Santa WTF

Who doesn't thoroughly enjoy a bad Santa pic? I confess that I was a bit disappointed this year that Milo actually didn't cry when he was placed on Santa's lap (and Ella flat out refused to go near him). I was really hoping for another screaming Santa pic. Thankfully, I was able to enjoy a good laugh at others expense with some of these treasures, so I thought I would post a few. Enjoy!










"He sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake...."









Look like somebody already knew how to make the yuletide gay.










"Shhh....I hid the under-eye concealer...."












{whispers} "He's an angry elf."












If anything every qualified for a big, fat W.T.F- this is it, folks.












Don't everyone get too excited now...















Angela suspected he wasn't the REAL Santa Claus, but she just couldn't put her finger on why..."














Santa, the Joker and Jon from Jon and Kate +8 got together and made a kid. Ta-Da!

When Irish Eyes Are...Unexpected

Something fun happened to me last week. I went to the grocery store by myself. Holla! But wait, there's more. I was standing in the produce section eyeing the watermelons and cantaloupes when I was startled by someone saying my name- in an Irish accent, no less. And suddenly there he was. No, not Colin Farrell. (Damn!) Far from it. It was my gynecologist. Several thoughts hit me at once. First- this guy is 65 years old and he has a better memory than I do. Especially considering he's used to seeing his patients with little to no clothes on. Second- the last time he saw me, he wasn't exactly looking at my face the entire time, begging the question of whether I should be even more impressed with his memory or that much more mortified. And third- we were standing by the melons. Yep. The irony was almost stronger than the overwhelming urge to squeeze my legs as close together as possible.

It's akin to being a kid and seeing one of your teachers when you're out shopping (but without the memories of cold hard steel up your lady biz). I remember running into my second grade teacher at the grocery store one day and I was awestruck. Teachers actually left school? They had to buy groceries too?? What did they eat? Did that mean they went to movies too? Maybe they actually had lives other than flashcards and spelling tests and report cards. So that day in Kroger, I was jarred not only by the fact that had I just run into a man who had seen parts of me that my husband hasn't even seen (nor does he want to), but also that he was out and about like a normal guy. Without the white coat and scrubs and without all the questions about my cervix. And his cart wasn't, in fact, full of speculums and KY-Jelly like I assumed it would be. (I know because I stole a quick glance). Apparently, he likes watermelon and cheese and cereal. I'm guessing he might even like to go to Target and buy senseless crap because, well, it's Target. He, too, has a life outside of fundal measurements and stirrups and commanding women to push.

So how does one end an awkward run-in like this? "See you, uh, at my next pap smear...?" Probably not. Suffice it to say, I was relieved when he ended it for me with a simple, "enjoy those babies."

Of course. The two culminations of the numerous bodily violations that occurred in suite 500 of our hospital were now sitting at home waiting for me. And that, is a good feeling.

I Just Need to Get This Off My Scale (I mean, "chest")

I don't consider myself to be an overachiever. In the academic realm, I regret now that I only allowed myself to simply "get by" with A's and B's. I knew even then that I could do better, but I was much too concerned with being a social butterfly. Musically, I've always been more of a perfectionist, but even then, I was never driven to the top of the class, and while I did set (and achieve) my own personal standards, they by no means included holing myself up in a practice room for 8 + hours a day. There does, however, appear to be one area in my life where I love to show off: weight gain during pregnancy. Apparently, I pull out all stops and it's no holds barred between implantation and D-day.

I say "apparently," because this kind of weight gain came as a shock to me. I can vividly remember sitting in my OB's office at our first prenatal appointment when I was pregnant with Ella. When I asked how much weight I could expect to put on, my doctor matter of factly said, "oh, probably a good 30 lbs." I almost keeled over at even the thought of that much weight and silently vowed right then and there that I would not gain 30 lbs. No way. And as luck would have it, I didn't.

I gained 55.

There's a quote that says something to the effect of, "If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans." (I'm finding that pretty much incapsulates all of parenthood). So about half-way through my pregnancy with Ella, I just stopped looking at the scale at the doctor's office. I figured ignorance truly is bliss. And I was incredibly relieved when all of the weight came off (and then some) in the first 6 months and I realized that I could actually abandon my original plans to breastfeed her until the 4th grade in order to get my body back. That would have been awkward.

