Supreme Analogy

Everyone who knows me knows that I lurve analogies. LOVE THEM. So today I realized something that made my profound pregnancy discomfort much more tolerable. Being pregnant is like being very drunk: Sometimes you throw up. Sometimes you pass out. Sometimes you wake up with a headache THIS BIG. Sometimes you eat food that you normally would not eat. Sometimes you say mean things and slur your words, sometimes even completely forgetting things that you said altogether. Sometimes you embarrass your spouse/friends in public. Sometimes you blurt out inappropriate thoughts and hurt people's feelings. (Sometimes you laugh about this.) Sometimes you want to take your clothes off (and/or burp and fart) at unsuitable times and places. Sometimes you become intolerably maudlin and cry over asinine things (like Dancing With The Stars). Sometimes you fall down for no reason at all. Sometimes you have to pee a LOT. Sometimes you wake up and can't remember falling asleep.

The only holes in this theory are that being pregnant does not make people look better than they actually are (like beer goggles) and it does not make me plan ridiculous things with way too much enthusiasm.

OVERHEARD

Some of the most rewarding moments of parenthood come with eavesdropping.

Dan: "You need a vacuum cleaner for your face and body."

Jack: "NOOooooOOO! [in a patronizing tone] I need to go poop on the potty."

Crystal

Sometimes in a marriage there are small misunderstandings. Maybe sometimes is a little more like often. Or frequently. I mean at least on a weekly basis. And these "misunderstandings" can be described as one person talking a LOT and one person not really listening, and then later, the non-listener becomes enraged over a previously clearly-explained detail that was NOT LISTENED TO.

I bought Dan some of his favorite, newly available beer at the grocery store. This beer was previously only available West of the Mississippi, but for some random reason, we can now buy it at the Teeter. The World according to Dan is complete. I was specifically instructed to buy ALL of this beer and I dutifully did, all 5 large bottles, and one more in a similar bottle, but of a different variety...which I mentioned to Dan.

Later that night as he went to lovingly retrieve one of his very favorite beers, I could see storm-clouds on the horizon of the future that threatened a downpour of rage if he accidentally selected the not-favorite beer and opened it to discover it's hideous wheat flavor. So I reminded him (again) to check the labels because one of them was NOT his favorite beer. "I just want to you be clear..." I said, looking at him and laughing.

"I just want you to be clear..." he replied with a grin, "that I will kill you." (Clearly this statement is a blantant acknowledgment of his inability to listen to the words coming out of my mouth.)

THOUGHT

I truly respect how British television will put anyone on camera, regardless of their physical appearance. Or else everyone in that country is severely unfortunate looking.

Little Monkeys

While watching Dancing With The Stars tonight (yes, I know, this show will not help my nausea) I noticed that there was an awful lot of bass during the show.

[aside: For a Christmas present last year Dan *gave* us surround sound in our family room. This wonderful and expensive gift frequently causes people to exclaim, "What is wrong with your house!?" when they are visiting our vibrating domicile. Because of this...feature, I often turn off the down-firing bass (or, as my Dad calls it, the bottom-shooter). Dan discovered that I had turned it off this weekend and lectured me about acoustics and turned it back on.]

Figuring that it was the bottom-shooter, I ignored it at first. Then I noticed the bass thumps were happening when I was fast-forwarding the TiVo-ed show. I went upstairs to investigate. What I found was a small child jumping out of his bed. Over and over. When he saw me enter the room, he said to me, "Ahhhh!" (as if he'd been wondering what was taking me so long to come up there). "I'm all finished with this bed, I'm ready for YOUR bed." This prompted me to immediately check for puddles. Finding none, I tried to get the child back to a laying position, and it was then that I discovered every item in his room (except for the dresser) was under his covers. I guess that he meant that he was finished stuffing his bed. I removed all of the junk, and he fell back into bed and yelled, "GOODNIGHT!" which was my cue to leave as quickly as possible.

Trash Sauce

Jack is a wonderful child, but he has not always been a wonderful eater. He will drink milk at the rate of one gallon per hour, but will not consistently eat, or even SAMPLE his dinner.

Lately Dan and I have been taking the tack of ogres. He is not allowed to leave the table without eating at least half of his dinner, and frequently gets time-outs for screwing around. I enjoy this both because a) we can stretch a gallon of milk for two whole days now, and 2) I am no longer throwing away entire plates of food.

In a wonderful turn of events, the other morning he actually cleared his plate, mostly due to the aid of barbeque sauce. We let him dip his eggs and hashbrowns in it, and he loved it. (Thank you Dan for even thinking of trying this because I think that it sounds g-ross and would never have suggested it.) So the lovely barbeque sauce provides the lubrication necessary for a very picky 3-year old to swallow his food. But the BEST part of all of this is that Jack calls it, "garbage-Q" sauce.

