When Irish eyes (aren't) smiling

Nine years ago today, I saw a cute guy with a glowing Miller Lite shamrock button across the bar. I wanted the button, he wanted my digits and the rest is history. So, if it wasn't for beer, these three little leprechauns wouldn't exist.

Happy St. Patrick's Day to everyone from me and my little pots of gold. And a happy meetiversary to Josh, the best thing that ever happened to me. Well, besides finding my new Hunter boots. Let's not be ridiculous.


Could they ever all smile at the same time again? Just once?

Tripping out

You all know how Josh has been traveling for work the last two months, leaving Monday nights and returning Friday evenings. Traveling away from his family. His family that includes a newborn. And a wife who wakes up multiple times per night to feed the newborn. Then gets up at 6 a.m. with the other two children. Then single-parents the three kids for four days.

You would think if he had some vacation time scheduled, he would spend it in Chicago giving his poor wife a break. OH BUT NO. You would be wrong.

Instead, he went on a snowboarding vacation with his friends. His single friends. You know, the ones who don't have wives at home who look like they got two black eyes in a bar fight because the undereye circles have gotten so bad from lack of sleep.

During a recent "discussion" about his trip, I told him I didn't know any other guys who leave their wife and kids for a mancation every year. Oh yes, this is a yearly occurrence, did I mention that? And it was slightly untrue, as I know of at least one friend who's husband went on a ski trip a few weeks ago while her pregnant self stayed home with their two kids. But sometimes you have to make the argument sound better than it is. And really, one friend out of all my friends is so statistically insignificant, it's not like it even warrants mentioning.

Also, it's not even just a guys "weekend" because he left on Wednesday night and comes back Sunday afternoon. Last I checked, a weekend consists of Friday, Saturday and Sunday.

Full disclosure: I gave him the plane ticket for Christmas. But only because that's the only thing he asked for. But this was before he knew he would be working out of town for three months. And before Maeve had actually arrived on the scene. I maintain that since he travels all week, it's pretty shitty to take a vacation away from us. And he keeps insisting that I am welcome to go on a girls weekend whenever I want. But I keep telling him I should get a girls weekend because I am here 24-7, not because he wants to feel equal in the trip department.

But now I ask you readers, does your spouse take a vacation away from you and the kids? If so, does it piss you off? And for the trifecta: does the spouse travel for work all week?

Sponge-worthiness

Still pregnant. Nothing new to report.

However, in keeping with the theme of posting about my marriage this week, I have yet another story to share about the joys of matrimony. I know, can you believe it? I mean Josh is perfect in every way so it is puzzling how these things keep cropping up.

I have a major major MAJOR pet peeve when it comes to the house. I can't stand sponges. They're unsanitary, they're disgusting when wet, they hold smells and the site of them makes me gag. As a general rule, I don't use them for anything. If I have to clean a pan, I grab some Barkeepers Friend and a rag and get it done. And on the bizarre and unlikely chance I do use one to shine the sink, I throw it away immediately. Out of sight, out of mind. Although I know in the back of my mind that its lurking in the garbage in all its slimy glory, so I quickly take the whole bag outside because my God, it could crawl out of the can and end up on my face in the middle of the night.

Despite my fear of zombie sponges, for some reason, we have a Costco-sized package under the sink. And Josh used one for God only knows what this morning before I got up. So when I came downstairs and grabbed a glass of water, I was greeted by a yellow and green damp piece of disgustingness on the bottom of the sink.

I told him the last time he did this (which was just last week) that it would be grounds for divorce if he did it again. Guess who was surprised when I served his ass the papers this morning? He can't say I didn't warn him. I believe I might have threatened to punch him in the face as well. Can't be sure on that, what with the pregnancy-induced amnesia, but it would be totally justified in any case.

Seriously. I am about to deliver his third child and he can't throw the damn sponge in the garbage? We have 11 billionty more under the sink, it's not like he needs to conserve. Plus, once you use a sponge, it gets all gross and nasty and germy, so why would you save it anyway? These are questions I do not have the answers to.

There is currently no task in this house I would consider "sponge-worthy" and I am thinking about blacklisting them completely. If nothing else, it could save my marriage. I don't want to have to raise three kids by myself because someone couldn't curb his sponge use. Really, you have to take a stand somewhere. This is mine.

