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!!!"

THOUGHT

There is no stronger indicator of pregnancy (screw you HGC) than crying while watching American Idol. And not over the bad singing.

Man, I Feel Like A Woman!

I've come to a startling conclusion today: There is no one in the world who can make you feel more girly than a 3-year old boy. When I fantasized about my life as a parent, the fantasies always included at least one boy. I was convinced (prior to Jack) that boys are more fun; mostly because I'm not a girly girl. I like video games, playing sports, being outside, fixing things, burping, drinking beer and being competitive--and the biggest thing of all--farts make me laugh. A lot. So I figured that I would feel most at home in in a house of boys.

Well, my house of testosterone came crashing down on me today when Jack proceeded to scream from across the room, "CHOCOLATE PUNCH!" and then run at me full-speed and sock me in the shoulder. HARD. I had to explain: Girl's don't like to be punched. EVER. And as I realized how sexually biased that sounded (sorry Laila Ali!) it really hit me--I am girly! The tendencies in myself that I just assumed were smart (putting my clothes away, always smelling nice, not wrestling 24/7, not picking my nose, not screaming in the house or throwing things in a rage) were really my more feminine traits...I had just, until now, mistaken them for plain old intelligence. I underestimated my innate femininity because I don't wear makeup everyday or always wear "cute" clothes...but that isn't all that makes up a female. Durh. And how ironic that it took several punches to the shoulder and body to make me feel like a natural woman.

Bathroom vs. Gender (or: People Who Know How To Use A Bathroom vs. Men)

It has long been my contention, and the contention of any woman anywhere for that matter, that males and females have very different ways of using the bathroom. And I don't mean the obvious difference, durh. Having lived with a man my entire life (with a brief, and awesome respite for 3 out of 4 years in college plus 1 year post-college with female roommate), I am well versed in their weird bathroom habits. They lock themselves in there and create inhuman smells FOR HOURS. I hate it, and I will never, ever understand it.

[You may wonder why I am suddenly talking about bathrooms--well I spend two people's worth of time in there, and now that I am pregnant again, I'm doing the job of 2.5. And at least one of those is a male, so imagine how much time I have to think about all of this while I am wasting years of my life in the can.]

Anyway...for a man, Jack is remarkably expeditious in the bathroom...when he has to poop. I strongly admire this rare quality. He likes to read something (who doesn't?) but he gets right down to business. HOWEVER, my chief complaint is that when he has to pee he can find any number of things to dilly-dally over, and then can even make the actual act of peeing into an adventure. Do I pee in the center of the bowl? How far can I swivel my hips before I pee on the rim? How many small squirts will it take to empty my bladder? Can I pee in a circle? What does the pee look like coming out of me? Can I pee on my own face?

This ritual is tortuously drawn-out...many times per day. Perhaps with our less sophisticated equipment, women aren't as prone to pee-related fantasies, but I still find this behavior ridiculously inefficient. It's doubly annoying because he still wants me around to supervise even though he's capable of going on his own--don't get me started on how this male quality persists into adulthood. I think that he has a secret goal of trying to make me jealous of his pee-prowess. To that I say, "Whatever dude, I can grow people!"