three choices: 1. You leave someone unattended and possibly lose sight of him for more than 20 seconds, giving yourself a heart attack on several occcasions until you spot the back of his head; 2. You take them to a smaller park where they are contained and within sight at all times, but bored out of their minds because there are only three swings and some ride-on toys; or 3. You enlist help and bring another adult to the big park, hopefully sticking the other person with the attention-span-of-a-gnat 18-month-old who spends the whole time running from one side of the park to the other. Yesterday I went with door No. 3. While at the park, Emmie spent most of her time climbing, running, falling and sliding, so I chose wisely.

Emmie and Grandma went home slightly earlier than Jack and I, and when we came into the house, my mom told me she thought Emmie needed to go to the doctor because she thought she might have a bladder infection. I asked what in her extensive medical training led her to believe this and she said she had just witnessed Emmie bend over and start screaming while grabbing her diaper. When she went to change her, there was blood in it. As the needle screeched off the record in my mind, I switched into Super Mom mode and called the pediatrician. They felt very bad, but couldn't get us in until 8 p.m. In the meantime, they recommended cranberry juice, a bath and Motrin. As Emmie won't drink anything but milk (num-num, in Emmie-speak) I figured we might have a tough sell. But I was undeterred in my quest to provide pure cranberry juice for my poor little baby. I hopped in the car and sped down the street to Whole Foods, emerging $8 lighter after purchasing 32 ounces of 100-percent pure cranberry juice. No high fructose corn syrup for this child, and god DAMN, that shit is pricey. I could buy heroin cheaper.

I came home, poured her three parts juice to one part water, and handed her the cup with a huge fake smile on my face. "Emmie, have some juice! It's yummy! Mmmmmmm!" as I took a drink myself and tried to stifle the pucker that was forming. She took one drink and looked at me with contempt. She then refused to drink another drop. Great, and I couldn't even re-purpose it myself with some vodka and lime later.

My mom took her upstairs and plopped her in the bathtub just as the doctor's office was calling back. They wanted to see her early because they could get a urine sample and squeeze us in. Fabulous, I said, because frankly, this kid pees a lot and I couldn't imagine living through three hours of the screaming every time she needed to tinkle. We quickly dressed her, packed a sandwich and a banana and left the house. I inexplicably brought the stupid cranberry juice, thinking she would drink it. That earned me a withering look from Josh, who had arrived home just in time to head to the doctor's office with us. Once we arrived at the doctor's office, which is just a few blocks away, he turned around and came right back home to get her some milk. Which is what I should have just done in the first place, but didn't as I was aiming to please the nice nurse and prove I could follow directions.

They got her all set up with a urine collection bag taped underneath her diaper and had us wait a few minutes for her to pee. She was having a grand time running around the waiting room, shoving bites of almond butter sandwich in her mouth and waving to the the staff before they put us in a room. We weren't even in there two minutes before she stood still and started screaming a sound I have never heard before. I grabbed her, hugging and rocking her while she screamed and screamed. "Well, I guess she peed," I said to Josh, who looked stricken by this turn of events.

The doctor walked in at that very moment, witnessing the sweaty, snotty, screaming mess that was my sweet Emmie. She listened to the symptoms and agreed it was likely a urinary tract infection based on all the evidence. She had the nurse take the bag out of her diaper and we could all SEE the blood in it. While I attempted to calm Emmie down, with little success, the nurse ran the quick test and came back in to the room looking puzzled. She said there was a lot of blood in the urine, but no signs of infection at all. Now it was the doctor who looked puzzled. I, of course, was thinking she had some rare, invasive disease and ohmygod what the hell is wrong with my baaaabyyyyyy?

The doctor said she was going to take a quick look, just to make sure the bleeding wasn't coming from anywhere else and as soon as she got a good look at her lady bits, she said, "Oh yeah, that's it. She's got a tear right there." She pointed out an angry-looking red line right where you really don't want an angry-looking red line. And I was promptly horrified. The doctor said it's actually really common in little girls with all the climbing and falling and general uncoordination. They fall and the skin just doesn't have enough give to it. Based on the number of times Emmie tripped and fell yesterday at the park and at home, in addition to falling right on to a toy lawn mower after tripping over another toy on the floor, I am not surprised at all.

As someone who has birthed two children, and has had stitches in that very same area, I can attest to the fact that peeing BURNS LIKE ACID ON THAT WOUND. It is nothing I want my daughter to experience and I assure you her reaction to the pain upon peeing was completely appropriate. I may have done the same thing myself once or twice postpartum. So I completely empathize with the poor girl.