You light up my life

Can someone please tell me what the purpose of putting our Christmas lights on a timer is if my husband is going to go outside and unplug them every night?

This weekend, my nearly-38-weeks-pregnant ass put up all the outdoor decorations BY MYSELF. Josh was inside on the computer. He did actually come outside for something when I was just about done and I asked him would he be a dear and throw the extension cord down over the porch so I could plug it in.

As I plugged it in, I looked up with excitement to see how very very pretty they were and instead saw Josh's smirk.

"Looks like they don't work," he said. "Did you test them?"

"No, I didn't test them," I hissed. "They worked just fine when I took them down last year. God damn it, now I have to go buy new ones and re-do them."

"Let me know how that works out for you," he said as he shut the door behind him.

One trip to CVS and four hours later, I was stringing the lights by myself again. This time in the dark. He's nothing if not consistent in his holiday decorating aversions. This time, I plugged the lights in first. And yes, they worked.

I proudly told him that I had plugged them into a timer. It was set to come on at 5 p.m. and shut off at 5 a.m. You know, the hours of darkness in Chicago.

Except Josh thinks the lights don't need to be on in the middle of the night. I disagree. I think if it's dark, they create a festive atmosphere. He thinks they ratchet up the electric bill. He has noooooo problem leaving his three laptops on all night, but two measly strings of Christmas lights and he's going all Al Gore on my ass.

Because he unplugs the lights every night, it means I have to go out and plug them IN every afternoon. And we all know how I loathe opening the front door to get the mail, so you can imagine how much I enjoy going outside to fish around for the end of the extension cord and reattach it to the lights.

This is what no one tells you about marriage. It's not for richer or for poorer, it's for annoying or more annoying. Now excuse me while I duct tape the extension cord to the lights so he can't possibly remove it.

Oh yeah, him

I totally forgot to tell you all that Josh is on a new project at work now. One that is LOCAL. As in, not out of town. As in he is home for dinner, bath and bedtime at night. He started two weeks ago, on the same day that Jack started school, but he was a little pissy I didn't give him the same attention that I gave my precious little boy.

For the first time in eight years, Josh is not traveling. I am not sure what to make of it, either. He has never had a local project in the time I have known him. Sure, I spent two years living with him in Bloomington, but that was us splitting time someplace and not really living full-time together in our house in Chicago.

I mean it's awesome and I am so excited to have him around, but it's kind of weird to have him around. How the hell can I complain about having soooo muuuuuch toooooo doooooo if he's here observing me all night? Like he's right there on the couch when I am aimlessly reading blogs and Facebook. And now he actually wants to watch a bunch of DVR'd TV series. I can't watch TV and be on the Internet, I need to focus on one media at a time.

And now I have to cook dinner and clean up the house every day. The hell? This is making my life somewhat more difficult, to be honest. But never fear, I am still bitching and moaning about being pregnant and having to do way more than I should be doing in my delicate condition. There's no way he's getting off without listening to that for a few more weeks.

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.

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...

Adios amigos

This has been a very trying week, to say the least. But it ended on a high note: both of the children were in bed, asleep, at 6:50 p.m. They have never in their lives gone to bed before 7 p.m., but because Jack took no nap and Emmie took only a morning nap and they both woke up before 7 this morning, this unprecedented step was necessary.

I thank everyone for their comments re: The Terrible Threes. Clearly, someone needs to get the word out that 3 sucks ass. It won't get better no matter what you do and you should just muddle through. Now we know why previous generations of stay-at-home moms were drinking at 4 in the afternoon.

So in honor of that, I plan to spend 10 days drinking during the day and not parenting my children. On Monday, Josh and I will jet off to the Maldives. We'll be staying here and to say I am excited would be an understatement. Seven days of relaxing, reading, lolling on beach chairs, snorkeling off our overwater bungalow and sleeping in.

We'll also do a two-day stop in Dubai on the way there and one day on the way back. I am pretending I'm just visiting a desert and not the Middle East. Because thinking about visiting the Middle East makes me a teeny bit nervous. I know, I know -- it's Dubai, not Gaza. But still. The white girl with the camera might look a little out of place.

So posting will be sporadic the next two weeks. I might feel compelled to post a picture of paradise, just because, but otherwise I am taking a vacation from blogging. I shall return March 6, rested and revitalized, which will be a big help for both my parenting and my creativity.