But now, it's back to whistling and looking away as the nurse asks me to hop up on the scale and I'm once again scheming ways in which I can produce enough breastmilk to feed an orphanage once this baby arrives. I'm almost 16 weeks pregnant and it appears my body very clearly remembers how to make a baby. If there were classes being offered in this field, I'm guessing my body would have a major in gestation with a minor in fat storage. I'm currently in that awkward stage where I'm not obviously pregnant yet but appear to have "let myself go." Which is odd, because the only place I remember letting myself go was Arby's. My reasoning was simple. When you're newly-knocked up, hungry and constantly feeling on the verge of throwing up, if the only things that sound good to eat are a roast beef sandwich and mac 'n' cheese, well, that's what you eat. Of course, I questioned why I couldn't be like my friend Elizabeth who craved lima beans. Really, how could you go wrong eating those? Definitely a "scale-friendly" food. Not me, though. I wanted- needed- carbs and starches- baked potatoes, bagels, pasta, and then of course, the occasional (or maybe not so occasional) roast beef sandwhich from Arby's. I wasn't overly concerned about my weight, as the numbers didn't creep up very much in the first few weeks. But I can only assume that there must have been some sort of delayed reaction, because quite literally, I gained 4 lbs almost overnight (or over the course of a weekend). It's continued to come in spurts ever since. Unfortunately, it seems that my body has decided to hold on to every little calorie I eat, as if it's being starved and doesn't understand that there are limitless food options available. I wish I could somehow reason with it and explain that there really is no need for the bowl of cheerios I ate last night to make their way down to my hips....and yet, they did, and there they shall stay for quite some time. I cringe to think of what happens when we order pizza.

So, my weight gain to date...*drumroll please*....18 pounds in 15 weeks. How much of that is baby, you ask? Oh, about 4 ounces. (I win the prize, right?) And while I'm vaguely aware that I'll be having to put on a swimsuit in 3 weeks, I haven't really let that sink in. Denial is a good place to be for now. And the best place for my scale, I've decided, is buried deep in my closet, under my favorite pair of Seven jeans and other clothes that have been over-taken by my burgeoning body parts. I have high hopes that they will make their triumphant return sometime in 2011. Until then, what I don't know can't hurt me, right? ;)

#%@& happens.

A lot, when you're chasing after a 14 month old. And it comes in various forms. The literal kind, that you wipe off a pair of butt-cheeks 2 or 3 times a day and that- if you're unlucky enough to have raging pregnancy hormones- will sometimes leave you gagging for the duration of the diaper change. Then there's the more metaphorical, yet very real bull#%&@ that abounds in everyday life. (If only a box of wipes could take care of that, I'd have it made, but I digress).

The point is, %@& happens. And sometimes the actual word, "s**t" happens as well. I admit, it's more of a common word in our household than it should be, and this is one that I can't put on Jake. And so at last, I "out" myself. For years, I have taken some unknown, great pleasure in saying this word. Maybe it's the way you can really get into the "ssshhhhhh" part of it, especially if you're really peeved. In those instances, I pride myself on taking a one-syllable word and stretching it into two. More like "ssshhhheeee-iiiiiiitt!" It just feels good. And I justified this for many years. I figured, it's one thing to do it by yourself and no one's there to hear you as you sit behind the wheel of your Mazda V6 Wagon (because that's the kind of car you buy when you want to dominate the highway, right?). I also had a theory that there's a direct correlation between the amount of pain I'm in and the number of times I get to say this word. So that 5 lb bag of ice I dropped on my toes? That was worth a couple of expletives. But the sneaky thing about this word is that if you're not careful, it starts to randomly show up before you have time to stop it: your computer freezes and you're right in the middle of a facebook status update. (#%@&!) Then you can't open a jar of spaghetti sauce (#%@&!) You step in dog-doo (quite literally- #%@&!) You stare at a positive pregnancy test on a random Saturday afternoon and then it's HOLY #%@&! (saved for those truly momentous occasions). 10 months and 1 week later, and you've been in labor for 16 hours when the doctor informs you that you're going to need a c-section. (#%@&! #%@&! #%@&!)

And so life continues, and #%@& continues to make an exit from your lips every now and then. And it's all good for awhile because your little girl is just a baby. There's no need to censor the Lil Wayne and Nelly CD's just yet. But the weeks turn into months, and now you realize she's starting to listen to you. She wants to communicate with you. You think this is pretty much the coolest thing ever. And you're not much worried about the few times you slip, because she's still so little. She doesn't understand the meaning of that word anyway.

But she doesn't need to.