The doctor said we should slather her with A&D at all diaper changes to create a moisture barrier, cutting down on the sting, and use Bacitracin twice a day to avoid infection. The area in question heals quickly, as I can also attest to, so she should be good as new in a few days.

I was expecting bad times last night, but the A&D and Motrin must have done the trick because we didn't hear a peep out of her. Today we were blessed with pain-free peeing and a happy child. Hopefully that means she is already on the mend. Someday she will read this and be horrified that I discussed such a personal injury on the internet, FORGODSSAKEMOTHER, but I was traumatized by this and what better place to overshare such personal details?

Halfway to insanity

Today marks the official halfway point in this third pregnancy. That means I have 20 weeks until my brain oozes out of my ears and I lose my mind. You can sense the level of excitement I have about this, can't you? It's palpable.

Truth be told, I am excited about this pregnancy and the impending birth. I have been feeling regular thumps from WeeBey for about three weeks now and just like its brother and sister before it, WeeBey likes the nightlife. The fun begins around 8 p.m. and lasts until I go to bed around 11 p.m. I'm not sure how he/she smuggled a disco ball in there, but think "Night at the Roxbury" in terms of rhythm.

My family thinks I am nuts, however, because I keep dismissing things with a wave of my hand and the phrase, "I have plenty of time -- I have until February." I keep forgetting this baby is due in the middle of December and I still have the February timeline in my head from Jack's pregnancy. Considering my children tend to arrive roughly two weeks early, we're looking at sometime the first week of December. Oh my holy hell, I could go into labor eating Thanksgiving dinner. "Pass the potatoes and the cranberries, oh and I'll have a side of placenta as well please!"

Logistically, we still have no idea how this new baby will fit in to our lives. It has no room of its own. We have an Acura MDX and while roomy, shoving a third infant seat between two beheamoth Britax seats is going to be like squishing a salami into a hot dog bun. Jack starts all-day school in the fall, but that also means coordinating drop-offs and pick-ups around nap schedules and hoping I don't forget anyone in the morning rush to get out the door. And don't even get me started on how I will handle dinner, bath and bedtime for three children by myself while Josh is traveling. Let's just say bottles will be involved, and not for any of the children.

Only five months to go! Only five months to go? Only. Five. Months. To. Go.

The weekend

I could write a big post about BlogHer and my experience there, but it's been talked about practically to death by everyone else. And by everyone, I mean the entire population of the Internet. Seriously, everyone went and everybody bitched about a baby getting elbowed in the head in a rush for swag bags and everybody talked about how commercial blogging has become and everyone got drunk. Except me because I am pregnant, wah.

My experience can be summed up like this: I spent a weekend with some really amazing women and had a ton of fun. We gossiped and went out to eat and shopped and got mani/pedis and went to parties and attended a few panels. This was a pretend "weekend away" for me, since it was held in Chicago, so Josh took over child duty and I got to sleep in and come and go as I pleased. I stayed out late every night and had fun. Exactly what I wanted it to be.

As for the conference itself, the humor panel kicked all kinds of ass. It consisted of Anna from Life Just Keeps Getting Weirder, Deb from Deb on the Rocks, Jenny from The Bloggess, Jessica from Bernthis, Kelcey from The Mama Bird Diaries and Wendi from Wendi Aarons. I didn't read these women before (except for The Bloggess) but after almost peeing my pants over the things they said, I certainly am now. And you should be, too. They inspired me to be funnier and even more of a smartass. So really, all of you readers will be the beneficiaries of my BlogHer weekend.

Then I came home and realized hanging out with 1,400 women from various parts of the country was a really stupid idea because ohmygod, the germs. I have no immunity from the Atlanta germs. Or the Austin germs (and sweet bitty, is every blogger from freaking Austin or does it just seem that way?). Or the Calee-fornia germs. And you know what all those people probably had lurking in the recesses of their hand wrinkles? I'll tell you. Swine flu. And you know, "the pregnant" is a risk factor in swine flu death. So I'll probably die in the next two weeks thanks to some random person who handed me her business card right after she licked it.

In the meantime I do have a sore throat and I am trying to not Google the shit out of early swine flu symptoms. I am sure this sore throat has nothing to do with the fact I was out late, screaming at the top of my lungs to be heard over all the other screaming women within a five-foot radius. Or that I caught a chill in the midnight air on Poppy's rooftop deck. Or that I coated my throat in liquid chocolate at the Mommy Needs a Cocktail party. Nope. It's clearly swine flu. It was nice knowing all of you.

BlogHer awaits

A few months ago, I heard the BlogHer conference was in Chicago this year, but was non-plussed by the idea of attending. I couldn't imagine paying to hang out and listen to people talk about blogging. I mean I have been doing it for five years now, I am pretty familiar with the concept.