Pillow(top) talk

When we went to Ikea to buy Jack's big-boy bed this weekend, we went with a specific model in mind -- the Hemnes bed.


We liked the style, and we really liked the color. Josh and I like dark wood, and this fit our taste, so screw whatever the kid wants. There will be no racecar beds in this house.

But we didn't have a handle on what size bed we planned to buy. I was going in with the idea that we would buy the full-size bed, because he would grow into it and could keep it for many, many years. Also, Jack likes to sleep sideways in his crib, so I figured this would give him more room to do that without ending up on the floor every night. Josh was going in with the idea that a twin bed would fit better in his room and if we needed to buy him a bigger bed in 10 years, it was only an Ikea bed so we wouldn't break the bank buying another one later.

Unfortunately we didn't square either of our views with the other and debated the topic ad naseum in the bed section at Ikea while Jack ran around like a maniac, rolling on all the beds and throwing himself on the floor.

After the 30th incarnation of "Well I don't know, what do you think?" Josh threw down the gauntlet.

"If we get the full size, we're definitely not having another kid," he said.

I'm sorry, what? Did you just base our future reproductive decisions on an IKEA BED FRAME? I mean I like self-assembled Swedish furniture as much as the next person, but oh my holy hell, you must me kidding me.

His reasoning was that if we have a third child, then the same-sex children would share Jack's current room. Our fourth and fifth bedrooms are in the lowest level of the house, two floors away from our bedroom, and the distance makes us uneasy when it comes to kids sleeping down there. Two full-size beds and two dressers in his room would be quite cramped, but that's also a whole lot of years down the road.

In typical Amy fashion, I got a little huffy with him and said he was ridiculous and I couldn't believe that we were having that discussion in the Ikea bedroom department.

"And I am telling you right now, I AM SO BLOGGING ABOUT THIS," I announced.

That got a smirk out of him. But he stood his ground.

We came home with the twin bed, in case you were wondering.

Thanks, but no thanks

I have decided the milestone I am most looking forward to with these children is not going off to school or getting braces or driving a car. It's the ability to write their own thank-you notes.

I swore after we got married and had an engagement party, three showers and a wedding with a 475-person guest list that I would never write another thank-you note as long as I lived. Because Josh never wrote ONE. I wrote all of them. Myself. His excuse before the wedding: I had better handwriting than him. His excuse later was that he was working on the wedding website so I had to do the thank-yous.

But then we had babies. And lots of people send you gifts for that. Which is awesome. But I had to write them all again, by myself, because SOMEONE said I was the one on maternity leave with Jack and not working outside the home with Emmie and had all this time to get it done. Clearly he never tried to write with a small person latched on your boob for hours on end.

Now the kids have the birthday parties where they get lots of gifts and guess who's writing the thank-you notes again? That would be the stay-at-home mom. You know, the one with all the time on her hands.

Tonight when I dug Emmie's stationary out to send her birthday notes, only two weeks after her party, I found three thank-you notes in my bag that were from gifts she was given when she was born. Oh yes, shitty mom that I am, I wrote the notes but put them in my bag and never sent them. So those are going in the mail a year later. Better late than never, I suppose.

Next year, I might just give them both a pen and paper and let them scribble something and send them out like that. I will still have to address them, but at least I won't have to come up with the text.

Hap-happiest time of the year

Oh my lord am I wiped out and Christmas is still three days away.

This past weekend we had a family wedding, so that meant a rehearsal dinner on Friday, ceremony and reception on Saturday and brunch on Sunday. It was also Josh's family Hannukah party right after the brunch. Then we went to my sister-in-law's house for dinner on Sunday night. After we got home from that, I wrapped all our presents for two hours before falling into bed.

Jack slept over at Grandma and Grandpa's house last night, but I realized this morning I should have suggested Emmie go instead because at least you can get stuff done with Jack around because he'll either help or play nicely by himself. Emmie just crawls around behind me when I am getting stuff done and screeches until I pick her up or play with her. It makes me feel quite popular, but also a little creeped out because I now have a second shadow.

After cleaning two bathrooms and the kitchen, doing some laundry, packing everything for Josh's family Christmas, arranging all the presents for our family under the tree, buying all the ingredients for Christmas morning breakfast (since we won't be home until the late hours of Christmas Eve and grocery store options are non-existent the next morning) and getting all the presents in order for my family's Christmas, I finally packed clothes and whatnot for all of us and packed up the car. Yes, by myself. Someone was working.