Rated R

So my apologies in advance for this post, which is, as you may have suspected, a little on the unsavory side. Unsavory in the sense that if you are a normal (female) human, you may be offended. This is also for anyone who has a son who is not yet 3 (HA HA Megan!)--consider it a preview of coming attractions.

Dan was home to give Jack his bath the other night, and I left them alone to do the deed while I made our bed. (Yes, I was making my bed at 8pm. God does not care when you do it as long as it gets done.) I was innocently listening to their sing-songy conversation as they filled the tub and denuded, when Jack suddenly burst into a little number I happen to know that he made up himself. And the song went something like this: "Penis-hole! Peeeeenisss...hooooooole, little penis hole!" Now, admittedly, this is somewhat funny, but the truly disturbing part came when Dan joined in for the chorus. This is when I contemplated moving to Nebraska. Alone.

Party of Two

So I have been having the most ridiculous cravings lately, for those gross, processed, not-as-good-as-they-used-to-be Hostess Cupcakes. The ones with the white squiggle of "icing" on the top. Well, having never actually purchased a box of these, I just went to the grocery store, where you would think you could purchase this horrible treat, yes? NO. They didn't have them! I tried another grocery store, still NO CUPCAKES. I was getting frenzied. My Dad suggested that I try 7-11, however there are NO 7-11s in North Carolina! Then he suggested a gas station, but warned me, "Make sure they're not old." I have no idea how I was supposed to determine the age of these apocalypse-proof snacks. Finally today I found some sweet Hostess goodness at the Lowe's Food. I also found all sorts of things that I don't usually buy: crunchy Cheetos, creme horns, facial masques, bottled root beer, deli sprinkle cookies, and Rollos. All of this junk prompted the sweet lady checking me out to ask, "Are you having a slumber party honey?" To which I replied, "Yes, and I am the hostess!"

THOUGHT

Non-alcohol related barfing is several degrees less horrible than hung-over barfing. Although if I am barfing I would rather have had a LOT OF FUN the night before, and shockingly, I did NOT.

Another complaint: I was awake for 14 hours today before I was able to successfully ingest solid foods, and I am apparently still pregnant because I'm STILL CRYING at the tv (this time when the cowboy danced on Dancing With The Stars). I am a hot mess.

Digital Child

Jack loves computers. He loves to caress my laptop, ALMOST pressing buttons. And the cutest, most ironically southern thing about his fascination is that he calls it a 'puter. Pronounced, "POOTER." This always makes me laugh, ("Mommy, can I turn your pooter on??") so I haven't really corrected him, but after spending a few weeks with the genius child, I feel that I am not giving Jack a good jump into life by encouraging his hilarious vocabulary instead of makin' thangs raaaht.

So now he says, "COM-pooter."

Laughing Hysterically

As we listen to Jack, sitting on the potty, alone, singing songs in a falsetto voice and slapping his thighs in time to the music.

Calderado

We finally arrived back from our trip to Colorado. The thing that I love most about vacations (especially ones that are longer than one week) is how very strange and delightful it is to return to your own home; to smell it as a stranger smells it; marvel in the high-ceilings of the South, the delicious humidity that keeps your nose lining happy and moisturized (despite the adverse affects it has on frizz-prone hair) and a bathroom that is directly off of your bedroom. I love waking up in a confused state wondering why I am sleeping in a huge room with an actual TV in it. Then it hits me, I am home, sweet home.

We had a great time, especially Jack. He had a lot of firsts: skiing, lo mein, mountains, having a 3-year old twin, sharing a room, and peeing in an airplane bathroom. Most of these went off without a hitch, EXCEPT the room-sharing. Jack, like his parents, LOVES TO SLEEP. Our host-friend (Little Gary) is what I would describe as a party animal. He is uncannily smart, and not a little bit precocious in his tormenting of Jack. (This child is going to be hell on wheels in college.) He devised endless ways to keep Jack awake at night, resulting in a somewhat grumpy mini-Tarkenton who took to ratting his friend out in his over-tired frustration. The week consisted of lots of post-bedtime thumping (Gary), yelling, chastising (Jack) and banging, which the adults took turns addressing (me with rational coaxing, Dan with rational bullying, and Big Gary with "I will chop your feet off and you will walk on pegs for the rest of your life!!! Arrrgggh!") Needless to say that Jack was terrified. It was wonderful. I heard a lot of, "Mommy, I don't want foot-pegs!!! Gary was hiding in the closet, he is being bad!!!"