But then I was out with a few other bloggers one night in March (incidentally, that was the night I got violently ill with a stomach ailment and chalked it up to Indian food, except HA, I was pregnant and didn't know it) and they all told me how you don't need to go to the conference because all anyone really remembers anyway are the parties. That of course piqued my interest, I mean drinking and hanging out are two of my favorite things to do.

A few weeks ago, one of my favorite bloggers (Sarah of "Life at 45 Degrees") was having a shitty few weeks and I insisted she come out for BlogHer, despite not having tickets. She could just go to the parties with me! So she booked a flight and she'll be here tomorrow. We'll be picking up another awesome blogger (Sarah, of "Harry Times, All Jacked Up", although we should all be calling her Dr. Sarah since she's a newly minted PhD) and the three of us will be going for manicures and pedicures.

Then we'll be off to dinner with a large group of other bloggers before hitting some parties. Of course, I will have to remain sober, sigh, but I will hand my free drinks off to the other ladies. Despite not being able to drink, I am so looking forward to this weekend. I am hoping to have fun with the bloggers I already know and to meet several I have been reading for years. I also hope to meet many, many new bloggers.

So if you're attending, and you spy me with your little eye, please come and say hello. I'll even give you one of my nifty new blog business cards! And I won't be drunk, so the chances of me slurring my words and not remembering meeting you are very slim. Also, I won't spill any drinks on you. Maybe. But if I do, I won't have any excuse for doing so.

In the meantime, look for a large number of tweets on my Twitter feed this weekend. I am sure all of Twitter will crash from the sheer number of bloggers all doing it at once from the same spot, but maybe they'll use messenger pigeons or something.

Big hairy deal

Recently, I realized Emmie was looking too much like Pat Benatar for my tastes. Her mullet was out of control and I was feeling bad. I mean she was still totally cute, but she was definitely looking like a baby "before" picture. And she was desperately in need of the "after" look.

I balked at cutting her hair because, wah, she's a little girl and she's supposed to have long, beautiful hair pulled back in ribbons and ponytails. The reality was her hair was about three inches longer in the back than anyplace else and the minute I put a bow in her hair, she yanked it out.

It's not like I am raising Crystal Gayle here, so what was I afraid of? I said to myself, "Self, there are tons of little girls with damn cute bobs out there, and by god, Emmie is going to be one of them." She didn't need any bangs, as her hair naturally sweeps to the side quite easily, but the party in the back had to go.

Before I could change my mind, I had her in the stroller and with camera in hand, we were off to the fun kiddie haircut place down the street. Little did she know there would be sharp objects involved, but she knew she was going out with Mommy and Jack wasn't coming, so this was an outing to be excited about.

Let me show you some "before" shots:

The pensive mullet, contemplating the view outside.


Cute kid, straggly hair.

After waiting for an hour (yes, I waited an hour with my toddler) she was in the chair. Coincidentally, the same chair her brother got his first haircut in. Sob.


Here we go...


Snip, snip. As the hair falls to the floor, I find it hard to swallow. Emmie is oblivious, fascinated by driving the car.


What the...? Where is all my hair?

I couldn't be more pleased with the final result. Her little bob is super-cute and looks so healthy. And now it will grow out evenly and look better on an everyday basis. There is some concern she might look like a boy, but I'll just dress her in pink and we'll be fine.


Who IS that girl?


Stylish!

It's a ...

With both Jack and Emmie, I was so hot to trot to find out the gender that I scheduled ultrasounds at 15 and 16 weeks, respectively. And both times we were rewarded with the money shot, allowing us to go home and start buying shit. Correction: allowing us to go home, call the grandparents and have THEM start buying shit.

But this time I decided not to find out the sex of the baby. Me, the ultimate planner and plotter and need-to-knower chose to have it be a surprise in the delivery room. And I stuck to it, despite protestations from my better half. Josh kept saying he was going to find out, whether I did or not. I kept saying there was no way he could keep a secret like that. He scoffed.

As we left for the appointment, I told him I didn't want a scene in front of the tech and that we were most definitely not finding out. He said he was. We went into the room and things got underway and the tech asked if we were finding out and I said no.

As we were leaving, Mr. Smirky McSmirkyson shot me a look and I asked him what was so amusing. He cocked an eyebrow.

"I know what it is," he said smugly.

"No you don't," I sighed.

"Yes I do. I have been reading up on how to read ultrasounds and I know what I saw," he said.