The last thing I had to do was make the ice cream pie to take to my family's Christmas dinner on Thursday. I needed to let the ice cream soften (Baskin Robbins' hand-packed Mint Chocolate Chip, the pre-pack tastes totally different, so it's worth the extra cash) and then spread it around in one of those pre-made Oreo cookie crusts. I am fancy like that. As I tried to brush some of the loose crumbs into the sink, the whole crust slid out and smashed into a million pieces. All righty then. I ran to the store to get another one, thus delaying our departure and Emmie's nap. And of course, they didn't have any. So now I am just going to take the half-gallon of ice cream and six spoons -- Merry F-ing Christmas, you'll eat it and like it.

As usual, things are crazy and go-go-go and I am pretty sure we had three fights just getting out of the damn house. Apparently I should learn to walk through doors instead of opening them and leaving them propped open as I carry all the presents and luggage and computer bags and diaper bags and portable high chairs and snacks outside to the car BY MYSELF when it's 2 degrees. But I digress.

What's your holiday preparation schedule looking like?

Wok's up?

When we remodeled our kitchen three years ago, I remember picking out the cabinets and planning the layout and being so freaking excited that we would have a refridgerator again. You know, after living with a college fridge for six months, it's the little things that excite you.

Because we had never unpacked the kitchen accoutrements after moving in, I had kind of forgotten what we had in all those boxes stacked floor-to-ceiling throughout the whole dining room. Plus the whole lying-flat-on-back-for-four-months-trying-to-keep-the-baby-in-me thing happened during that time, so I was a little distracted by that.

Once the cabinets were installed and the island was finished and we were able to start unpacking our stuff and moving it in, I realized we were in big, big trouble. We didn't have enough cabinet space for all the stuff. Somehow, 13 cabinets was not enough to pack it all in. We had to buy a sideboard for all our china and an additional armoire-type thing for the rest of the crap.

Even with all that, we still don't have enough room. With the recent conversion and remodeling, we lost a huge cabinet in the kitchen that used to hold our liquor and other appliances. But we gained some storage in the basement, so that's where the breadmaker and icecream maker now live. It made my stomach hurt to put them there, because I am one of those weird OCD people who like all "kitchen" things grouped together, you know, in the KITCHEN. Or at least the nearby dining room.

The food processor and slow cooker had taken up residence in the laundry closet, which is located off of the kitchen. I use those two things enough to need them nearby, but not enough to earn them cabinet space. Because, you see, I need a lot of that precious cabinet space for the wok.

This wok is the bane of Josh's existence and could very well be a contributing factor if he ever serves me with divorce papers. Right there next to "irreconcilable differences" it will say "wok storage." You see, I put this wok on our wedding registry, excited about the prospect of making stir-fry. I had never made stir-fry before, but damn it, I was going to now that we were married! Except, yeah, I never made any stir-fry. And I have yet to take it out of its very pretty, pretty wood storage box. Every few months when I whine about not having enough storage space, Josh threatens to get rid of the wok and I shriek and throw my body in front of the cabinet to shield it, and we all go back to our storage-challenged existence until the next time we have this chat.

So because I need to keep my wok within reach, my food processor sits on top of my stacked washer and dryer in the closet. Today, I was making homemade applesauce -- why yes, I am Betty Crocker, thank you for asking -- and I needed it. I am not a short woman, but at 5-foot 4-inches tall, I am not above needing a stepladder on occasion, either. As I reached above my head to grab the food processor, I realized I would have to move it around a piece of copper pipe that was in the way. (Yes, the laundry closet also contains our furnace. And water heater. I told you we were storage-challenged.)

As I moved it around the pipe, I realized it was much heavier than I remembered. It crashed to the ground, on my foot, narrowly missing MY FACE. Yes, the blade of the food processor was millimeters away from not only my nose, but also my eyeball. How I escaped death, or horrible disfigurement, I have no idea.

Josh ran upstairs thinking the termites had finally gotten the best of us and caused the collapse of the entire house, only to find me looking down at the various blades that could have caused my untimely death.