Because kids don't need to understand what they say before they say it. Remember the show "Kids Say the Darndest Things?" Someone got seriously rich capitalizing on little kids who made total @$$es of their parents by saying things within a context they didn't understand or repeating things they had no business repeating. And most of the time, it's cute. When you wait so long to hear them say their first word, the last thing you probably worry about is whether that word will be sandwiched between some expletives. Ella has always been quite the chatterbox, and so I became accustomed to listening to her experiment with combinations of vowels and syllables and talking nonsense to her Sophie and other animal friends for months. And like any other mom, I melted the first time she said "mama" and giggled at her attempt at "banana" ("nanana") and "kittycat" ("keekah"). And then one day- whether by chance or perhaps by, ahem, some *other* coincidence- I heard a different set of syllables and vowels coming out of her mouth. At first I reasoned it must have been the word "spit," but really, how likely was that? I walked back to her room, watched her throw her binkey on the floor and then, right on cue, "#%@&."

Fabulous.

It got even better when we would go to Target or the grocery store. I was now very well aware of her newfound vocabulary and as if in slow motion, I would watch as she would animatedly point at something and then proceed to yell out the same 4 letter word before I could get my hand to her mouth or shove a cracker down her throat. We got a few looks, needless to say. I prayed it was a phase. And thankfully, it seems to have passed for now. (And you better believe I've made Jake clean up his language....ahem...)

So I guess it's time for me to come up with another word that is just as gratifying to roll off the tongue in less than happy circumstances. I think I'm actually going to miss it. But it must be done. Apparently, little cornfields have big ears.

The Gender-Defender Post

Ever meet those people that assume that when God created dogs, they were all female? I happen to know these people exist because I've heard them say, "hey there girl!" to my dog, sometimes within seconds of him cocking a leg over his favorite pee stone. I was never offended when this happened to our dog though. Stupefied, maybe, (considering my dog tried to hump everything with legs), but dogs are dogs and cats are cats. It's a different ball game altogether, though, with the tiny human I'm strolling around, whom I grew in my belly for 10 months. For the record, I did not create a unisex baby named Pat. So I would like to ask why, better yet HOW...someone's brain processes an oversized bow on the head of a baby (who also happens to be wearing a floral print shirt) and then proceeds to comment on how cute "he" looks or how badly they want to pinch "his" cheeks.

In the beginning, I tried to be gracious about it. It's a known fact that my daughter was an onion-head at birth. No hair to speak of, so no point in trying to pin little bows to her shiny bald head. Even so, I always thought she had very feminine features that made her look overwhelmingly like a girl, but given the gender-neutral car seat and gear, I tried to cut people some slack during those first few months. (This was a real feat considering my crazy post-partum hormones). I'm also not big on dressing my little girl in head-to-toe pink. I don't like anything frilly or lacy. I usually prefer to dress Ella in the same color palette that I would wear, perhaps with a few exceptions. I can see where this would also cause a bit of confusion so I gave the benefit of the doubt. But as Ella began to get older, she grew more hair. And out came the hair accessories. Then the weather got warmer and I stocked her closet with sundresses and baby- doll tops. I stood back and gazed at her closet and breathed a sigh of relief. I was convinced that we were officially past the "thank you very much but this is actually a girl" correction phase. Surely no one would ever mistake her for a little boy now.

Wrong again. So a few messages..

To the man at Subway who bent over and commented on the cute baby, I appreciate the compliment. I think she's cute too. And you could have left it at that. But unfortunately, when you asked her name and I responded with "Ella," and your next remark was "such a handsome lad," you left me no other choice but to think you're a complete dumbass. And that you teleported here from the 1930's. No one says "lad" anymore here in America, dude.

To the woman in Target who was too young and dressed far too hip to make a faux-pas such as this: did you not see the pink blanket with the daisy applique that was laying across her car seat? Do you also speed through red lights because you think they're green? I hear that color-blindness strikes one out of every five people. Stupidity strikes one out of every three. Good luck.


To the woman at the coffee shop who pointed and said "look at him lovin' on his mama..." did you see a penis poking out from under her skirt that I wasn't aware of? By the way, that sound you just heard was my jaw hitting the floor.



So a word to the wise: if there's any doubt in your mind at all about the gender of the little peanut in the shopping cart in front of you, perhaps it's best to simply smile and be on your way. However, if said peanut is wearing any type of bow, headband, hair accessory or has random splotches of pink in her outfit, you're 99.9% safe to assume it's a girl. It will make that mother's day, I promise.

"Baby Got Back" (pain)

For the record, I've got more than enough "back" these days...I'm just not "little in the middle" anymore.