Considering the tech never took the angle I know she had to take to get the shot between the legs, I am confident he has no idea what in the hell he is yammering about. And even if he did see the shot, there is no way with a moving picture and no knowledge of what she was even scanning that he could have seen anything remotely resembling reproductive organs. Even I, who have seen many a "hamburger" and "turtle" on an ultrasound screen, couldn't decipher them without the assistance of the tech showing me exactly where to look.

Josh can think he knows the sex all he wants. I am sure he doesn't actually know, and in the end, he has a 50 percent chance of being right or wrong. But if you want his take on the whole thing, by all means, head on over to his blog.

The ultrasound itself went well. WeeBey was kicking and stretching and waving, but of course I can't feel most of the antics because I have an anterior placenta, which is a fancy way of saying it's like the baby is kicking as hard as it can into a pillow. I don't feel a whole lot yet, just a few kicks here and there towards the sides of my belly.

We also had a gander at the ole' cervix and it was looking long and strong. I was measuring 1.6 cm above the stitch with no funneling and 1.8 below the stitch, for a grand total of 3.4 cm. Ta-da! Just inside the low end of normal and definitely a great measurement for my shitass incompetent cervix.

The tech spent a great deal of time looking around at the baby, 45 minutes to be exact. Then she had the doctor come in and he wanted to take a look as well. Of course there was some mixup and my MFM was supposed to be in today but he had a conflict so I had to see someone else. And he was great; awesome in fact.

As he moved the wand over the baby's head, he said he wanted to let us know about something rather than just put it in the report. He said the baby has a small cyst in it's head called a choroid plexus cyst. Paraphrasing what the doctor told us (via a Google search), the choroid plexus is an area of the brain that is not involved thinking or personality. Rather, the choroid plexus makes a fluid that protects and nourishes the brain and spinal cord. When a fluid-filled space is seen in the choroid plexus during an ultrasound, it is called a choroid plexus cyst (CPC). Between 1 and 3 percent of all fetuses will manifest a CPC at 16 to 24 weeks of pregnancy.

Sometimes, these cysts can be an indicator of Trisomy 18, a genetic disorder. But in the absence of other markers on ultrasound, these CPCs are not a big deal and will go away on their own by the end of the second trimester.

The doctor said he saw evidence that WeeBey's cyst is breaking up already and the baby had no other indicators of Trisomy 18 such as a heart defect, clenched fists or foot abnormalities. Coupled with the fact my blood test results showed the baby has a 1-in-10,000 chance of having Trisomy 18, the doctor said he's sure the cyst will go away on its own in a few weeks. He said I should come back in six weeks for another ultrasound to confirm that, but not to worry because its not a huge deal.

And I actually am not worried. All other signs point to everything being normal. And in my book, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck...

But again, my big ultrasound is filled with drama and intrigue. I swear, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

Who on earth designs this shit?

I spent the last two afternoons searching for the Holy Grail: a dressy maternity top that isn't more than $100 and doesn't look like a tent.

Is it so much to ask that Old Navy or Target or the Gap add a little spice to their T-shirts and tank tops? I mean I appeciate a good everyday shirt as much as the next woman, and God knows I do love me some smartass pregnancy T-shirts, but I am going to the big BlogHer conference next week and I have nothing to wear.

I know people complain all the time that their closets are bare and they have nottthhhhiiiiiiing to weeeaaaarrrrrrrr, but I really don't. I am scheduled to attend several fun parties and I am going to show up in a T-shirt if someone doesn't come to my rescue but quick.

This has been a problem for me with each pregnancy -- I find everyday stuff I adore but it's the going-out stuff that presents the challenge. Trying to justify spending a serious load of cash on stuff I will only really wear a few times is hard. Especially since, as I am constantly reminded, someone else makes the money and all I do is spend the money.

I have tried local boutiques BellyDance and Kickin'. My favorite store during previous pregnancies, Swell, is out of business. Sob. I have one more option -- Krista K -- that I am checking out tomorrow and then I give up. That or Josh is going to have to pony up $100 for a shirt I am going to wear about three times. And then I will be contacting attorneys to fight the divorce filing he will drop on my ass. So that would just cost us all way too much money in the long run.

Please, oh readers of my blog, help dress me for BlogHer! I prefer black, or if it can't be black then another solid color, and tight-fitting. I like people to know I am pregnant, not guess what I am smuggling under a tent. But at this poing, I can't be picky and I will be happy with something that just looks nice. Bonus points if I can buy it somewhere in the Chicagoland area. I would even be happy with express shipping to get it here by Wednesday.

Park it

When you live in the city of Chicago, you get some pretty great perks. Easy public transportation, great restaurants, access to an awesome lakefront, homeless people living in your alley, rats living in your yard, you know, the best of city life. But you also get totally screwed by something called the City Sticker.