Do you think he was concerned for my welfare or even his own at that point, because he would have had to pretend I was still a MILF with a big jagged scar on my face? Nope. He took one look at me and as he headed back downstairs, said, "I told you that you should have gotten rid of that wok."

Lollapalooza and other fun

It's been a whirlwind couple of days.

Thursday: Our fourth anniversary and a dinner at Charlie Trotter's. For the cost of our dinner, we could have flown someplace and stayed in a hotel. But since we had a gift certificate for 2/3 of the cost, our house-poor asses got to eat at one of the top 50 restaurants in the world. Which, incidentally, is a mere six blocks from our home. We saved on cab fare!

Friday: Lollapalooza. We saw The Black Keys, The Raconteurs and Radiohead. We are HUGE Radiohead fans and it was amazing to see them with 75,000 other people with the Chicago skyline in the background. Afterward, we headed over to the Hard Rock Hotel where we had VIP passes to the Music Lounge (big shout out thanks to reader Ed and BMF Media). We're cool like that. We drank some free booze and hung out and got home at the rock-star hour of 3 a.m.

Saturday: Morning massage, lunch at the Music Lounge, Chicago architecture boat cruise, 6:30 showing of "The Dark Knight" and then we partied with Lindsay Lohan and Sam Ronson at the Music Lounge until 3 a.m. Lindsay asked me to make out, I politely declined. OK, maybe it was more like Lindsay sat to the side of the stage texting while she looked in our general direction with a curious expression on her face. But hey, her presence 15 feet from me was documented in People online today!

Sunday: Lunch at Fat Willy's barbecue joint, a trip to Home Depot to buy paint for the new basement and the drive from Chicago to Milwaukee to Peoria to wrap the weekend up. You can see we went from club-goers to parents in the blink of an eye. We're in Peoria this week while we anxiously await the completion of the remodeling. They assure me the house should be done by Thursday.

It was an exhausting, fun, crazy weekend that reminded us how we used to be three years ago. You would think we slept in and got plenty of rest in our child-free weekend, but you would be wrong. Well, one of us slept in. One of us had to get up and pump before that person's boobs exploded every morning. I will let you guess who that was.

Happy birthday Josh!

Josh is 33 now. And I gave him a video game for his birthday. What's wrong with this picture?

He celebrated his big day with jury duty -- and of course, with his stellar luck, he was actually chosen to sit on a jury. I told him he should live blog it, but he thought they might frown upon that.

And of course, he can't tell me anything about his case. They must have known I have a big mouth and like to talk about crazy shit on my blog. That, or it's the standard procedure for sitting on a jury. I wonder if the judge is a longtime reader? Perhaps he came across it while searching for incompetent cervix or potty training conversation.

Undaunted by his silence on the matter, we celebrated the rest of his night with presents, cupcakes and an adults-only trip to Ravinia, an outdoor concert venue in the burbs. We had a picnic of sushi and beer and listened to a one-handed pianist. Seriously, he only played with his left hand. It was crazy. And then we were eaten alive by mosquitos who weren't fazed by our organic citronella bug spray.

Happy birthday to you, now put some calamine lotion on those bites.

That's me in the spotlight

The smile and the smirk

I haven't posted a picture of the kids in awhile, so there ya go. I got nothing else of note.

Wait yes I do! My husband surprised me with tickets to the REM concert on Friday night, and it was so much fun. We drank beer and had fun and then we went out to some bars. It was like we didn't even have kids! But then we came home and Emily was squawking for the boob and I remembered we definitely did have kids.

No scratching here

Today is St. Patrick's Day, and with me and the children being Irish, we're celebrating by wearing green and shamrocks. Josh, not so much with the Irish and since he left at the unGodly hour of 6:45 a.m., I couldn't tell you what he was wearing.


Hello, two children are impossible to corral at the same time

So I am wearing green. The kids are wearing shamrocks. Well, actually, Emmie was wearing shamrocks and then she pooped out the back of the onesie and I had to wash the outfit and dry it and dress her all over again just to get that picture. That is commitment people!

But there's another kind of commitment we're celebrating today. On this very day, seven years ago, I met Josh at a bar called Sheffields. I wouldn't call it love at first sight -- I refused to even give him my home phone number, instead proferring my business card. My sister even deleted his number out of my cell phone in the cab on the way home. But he e-mailed me a picture he took of us that night the next week. And I was all "Hey, that random guy from the bar e-mailed me. And he's cute!"