I sincerely believe my body is staging a coupe once this baby is in the outside world.  It is going to take back all that once rightfully belonged to it.  My pelvis will no longer be floating, and my hips will decide that they want to fit into my size 4-6 jeans again.  My legs will stop resembling Redwood tree stumps, complete with bulging veins and cellulite that could make an orange peel look smooth. I will have a waist again- perhaps with some extra skin and flab to tone up, but Pilates will take care of that.  I will no longer have the telltale "pregnant face" that leaves people wondering, "is that swelling or does she just like to treat herself to Dairy Queen every night?" (And the answer to the latter is no....I only have it about once a week).  And I will have my back back.  

There are some days when it simply does not matter what position I sit or lie in, how much prenatal yoga I have done or how much I plead with Junebug to please move to a different position, my back just hurts.  I was able to alleviate some of the lower back pain by sadly packing away my heels *sniff-sniff* for the Summer.  I now wear flats, but mostly flip flops (regardless if the weather is 40 degrees).  The pain from my lower back, however, began to radiate up to the middle of my back- almost between the shoulder blades.  I know my ribs have been spreading, which I'm sure doesn't help, but I was also told by my doctor that the pain I was feeling was due to my posture and overcompensating as my belly grows and shifts my weight from the back to the front.  That's good to know, considering he has a uterus and has done this before.  I love my doctor, really I do.  But I also love that doctors will tell you why something hurts, and then stop there, as if that in and of itself is enough to make the patient feel better.  It's not like I was going to hop up from the examining table, all cheers, and immediately be able to correct my posture.  Believe me, I've tried "sucking it in."  It takes me from looking 8 months pregnant to about 7 1/2.  At this stage in the pregnancy, nothing short of crawling out of the exam room on all fours would have helped the pain (and for a split second, I considered it, but more because I thought it would just be funny to see peoples' looks).  I guess that was just his kind way of saying, "I'm sorry your in pain, but your sh**t out of luck."  I found this has been a recurring theme when you're pregnant...

Driving is the absolute worst.  Just sitting in the car is bad enough as a passenger, but lately I'm the one driving because I find I'm still pretty sensitive to motion sickness, even this late in the game.  I figure I'd rather have my back kill me, than have my back kill me and be nauseous.  If Jake is with me, no more than 15 minutes will go by before I'm begging him to please rub my back as I hunch over the steering wheel (as much as I can "hunch" these days).   Some days I open my car door and I'm just not sure I have it in me to hoist myself up and out onto the pavement...so instead, I stare out at the open air and sort of "will" myself to levitate out of the car.  I used to laugh and poke fun at those commercials with the old people riding around on their motorized "Little Rascals" or whatever the hell those things are called.   That has never sounded more appealing to me.  I have all but considered taking a few items of baby gear off of my registry and replacing it with one of those....I wonder if people would notice?  

I'm not the kind of person who likes to ask for help but getting to this stage of pregnancy has required me to do so at times, and I'm having to learn to be okay with it.  Preggo sympathy is not an entirely bad thing, after all.  Generally, people have offered to help me without me having to ask: loading and taking my groceries to the car, letting me go in front of them in line at a store or fast food restaurant (maybe I look that hungry?) and overall just seeming to pay special attention.  It's really not all that bad.  I just hate feeling like an invalid and have to come to terms with my own limitations on a daily basis.  I cannot clean the entire house in one afternoon like I used to or move slightly heavier objects and I can expect to be out of breath if I try to.   I can't shop for baby clothes and other fun items with the same gusto and enthusiasm that I used to and there needs to be a comfy bench or chair nearby.  After 2 Easter services, a big family lunch and too much time in the car on Sunday, I was in tears at the end of the day as Jake worked out the knots and kinks in my back.  My lesson: I can still function with achy feet, throbbing varicose veins, heck- even small bouts of nausea and heartburn, but my back will not negotiate.  So I may be shuffling around for the next 6 weeks, but I'm trying to look on the bright side.  At least I'm not shuffling around and wearing a muumuu.  

"Walk this Way"

Ah, the joys of the third trimester:  the impending due date, a now very obvious baby bump, the sometimes uncomfortable but always reassuring kicks and squirms from baby, putting final touches on the nursery....but we all know that mother nature can't leave well enough alone, so she added a few other things to the list as well: heartburn and the acid-vomit burp, swelling in places you never thought possible, the awkward "bend-over-while-crossing-legs" move that becomes second nature when you sneeze so you don't pee your pants, (*this is quite fun to explain to curious onlookers in TJ Maxx: "no, I'm not in labor, just lost control of my bladder, thanks*). And now I can officially add the "preggo waddle" to my list.  