Even though you have to register your car with the state -- and pay them a nice little fee each year -- you also have to buy a sticker from the city of Chicago just to have the right to park on the street. The cost? A mere $75.

Additionally, if you live in a densely populated neighborhood, you will have zoned parking on your streets. That means you have to buy ANOTHER pass, this one for $25, so you can legally park in the zoned area. Want your friends to be able to park on your street when they visit? You're in luck! You can purchase 15 daily guest passes for the low, low price of $8.

So we ponied up $140 (that would be times two, since we have two cars registered to our address) for the privlege of parking on the city streets. And the kicker? We have a parking spot! We don't even NEED to park on the street. But they get you because if you ever leave your house and park on a street anywhere, anytime, you have to have the pass displayed. They even have some ridiculous law that lets the city check cars in parking garages to see if they have the stickers.

The fine for not having the sticker is $75, the same as buying the sticker. And you have to buy the sticker anyway, so it's like paying double. I know the amount of the fine because I have indeed been ticketed for not having a sticker in the past. Not once, but twice, in the same year. Stupid.

But the biggest ridiculousness of the whole thing is that the sticker is made so if you try to peel it off, it not only starts to disintegrate, it will not come off the windshield. Which is great when it comes to thwarting thievery of stickers, but terrible when it comes to getting the old sticker off when it's time to put the new one on. I have seen cars with seven years' worth of stickers stacked up the windshield because they're impossible to remove.

I had three stickers to get off this year on my windshield and tried like hell to peel them off with my fingers to no avail. Josh suggested Goo Gone, that miracle remover of gunk, and I added in my own idea of a razor blade.

Making sure I was in a well-ventilated area, lest the fetus get some weird birth defect from the fumes, I sprayed it on and waited a few minutes. That just means I opened the car door and called it ventilation. It said on the label to make sure you DO NOT INGEST, so because it was bolded on the directions, I made sure to follow them. All the while thinking, "Why on earth would you ever think to drink a bright orange liquid that comes in a spray bottle from Home Depot?"

I scraped the stickers off with the razor blade and it was like a miracle. Every bit of sticky came off the windshield and I was so excited I skipped into the house to tell Josh. He looked slightly horrified and said, "You didn't let it touch your skin did you? I don't think you're supposed to touch it."

Oh great. I looked down at my now chalky-looking fingertips and immediately washed them again. And again. And one more time. Awesome. I have sacrificed my fingers, and possibly the health of my unborn child, but by God, we have no more stray city stickers on our windshield. It's totally worth it.

Sandman, again

This morning Jack woke up at 5:20. I went in, told him he had to stay in bed until the clock said 7 and shut the door. He howled for about a minute and then quieted down.

I laid back down in my own bed, incredulous that he actually shut his piehole and went back to sleep. And of course, he made a fool of me. A mere 15 minutes later, he was yelling that he wanted to lay with me.

Because I wasn't sure Emmie could sleep through another bout of lunacy on his part, I went in and sternly told him (OK, I might have hissed) that he was to come into my room, lay down in my bed and BE QUIET.

Where was his father? Oh yes, he was sleeping in the guest room because he needed his rest before work. Don't worry about the pregnant lady, she'll be fine.

The laying with Mommy worked for roughly 15 minutes. Then he was clamoring to go back into his room and read books. Oh no, my friend. You're not doing anything of the sort. I brought him a stack of books into my room, which caused a meltdown because he couldn't stack them back up in a pile. Awesome.

Next up was his announcement he had to go to the bathroom -- "Pee and poop, mommy!" -- which of course I indulged.

At this point it was 6:15 a.m. and the last hour felt like a complete day. I told him I would put "Diego" on if he would just sit quietly and watch it. He quickly agreed. That then degenerated into him kicking me in the head and stomach while telling me he was all done watching.

We staggered downstairs at 7 a.m. He asked for milk and I gave it to him. Emmie slept in until 7:30. Jack was a complete mess by 9:30 a.m. at camp dropoff and for the first time EVER, he clung to my leg and told me he wanted to go back home. Exhausted much, Jack?

Tonight, an unhappy boy was back in his old crib while his unhappy sister slept in a pack n play downstairs. They were in bed at 7 p.m., but neither stopped singing and talking until 8 p.m. The plan for the morning is to leave him in the crib until 7, come hell or high water. Emmie won't be disturbed by his antics two floors away and I plan to turn the monitor all the way down once he wakes.

Not sure if this will make any difference, but I am planning to stick with this idea through the weekend to see if we can reset his sleep schedule. Or at least get him to realize playing quietly in his room until the clock says 7 is the right thing to do. For Mommy's sanity if nothing else.