I was coming off a bad breakup where the guy's previous girlfriend DIED. As in I was the first girl he dated, two years later. How you like them apples? It was doomed. But clearly, it was not meant to be. And because things happen for reasons, I was crying in the bar bathroom over Dead Girlfriend Guy and came out only to bump into Josh. He had a glow-in-the-dark shamrock button and I wanted it so my sister told him he should give it to me. After one of my first questions to him was "So what do you do?" -- he still maintains that was a snotty question -- we chatted awhile and then he left. Without even saying goodbye.

Fast forward seven years. Here we are, happily married with two beautiful children. I still don't know what he does, and he still thinks I am snotty sometimes.

I'm not scratching any seven-year itch and I am so glad he is in my life. He works hard and travels, which while I bitch and moan about it all the time, allows me to stay at home with the kids. Our lifestyle is only possible because of all the hard work he does, and I know I don't say thank you to him enough.

He buys me flowers and drives out of his way in the cold to get me Dairy Queen mint oreo blizzards. He is a great father and always knows what's wrong with my computer and how to fix it. He does little things like showing me shortcuts in Photoshop and setting up a page just for all the blogs I read every day in Google. He rubs my back, sometimes even without me asking, and holds my hand when doctors are digging stitches out of my cervix. He plans our awesome vacations and finds the best deals on stuff and always, ALWAYS reminds me that you can get it cheaper online. He is caring, generous, funny, smart and oh-so-devastatingly handsome. Although his T-shirts do look a little small ... I wonder who put those in the dryer?

I am so thankful today that I had to wash the tears off my face in that bar. I look at my husband and my children and I know it all happened for a reason. The luck of the Irish was surely with me that St. Patrick's Day.

Now I am THAT Mommy

Today I took Jack and Emmie to the park, as I have several times recently. It's been so nice the last few days and we try to get them outside in the morning and the afternoon for the fresh air. Jack runs around like a maniac and Emmie is happy to sleep in the stroller or the sling. Win-win for everyone.

Until today.

Today, I was playing with Jack on the equipment, trying to make sure he didn't fall off the 5-foot-high rock wall (seriously, who builds these death traps?) when I noticed two moms peeking into my stroller.

How nice, I thought. They must be taking a look at the cute new baby.

Except then I noticed they were looking around. And asking nearby women something, only to have those women shake their heads nervously.

Then it finally hit me -- holy shit, that baby must be crying. And that baby would belong to ... me. Me, the Mommy 15 feet away who is ignoring it.

I rushed over to the stroller and as I got closer, I could hear her cries. Now she wasn't hysterical or anything, but she was certainly not pleased. And the two moms were shooting looks of death at me and I said, "Yes, she's mine. I thought I would hear her, but obviously not." I followed up with a lighthearted, "I'm the bad Mommy!" and a sickly smile and the one mom walked away and the other stared at me and said, "Well, we didn't know what to do."

Come on now. I was 15 FEET away from the stroller. I could see it the entire time. In fact, that's how I knew they were looking in the stroller in the first place. I guess I didn't anticipate the sound would not carry in my direction. Well, that and the fact I didn't think she would wake up and cry.

So I came home to tell my caring, sensitive-to-my feelings husband what happened. I started to get a little upset when I was telling him what happened and how shitty I felt. Only to have him reply, "What were you thinking? You should NEVER leave her alone in the stroller. I would never have done that."

Wow, apparently superparent extraordinaire has 50 hands and eyes in the back of his head and supersonic hearing, rendering him much more capable than I of supervising our children at the park.

This after he announced he would do his own wash earlier this week because he was annoyed I was putting his T-shirts in the dryer. You can add laundry to the list of things in which he excels.

So please hold your applause when they announce the winner of the 2008 Bad Mommy Award. I will have a speech all ready, but I am sure they will cue the music and cut me off. It will have something to do with the best of intentions and the pavement on the road to hell.

