Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be hillbillies

June 28, 2005

The scene: The Drama Queen and Miss Attitude are showing off their new “handshake,” a complicated piece of choreography, featuring hand grasps, dance moves, and the shouting of “You go, sistah!” and “You rock, sistah!”, when The Drama Queen stops to add yet another step. Once they get the new move worked in, and practice the whole shebang – once again – from beginning to end, The Drama Queen turns to me and says, “Look, Mom! We learned up a new part!”

Dear God, I love living in Small Town, Texas, but please don’t let my babies grow up to be hicks. Amen.


Role Reversal (Alternate Title: Nothing makes a woman feel more helpless than watching someone she loves writhing in pain in the emergency room.)

June 25, 2005

So, yeah. He’s okay now. But Holy Shit, that was scary.

I got to work at 8:05 yesterday morning. My phone rang at 8:10. Deputy Dad said, “I need you to come home RIGHT NOW. Something’s wrong with me. I don’t know what it is.”

Long story short, Deputy Dad passed a kidney stone at the hospital yesterday morning. He’s fine now – working tonight, even, – but I was absolutely terrified when we didn’t know what was wrong with him.

Rather than go through the long, drawn-out details of the whole ordeal, I’ll just share a few random observations:

  • I’ve always heard that passing a kidney stone is the closest a man can come to experiencing the pain similar to what a woman goes through during labor and childbirth. I believe it now.
  • I got my first taste of what Deputy Dad must have been feeling each time I was going through labor. Watching someone you love in so much pain1, and not being able to do anything about it, is the most helpless feeling in the world.
  • Helping my husband pee through a STRAINER turned out to be a curious combination of humbling and amusing, especially since Deputy Dad was DRUGGED TO THE GILLS.
  • When Deputy Dad finally gave birth passed the kidney stone, I named it Dagwood.2 He didn’t look a thing like me. I’m very suspicious.
  • They wouldn’t let us bring Dagwood home. Something about unfit parents or lab analysis or some other such nonsense.
  • After Deputy Dad passed the stone, the pain subsided almost immediately. He spent the rest of the day sleeping off the drugs, and was MUCH better today. Except for his back being a little sore, all of his parts are in perfect working condition. I thoroughly inspected and tested them myself this afternoon. TWICE.
  • I am so relieved that the Love of My Life is okay. I can’t begin to describe the fear and panic of seeing him in so much pain and not knowing what was wrong. Words are not enough to express to you how much I love this man. He is my partner, my friend, my lover, the father of my children, my soul mate, my One True Love. Thank God he’s alright.

1Three births. No epidurals. ‘Nuff said.

2Dagwood is – I shit you not – the boy name Deputy Dad had picked out when I was pregnant with Miss Attitude. (We didn’t know the sex – with her or The Drama Queen – until they were born.) I swore to myself – for the sake of my unborn child – that I would not leave him alone with the birth certificate application.

It’s a Major Award!

June 23, 2005

Okay, actually it’s just a movie ticket.

But hey! I won something! Just by Googling!

This has to be kalki and mrtl‘s vision of heaven…actually being rewarded for Googling.

So hi! They said I won! So I submitted my name and address, and one of two things will happen now: (a) Blingo will send me a free movie ticket; or (b) a menacing, shadowy figure will show up at my doorstep prepared to beat the holy living hell out of me.

If you, too, would like to win free stuff for Googling and/or put your personal safety in jeopardy, you can sign up here:

Join Blingo Friends with me!

Big Boy 12-Month Newsletter

June 22, 2005

Dear Big Boy:

Last Wednesday you turned 12 months old. That’s right, Little Man, you’re one year old now. I’ve been waiting to write your newsletter until after your checkup today, so I’d have your big boy measurements. You now weigh 21 pounds, 13 ounces; and you’re 29 1/2 inches tall. That means, in the last 12 months, you’ve gained 13 pounds, 11 ounces; and you’ve grown 9 1/2 inches in height. You’ve also grown 4 clothing sizes, 3 diaper sizes, and 2 shoe sizes. It’s time to slow down, Son.

We had a big birthday blowout on Saturday. Your daddy even decorated your cake for you.