No one should be awake at that hour

Jack woke up at 5:20 this morning. Last time I checked, that was well before the 7 a.m. wakeup time we instituted when we put the digital clock in his room.

So here's what we have tried, without success, over the last month: clock in his room and telling him he can only come out once it says 7; letting him get up and read books in his room until 7; laying in his bed with him after he wakes up too early; letting him come in our room and lay in our bed after he wakes up too early; letting him watch a video in our room after he wakes up too early; leaving him in his room and not going in until 7.

The problem lies in the layout of the house. His room is right next to Emmie's and when he gets pissed that he can't come out of his room, he starts yelling and wakes her up. And trust me, there's no way in hell I am dealing with two children at that ungodly hour of the day.

Today he was out of bed and down the stairs before I could even get to him. I couldn't drag him back upstairs in my delicate cerclage-d condition, so he ran downstairs to wake Grandma up. Isn't she lucky? So she spent the rest of the morning dealing with him while I took an hour to fall back asleep because I couldn't stop thinking about all the explanations for this ridiculous wakeup time. (I came up with exactly none.)

So tomorrow, we're moving the spare crib downstairs into the guest room and Emmie will get to sleep in peace while Jack screams and yells all he wants until 7 a.m. I figure it will take a few days of showing him we mean business until he gets it into his little brain that he really and truly can't come out until 7 a.m.

That and we're moving his bedtime to 6:45 p.m. I am hoping the Weissbluth sleep theory of "early bedtime=later wakeup time" will work for us. If not, I am just going to give him free reign of the house. I can't function at that hour anyway, so he might as well have a good time.

Fitting in

Up until about three months ago, I would have told you I had an easy-going second child. When she was little, I dragged her hither and yon to Jack's classes and playdates and school dropoffs and pickups and she never batted an eye. You could give her any toy in the house and she would be happy to have it. She delighted in being fed. She loved to go to the park and played wherever we put her down.

Oh how she's turned on us now.

Let me give you a few examples from today, which just sum up our daughter as of late.

First, she threw a fit because Jack was getting sunscreen put on for camp. She saw the sunscreen and ran to get her sandals, plopping down in front of me yelling "I-gee! I-gee!" at the top of her lungs (that's "I go" in Emmie speak). Except she wasn't going, because I can't take her with me to drop him off since I can't lift her out of the carseat. She gets to stay home with Grandma. Apparently that's as much fun as watching paint dry, based on her howling-mad reaction.

Then we went to the bagel shop on the way to the grocery store where the next tantrum heated up because I would not give her her own bagel, but dared to make her share mine. Then I wouldn't give her any of my juice, so she threw herself backward into the stroller so hard she almost knocked herself out.

After nap we took a stroll to the park. Jack was the model of delightful, playing in the sandbox in the shade. Emmie tried several times to run away from the sandbox, dragging sandbox toys with her, which is a no-no. Sandbox toys stay IN the sandbox. Which was met with a meltdown the likes of which I had not previously seen. She sat down on the concrete, wailing. Then she started kicking her legs. She covered her face at one point, laid down and then broke out in a rash from the horribleness of it all.

After we left the park because of her shenanigans, we ate dinner at home. That was also a test of wills because she wanted the entire plate of pasta on her tray. Except it was blazing hot and we had to cool it off and that set her off again. Once she finally shoved no less than seven bites into her mouth at one time, she started bawling because there was too much in her mouth and she couldn't chew. The meal was capped off by her screaming because I would not hand her the gallon-sized Ziplock bag of Veggie Booty.

I forgot what good times 18 months is. Jack remarked dryly at dinner, "Emmie is having a rough day." Uh, yeah. I would say that's true. The sad part is that when Jack was this age and did this, I would actually feel bad. When Emmie does it, I just laugh at her because she is so dramatic and I've seen much, much better from a 3-year-old. These 18-month antics are nothin'.


But mom, I'm so cute!

Pop, pop, pop

This morning I had another OB appointment. You might be thinking, "Why Amy, didn't you just go to the OB? Don't women in the second trimester only go once a month?" That would be correct on both counts. But the high-risk pregnant ladies get seen more often, usually twice per month the whole way through.

The good news is that I didn't wait at all. I walked in, peed in the cup, the nurse was in and out and my doctor was in the room 30 seconds later. Solid. She didn't even want to cop a feel of my cervix because I wasn't having any alarming symptoms.