Not a good day

Number of times Jack smacked Emmie: 4 (all within 10 minutes)

Number of times Jack hit Emmie with a broom: 1 (he reached over the pack-n-play to poke her, right in the eye too)

Number of times Jack hit Daddy: 1 (during dinner, with a spoon; dinner ended quickly thereafter)

Number of times Jack dropped a lamp on Mommy: 1 (before naptime, on the head)

Number of times Mommy lost her shit with Daddy today: Too many to count (SERIOUSLY)

Number of keys Jack pulled off Daddy's brand-new laptop: 2 (of course, Mommy's fault, see above)

Number of times Emmie cried and insisted on being held: 27 (approximately every time we tried to put her down)

Number of inches of slush and snow Mommy shoveled: 3 (it was early on during the storm)

Number of beers Mommy consumed at the end of the day: 1 (and it should have been more)

Shaking my fist at the sky

Remember yesterday when I said I wasn't having very many contractions? Apparently the Gods of Childbirth decided to stick it to me and I have been cursed with them since last night.

Not non-stop, but enough of them to be annoying and some of them are starting to get a little painful. I am trying to ignore those. I like to think I am doing a good job as I managed to get through Gymboree class this morning and then took Jack to lunch and am now running several loads of laundry up and down the stairs.

Last night's contractionfest started around 9 p.m. My husband, conveniently out drinking with his friends, was instructed to ANSWER THE DAMN PHONE if I call him and not to drink too much. I can't be taking a drunkard into Labor & Delivery, not to mention the fact he needs to drive me there. (His solution: We could take a cab! My solution: How about I punch you in the face!)

I called him after I had about four contractions, 10 minutes apart. You know, just to keep him in the loop. No answer. I call again. No answer. I wait a while, call again. You can see where this is going.

TWO HOURS LATER he finally sees he has about eleventy-hundred missed calls from Home and calls me. Apologizing profusely, saying he could not understand why the phone was not vibrating. "Oh," he said sheepishly. "That would be because it's not on vibrate. I'm sorry."

Stuff your sorrys in a sack mister.

He asked should he come home, I said probably not, thinking they were not real anyway. I told him to just answer the phone when I call. With that he announced he would be home in a little while because he did not think they would be staying out that late. It was about 11:15 p.m. when we had this conversation and I went to sleep immediately afterward.

AT 1:30 HE ROLLS IN TO THE BEDROOM. Can you tell I am so pleased with this?

So after all that, I have a few more during the night and then a few more this morning and afternoon and here we are. I imagine there will be a slight change to my dilation by Monday with all this activity, but I am not convinced I will be in labor any time soon.

Mr. Josh Goes to Pasedena

Yesterday I promised to tell the story of how my husband ended up going to the Rose Bowl when I was 36 weeks pregnant, also known as, "Why I Am The Greatest Wife Ever."

When the University of Illinois was selected to play in the Rose Bowl way back in November, a good friend of ours was visiting and he and Josh were talking about going to the game. Because I have a photographic recall of all calendar days during my pregnancy, I instantly laughed heartily because I knew I would be 36 weeks on New Year's Eve and there was no way in hell he was flying across the country when I could go into labor.

He told me that night, "But it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!" Nevermind the fact that really isn't true, it was a pretty weak argument. I thought about it for a day or two, however, and after realizing I would still have my cerclage, decided the chances of me going into labor would be really low.

I walked upstairs, grabbed him by the shoulders and said, "Merry Christmas, you can go. Have a good time." He was thrilled, until he heard the caveat that went with it. I told him he could either go to the Rose Bowl now or to London to see his friend in the spring. But it was one or the other.

As an aside, it's not like I "let" him do anything. But I find it unfair he would get two expensive trips, by himself, not to mention leaving me with the two kids after being gone all week at work if he went to London. So of course I had to raise a huge stink about it.

Suddenly, his "once-in-a-lifetime" experience wasn't so exciting anymore.

"I would rather go to the London," he said. I'm sorry, what? He's been to London like 10 times, most recently two months ago. Why on earth he needs to go again is beyond me. So we left it at him saying he was doing both and that I could come to London too! Except hi, I have to take my boobs with me to London and the new baby will be breastfeeding and leaving for a week is just not an option.

So he booked a flight for New Year's morning so he could spend New Year's Eve with me and is scheduled to fly home tomorrow night. He got his fun little trip (Funny, he also went on a fun little trip with friends when I was 35 weeks pregnant with Jack. I am sensing a trend.) and I stayed home. I like football. I like the Rose Bowl. But the airlines, they do not like the 36-week pregnant ladies so much.

Seriously, how many women in this stage of pregnancy would encourage this behavior? Not many. But this is why I am the Greatest Wife EVER.