We showered you with gifts and stuffed you full of cake and ice cream. I don’t think you’ve ever been so FULL. After your second piece of cake, your eyes glazed over and you were sort of semi-catatonic, staring wistfully into space (perhaps wondering WHERE that chocolate frosting had been all your life?).

You’ve been a busy boy in the past month. And when I say “busy,” I mean YOU WILL NOT SIT STILL. Several times a day, every day, your daddy and I will look at you, then look at each other, and one of us will say, “He’s SO BUSY.” You never stop, Son, whether you’re playing with your toys, putting them in the toy box, and taking them out, putting them in, taking them out; or cruising around the furniture nonstop; or pulling the plastic mixing bowls out of the cabinet, unstacking and restacking them, unstacking and restacking; or “helping” me fold the laundry by taking clothes out of the basket, and putting them in, taking them out, putting them in, ad infinitum. I’ve never seen a baby who stays so busy ALL THE TIME.

You haven’t started walking just yet, – you’re still working on your balance – but you’re cruising around the furniture so quickly – almost running! – that I constantly worry about you tumbling over, face-first onto the floor. You’re pulling up on EVERYTHING now, and taking great delight in discovering new things you aren’t supposed to play with. We keep moving and rearranging everything, but you seem to have some sort of Stretch Armstrong-like qualities, being able to tiptoe and reeeeeach to get to…well, pretty much whatever you WANT to get to. I’m interested to know if you possess any OTHER superhero-like abilities? The power to turn vegetables into an ultra-healthy, fat-free, decadent chocolate concoction would come in handy for BOTH of us.

Speaking of healthy…you had your very first Happy Meal today. Such a milestone, don’t you think? Right up there with cutting your first tooth or getting your first tattoo. (It’s a joke, Son. NO tattoos, you hear me?)

Before your birthday party on Saturday, you had your very first haircut. I had been DREADING getting your hair cut, and putting it off, because every baby boy I’ve ever seen no longer looked like a baby after that first haircut. They all looked like big boys afterward. And (*sigh*) you were no exception. With just a few quick snips, you were transformed from a baby to a big boy. Even though I knew it would happen that way, my heart still hurt a little at yet another reminder of how quickly you’re growing up.

And you ARE growing up, Little One. You’ve finally (Praise the Lord and knock on wood) started sleeping better. For the past three weeks or so, you’ve been sleeping through the night, usually waking only once, sometime between 4:30 and 6:30, and then nursing and going back to sleep. You’re even napping well – sometimes – and often waking up very chipper, and jabbering to yourself for a few minutes before we come in to get you. Your daddy and I are SO THANKFUL that you’re not getting up eleventy hundred times a night anymore; but we’re almost afraid to breathe a sigh of relief and declare that you are, indeed, sleeping through the night, for fear that you’ll revert to your wicked old ways again.

Your vocabulary is slowly expanding. You can now say, “Ma-ma,” “Da-da,” “Dis” (this), and “Boo-Boo” (Nanny and Poppy’s dog’s name); and you can almost say “Kitty” (it sounds like “key”). You can also sign “milk,” but Mom and Dad haven’t been consistent enough for you to have caught on to the signs for “eat” and “more” yet. We’ll have to work on those.

Your current favorite activities are keeping yourself busybusybusy all the time, chasing Nanny and Poppy’s dog and cat (You are absolutely mesmerized at those furry, four-legged creatures.), and touching my and your sisters’ hair.

About the hair ‘thing’, Son…WHAT is up with that? You’ve been fascinated with my hair for months now, pulling at it, playing with it, chewing on it. But now? Well, your fascination seems to have turned into a fetish. You often put both of your hands behind my hair, then put your face in your hands, and turn your head back and forth, rubbing your face in my hair over and over, making a “buh-buh-buh” sound. It’s a little weird. It’s also very cute. You like to rub your face in your sisters’ long hair, too, and grab their ponytails when they turn their backs to you. But you get mad if I wear MY hair in a ponytail. You’ll pick and grab at it, until I finally pull it down for you; then you start rubbing your face in it again. I’m hoping you’ll outgrow this pretty soon. Otherwise I may have to warn your prom date: “Beware. He may look like he’s leaning in for a goodnight kiss, but he’s really going for THE HAIR!” In the meantime, though, it IS kinda sweet that touching my hair comforts you when you’re upset.