The bad news is that I gained FIVE POUNDS in the last two weeks. I almost fell off the scale when I saw that and crumpled my face into a look of extreme distaste. The nurse asked what was wrong and I asked her to flip to Volume 2 of my chart to see what I weighed at this point with my Emmie pregnancy. (As an aside, I kid you not when I say my chart is as thick as a phonebook. They need rubberbands to keep it all together. I asked the nurse if she needed a cart to get it back to the room.)

It turns out that I weighed eight pounds less at 17 weeks with Emmie. And I started a little lighter this time, so that's even more depressing. Add in that I couldn't eat anything for the first 15 weeks and this is a conundrum.

Oh, but looking back I guess I was able to eat some things. Taco Bell, pizza, Taco Bell, macaroni and cheese, Taco Bell and Taco Bell. I guess mainlining cheese might not have been the best idea when it comes to pregnancy fitness.

Although I believe the five pounds might have all gone into my boobs because we've hit the porn-star stage of this pregnancy. A few weeks ago I was lamenting that I hadn't had any change at all and then badaboom, Josh was ogling me like a teenager again.

Lucky for Josh this recent weight gain means the really fun stage of my pregnancy begins for him. This is known as the "Josh, look how huge I am" stage. He haaaates this part. Because every week I whine about how much bigger I am and how I am gaining too much weight and how I will never be the same again. And he just can't win because if he says that yes, I am huge, then I cry because he thinks I am fat. And if he says no, I look fine, then I think he's lying. Mostly he just makes a face, ignores me and then I get annoyed because he isn't paying attention to me. It's fun to be Josh when I am pregnant. Now I know why he travels.

Things overheard at the Brewers game

Josh, me, my sister and her boyfriend all attended a Brewers/Cardinals game this week. Josh and I were supposed to go with my parents, but they came down with Ebola or something and couldn't go. So they gave their tickets to Beth and Kevin.

These were the fun seats, too. We sat in the TGI Fridays Bullpen seats, which come with $38 per person in food and drinks. Thank you mom and dad! When we originally picked this game date way back in March, I had nary a clue I would be pregnant and not drinking my face off at this game. Unfortunately, my face remained in place as I was sober all night.

But I was not joined in sobriety by the other members of my party. Here are a few things I overheard during the game:

"I love Jason Kendall. I mean it's not like I want to make out with him or anything, but I would definitely hold his hand."
Said by a grown man with a total man-crush on the Brewers catcher.

"These Fat Tires totally have as much alcohol in them as those Long Islands. In fact, I think you should have another Long Island to catch up."
Umm, no.

"Do you think the carpet matches the drapes on Big Red (Seth McClung, red-haired Brewers relief pitcher)?"
This was the quote that inspired this whole entry. The people at the next table were enthralled with us. That and the fact we were being really loud so they couldn't help but look. With disdain.

"I think the bullpen catchers totally make league minimum."
You know what? They don't. They make $12,000 per season. We Googled at the table right after that. Apparently they're in it for the road beef, not the cash.

"These Long Islands are so good, I should dip my chicken fingers in them."
Aaaand, he did. Three times. I threw up in my mouth.

"I still have a sore leg from six weeks ago when I fell into the next row of seats during the polka."
What?

"That reminds me of the time I walked home from the Cubs game without any shoes on. That was after I was almost kicked out of the bleachers for yelling that the right-fielder sucked my ass."
I witnessed that one. High comedy. The yelling, not the barefoot-walking down city of Chicago sidewalks.

"Excuse me miss (to the waitress) but might you have a tablecloth I could wrap myself in?"
Dude, it was 60 degrees in July. The roof was open. It was like the frozen tundra out there.

"Prince Fielder (Brewers first baseman who is listed at 5'11" and 270 lbs. and is a self-proclaimed vegetarian) is the fattest vegan I have ever seen."
Seriously, the dude doesn't eat meat OR cheese and he's still that big? Something is amiss.

"Miss, I asked for a beer a while ago..."
As she points to the sweating beer glass RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM.

And yes, all those things were overheard at my table.

I am vacationing, yet blogging

You know how people who work outside the home (those who actually get PAID for their efforts) get vacation time? And they use it to take time off work and still bring home a paycheck? And usually they do different things on their vacations, not the same things they would be doing AT work?

Stay-at-home moms don't really get that kind of vacation. Oh, well, yes I DID go on that amazing child-free vacation to the Maldives this winter. But that was only 10 days. (Yep, I just said only. I am such an asshole sometimes.) Josh gets four weeks of vacation per year and he works a measly 40 hours per week. Pffft. I work 168 hours per week, without pay, mind you, and I got two weeks. I work four times as much as he does. Therefore, I should be getting 16 weeks off a year.