I admit, I always found it adorable to watch extremely pregnant women walk around- one hand on the small of the back, the other hand on the belly- it seemed like the classic "preggo" stance.   Oh, how that has come back to bite me.  I don't even think I'm that big yet, but apparently I am just big enough to have to modify how I walk.  I've discovered that it's not just the belly that causes this- it can be the type of pants I'm wearing or even the shoes.  My old navy maternity jeans are currently getting stretched to their breaking point.  Now, this could be attributed to the fact that my hips are widening to make way for the 13-ish cm head that will be descending in a few more weeks (um, ouch).  OR, it could be the fact that I have four (actually, now only two) boxes of Girl Scout cookies that start calling my name the moment I set foot in my kitchen in the mornings.  *sigh*  Either way, my pants are getting a little less comfortable these days and if I didn't have to look presentable for my piano lessons, I would seriously be rolling up in Jake's oversized flannel pajama pants.  The other day, I was wearing these particular pants and some cute black thong sandals I bought at Target last year.  It was 80 degrees here, and I was already sweating more than I care to admit. I had no idea that my feet were capable of sweating so much, by the way. *Ick*  This meant that I couldn't get any traction on my plastic wedge Target specials.   So let's do some quick math: baby belly + tight jeans + sweaty feet + sweat-slicked plastic soles of Target thong sandals = me, waddling up my students' walkways.   Just call me "Daffy."

I plan to celebrate this minor milestone by investing in some bigger jeans, a new pair of shoes (preferably with better traction)....and maybe one more box of Thin Mints.  ;-)

Knowing where to "draw the line" (more parking fun)

My rant of the day: Parking spaces are too freakin' small.  Or maybe cars are just getting too damn big, but one way or the other, something's gotta give.  I think the "stork parking" is a fabulous idea for us mamas-to be, but unfortunately it's not enough anymore to have a parking space to call our own.  They need to also be 2-3 feet wider to better accommodate those of us who are no longer able to see our feet.  (I don't ask for much, really).  But I have officially reached the point in my pregnancy where turning sideways to shimmy into a tight space no longer works for, well, shimmying.  I have discovered this on several occasions when- and I'm still not sure how this happens- I "forget" that my belly sticks out.  (Yet, I just can't seem to "forget" that my ass is widening...)  Take for example, a sliding glass door that is open only so far.  Having had wonderfully flat abs for most of my life (one of the few things I actually liked about my body), I still instinctively turn sideways in an effort to squeeze through tight spaces, only to end up bumping my belly or find myself wedged for a second or two.

Today, as I was leaving my favorite coffee shop, I was rather irked to find someone had parked their gi-normous suburban right on top of my driver side door.  (Rant within a rant: If people insist on driving these mammoths-on-wheels, they ought to at least know how to park one).  So there I stand- cup of decaf in hand, laptop under arm and now a personal vendetta to top it all off.  I have read stories of women who ended up having to climb through their back doors, or through their passenger door and over the console, and I'll admit that I assumed those women were probably 9 months pregnant, carrying twins, or already on the fluffy side. But I stand corrected: I am barely 7 months pregnant, baking only ONE bun, and don't consider myself fluffy (although when this is all said and done, I might end up revisiting the last part of that statement).  I saw no easy way to get into my car.  Now, given that my car was parked front and center- more than likely, I was providing comic relief to customers who were sitting in the cafe enjoying their lattes as they watched me walk from my passenger side door, to the driver side, then back to the passenger side....and yet again to the driver side...opening my door and getting half of my butt in, closing the door to open the back door and dump my belongings, switch coffee from hand to hand,  reopen driver side door, poke my head in and twist my body, hop on my left leg as I thrust my right leg in...(and realizing that "sucking in" my belly does nothing to flatten it anymore and actually only serves to make me lightheaded).

For a brief hormonal moment, I saw myself hurling my steaming cup of coffee all over the windshield of this vehicle that had clearly been parked by someone who was legally blind.  If that was the case however, then I reasoned they probably wouldn't see the brown liquid all over the front of their car and thus my wrath would be wasted.  *sigh*  (Notice how it never occurred to me not to seek revenge because that's technically the "right" thing to do.   I will say it again- pregnancy hormones cannot be reasoned with).  So after my own personal version of the  hokey pokey to get myself into the driver's seat, I sat there and did something I know will come back to haunt me one day: I vowed that I would never be seen driving one of those larger than life, parking space-hogging, monster suburbans.  Ever.  I've already sworn off mini-vans , so I'm not sure what options this leaves me if our family ever grows beyond 2 kids (which we're hoping it will).  Maybe an ugly gray passenger van?  Now wouldn't THAT be cute.