Big Boy, I’m still reeling from the irrefutable fact that you’ve been around for one whole year now. I could just SWEAR the calendar cheated us somehow. I mean, of COURSE I want you to grow and change and mature and learn new things and develop new skills and abilities….I just wish it didn’t have to happen so FAST. I’m just not ready for my last baby to be such a big boy. I must remember to hold on to each moment, to take notice of how you look, sound, smell, in this moment. Right here, right now, before it’s gone with all the rest.

Updated to add: The above photo was altered in Paint Shop Pro using the Dooce effect. My apologies for not including the link in the original post.

I love you, my Big Boy, my Little Man.


Nest-door neighbors

June 21, 2005

A photo of our new neighbors:

Actually, I’m not sure these guys are far enough away from our front door to be considered neighbors. They’re more like squatters.

Mama Bird and Papa Bird were angry that I was up on a step-ladder, getting a close-up shot of their quintuplets.
I was – no joke – a little afraid they might dive-bomb me as I was snapping pictures.

These birds have set up housekeeping on our front porch every spring and fall, for the past two or three years. They slowly start building a nest, and Deputy Dad knocks it down or washes it away. Then they start slowly building again, and Deputy Dad obliterates it again. This happens every few days for a while, then BOOM! Overnight, the little beasts have built their nest and Mama Bird has laid her eggs. Then we’re stuck with it until after the eggs hatch and the babies leave, and we can once again knock that sucker down.

Now. Before you start in about how mean it is to knock down the nest, and how cute baby birds are, blahblahblah, allow me to present Exhibit A, to show you WHY we have such an aversion to having a bird’s nest on the front porch:

Yeah. NOW you understand? THAT’S JUST NASTY. And if you’d ever had the displeasure of looking out your front door at just the wrong moment, and seeing a baby bird turn around, stick his baby bird butt over the edge of the nest, and take a gigantic baby bird DUMP on your front porch, you’d be knocking the damn nest down, too.

Further proof that giving birth to three children has made me mildly retarded

June 20, 2005

We stopped by the in-laws’ house Saturday morning, on our way home from the salon, to show off Big Boy’s new haircut.

When we walked into the living room, I did what I always do; I slipped off my sandals in the corner of the room.

As I sat down on the couch, Mother-In-Law said, with a look of bewilderment on her face, “Are you…Are you wearing two different shoes?”

I looked down at my bare feet, thinking she’d really lost it, and replied, “I’m not wearing ANY shoes.”

Again the bewildered look, as she glances over at my sandals and back at me. “No, I mean…ARE YOU WEARING TWO DIFFERENT SANDALS?”

I follow her gaze to the sandals I had casually slipped off.


The whole time…THE WHOLE TIME we were getting Big Boy’s hair cut, I was wearing mismatched sandals. I mean, these two sandals don’t even come CLOSE to resembling each other.

You know what? Just lemme grab my camera and recreate it for you…


Yeah. You see? NOT EVEN CLOSE. The one on the left has a firmer sole, and the one on the right is more squishy and rubbery. THEY DON’T FEEL THE SAME. What the hell is wrong with me?

You’d think I would’ve noticed something when I was WALKING in the stupid things. They’re not even the same HEIGHT:

But no. I took my son for his first haircut, met the hairdresser for the first time (Good Lord, there’s no telling what she thought.), and all the while I looked like I was on a weekend pass from the looney bin.

I blame this on Deputy Dad. He should know by now I can’t be trusted with any task that requires more than two brain cells.

Yes, apparently dressing myself IS one of those tasks.


Missing: One Baby Boy

June 18, 2005

All I know is this…

This morning we walked into a salon, proudly carrying our baby son.

By the time we left, someone had made off with our baby and left us with a little boy.




{I should note that the hairdresser was very sweet and accomodating, managing to complete a super-cute “little boy cut,” even though her target was constantly moving. The fact that she didn’t lop off one of Big Boy’s perfect little ears scores her major points in my book.}