We spent this last week at the lake in Wisconsin with Josh's family. Let me first say I am incredibly lucky to have a mother and mother-in-law who don't mind getting up early with their grandchildren. My mother-in-law was with us this week and she got up with the kids most of the mornings, giving them breakfast and playing with them so Mommy and Daddy could get a little more sleep. Alleluia.

But even with help, vacations with the kids really aren't vacations. They're just regular life in another location, usually one that is not baby-proofed. We're still wiping butts, cleaning up spilled Cheerios, refereeing fights over toys and giving timeouts. But this week we got to do all of that with fresh air in our lungs and in a bedroom we're sharing with our 3-year-old. Oh and I did it with the added bonus of not being able to physically pick anyone up because of that pesky cerclage and its restrictions on lifting. Do you know how effective it is to send your kid to timeout without actually carrying him there? I can tell you, not very effective at all.

We're headed home tomorrow and I will be glad to get back. We're been away for nine days total because we stayed with my parents before we went to the lake. It's always nice to get away, but even nicer to come home. Home to our regular toys, our regular beds and our regular routines.

Now I am off to start planning an anniversary trip for the end of the month. Because after all this family time, I need a vacation. I guess Josh can come, too. If he promises I won't have to do the same wife stuff I have to do at home.

Now it's ON

Long-time readers will remember the hilarity that was Josh live-blogging Emmie's birth. Oh but he had a good time doing that. Not to mention the accolades that rained down from the blog heavens on his humor. He even quipped that he should start his own blog because he was just so funny. Mmmmhmmm.

Well lookee, lookee guess who up and got himself a blog of his own? Let me be the first to introduce you to Snarky Daddy.

I will let you form your own opinions, but I assure you, he is delusional. There's only one side of every story and that would be MY side.

Enjoy...

Celebrate your freedom

In our house, Emmie plans to spend the Fourth of July holiday celebrating her freedom from tyranny. Case in point:


Oh look, the two kids are sitting so nicely together! But that foot looks a little menacing...



Ohhhhhh shit, I better get out of the way. I am not going down like that.



Oh yeah? Here's a poke in the eye. How you like THAT, huh? HUH?



Hug it out bitches.



Aaaand we're back to sitting nicely. That was quick.

Happy Independence Day to you and yours. Hopefully you'll enjoy the long weekend, a small parade, some cold beers, a hot bratwurst and the annoying firecrackers that will go off outside your bedroom window for hours on end.

Skinned knees are fun

This is how Emmie has looked for the past few weeks:


The poor thing learned to run recently and now it's all she does. Except she thinks she's Marion Jones and not a 17-month-old who hasn't fully developed her sense of balance or the ability to watch where the hell she is going.

The nasty scab/gaping wound/MRSA-waiting-to-happen hole in her knee became a fixture on her leg last week at the park. I was not witness to this particular incident as I was dropping Jack off at camp, but Grandma said she took off running and had no sense to look where she was going and left the skin of her kneecap on the concrete. But she barely cried with that injury, thus proving my theory that having a brother beat the shit out of you for a year makes you a very tough little girl.

Things were fine until a few days later when she was playing in the basement and stumbled over one of the 54,000 toys we have down there. Right on to her knee. Which resulted in her scab being ripped off by the carpeting and blood pouring forth. That one earned her a Band-aid when she finally stopped crying. Except every time she looked down and saw the Band-aid, the crying started anew. Which was cute for a few minutes and then kinda annoying after an hour. I was like "Get over it sister. You've had worse happen. Remember when your head was slammed in the fridge? That's worthy of crying. This is nothing." Surprisingly, my buck-up speech did nothing for her outlook. Instead she crawled into my lap and laid with her head on my chest for a half-hour, sighing and burying her face every time she looked at her knee.

This past weekend she added the double-scraped shins to her repertoire when we attended a post-wedding brunch. She was having a delightful time climbing up and down the brick patio stairs. Until she slipped. And then the screaming ensued because she slipped right on the edge of the bricks, scraping both shins the entire way. Nothing is more fun at a wedding brunch than a screaming, bleeding kid! Although, what better form of birth control for a young, married couple?

I know her legs will likely look like this for years to come if she's anything like her mother and likes to play outside and run around and generally act crazy. But if we could avoid any more gaping wounds for the rest of the summer, that would be nice.

And just so he doesn't feel left out, here's a picture of Jack. He has plenty of bruises of his own to show off, but most notable would be the dark circles under his eyes. Those would be the result of yesterday's no-nap shenanigans coupled with his penchant for waking up before 6 a.m. every day.



I will spare you the pictures of my own dark circles, which are also a direct result of Jack's penchant for waking up before 6 a.m. every day. That is something no one should be subjected to.