I feel like I should apologize for my last entry. Obviously, I shouldn't have watched My Sister's Keeper so soon after having a sick child. I must have set the blog load on heavy wash because it was soaking in the melodrama. Honestly? I think I've been secretly craving a bit of crazy. Without all the absurd chaos that somehow shapes itself into my life, the blog is boring. And by boring, I mean that the new post tab sits open, holding two poorly edited sentences for three months.
How can I have gone so long without at least a smidge of weird making it's way in somewhere? Weird usually finds me. Like how some people always step in gum? I used to step in weird every day. Perhaps I've just been so preoccupied with keeping my children alive that I just haven't been seeing the usual blog-worthy tidbits. Cee-Lo Green could walk up next to me in his Elton John-turkey-guise from the Grammy's, and I wouldn't notice because I'm busy wiping baby spit off my shirt and telling my preschooler that the Winn-Dixie is not the place to yell "penis" and proceed to whip it out.
So I guess there's always that. But seriously, I'm ready for the WTF level to raise back to chronic so I can remain dazzling you guys with my like, words. And stuff.
Today's subject line quote is from Bones--The Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood (2009).
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
They gave me medication. So I feel how I imagine people of average intelligence feel, all the time.
"Bet you never thought you'd be covered in baby blood, huh?" It's true, I never pictured myself with my infant daughter's blood all over my pink Tinkerbell tee, but as my husband said it--everything became less surreal. It snapped me back into the green-walled room of the pediatric ward where I began to process what had happened in the last several hours--that our 3 month old hadn't eaten and become so dehydrated that two nurses and a phlebotomist pricked her limbs so badly, she bled all over the emergency room linens and my clothes. The storms had also knocked out power to most of the area until after midnight (and therefore the elevators), so I carefully carried her up four flights of stairs as to not detach her from the precious saline hep-lock it had taken nearly 2 hours to get right.
How did it get to this? Weren't we just fighting to get out of the hospital from Ivy's birth? She's 12 weeks old and has spent approximately one quarter of her life in a hospital. The NICU staff assured me that she wouldn't be chronically ill after winning the battle with her lungs--she was a normal baby, healthy. So two and a half months later, we land ourselves back in?
It does seem to be happenstance, coincidence, or what-have-you. It was an innocent virus that caused her to lose appetite and become dehydrated. There was never any real threat of impending death, but hearing doctor's throw out terms like meningitis, spinal tap, and kidney ultrasound didn't help my already trembling body and belabored mind. I want a healthy child! Not having to choose which child I get to see per day. Happenstance or not, I'm tired of being recognized by the hospital nursing staff.
We are on the mend, and this is what I have to say:
My declaration to the universe--I'm done with dumb luck. In the last 3 months we have had medical crisis, the presage of evicting the tenants from our rental, our estimated moving date changed 3 times (causing major planning problems for preschool applications and finding a rental), and the threat of a delayed paycheck--all while coping with personal emotional issues for both my husband and self and keeping up with a cranky, incontinent dog. I need some honestly good, no strings attached, stress-free news. Also some time to do our taxes.
Today's subject line quote is from "Bones" Harbingers in a Fountain (2009).
How did it get to this? Weren't we just fighting to get out of the hospital from Ivy's birth? She's 12 weeks old and has spent approximately one quarter of her life in a hospital. The NICU staff assured me that she wouldn't be chronically ill after winning the battle with her lungs--she was a normal baby, healthy. So two and a half months later, we land ourselves back in?
It does seem to be happenstance, coincidence, or what-have-you. It was an innocent virus that caused her to lose appetite and become dehydrated. There was never any real threat of impending death, but hearing doctor's throw out terms like meningitis, spinal tap, and kidney ultrasound didn't help my already trembling body and belabored mind. I want a healthy child! Not having to choose which child I get to see per day. Happenstance or not, I'm tired of being recognized by the hospital nursing staff.
We are on the mend, and this is what I have to say:
My declaration to the universe--I'm done with dumb luck. In the last 3 months we have had medical crisis, the presage of evicting the tenants from our rental, our estimated moving date changed 3 times (causing major planning problems for preschool applications and finding a rental), and the threat of a delayed paycheck--all while coping with personal emotional issues for both my husband and self and keeping up with a cranky, incontinent dog. I need some honestly good, no strings attached, stress-free news. Also some time to do our taxes.
Today's subject line quote is from "Bones" Harbingers in a Fountain (2009).
Monday, March 21, 2011
What they gotta do is build their frontal lobe with exercise. That comes from doing the wrong thing.
Those skinny moms of multiple children who get up at 6 a.m. to do yoga used to make me want to barf. I thought it was fadish and somewhat egotistical for someone to be that worried about a saggy ass. But here I am, on my second large cup of coffee and droopy-eyed because I got up early to worry about my flabby bottom.
Dom and I bought a Wii Fit yesterday and I had already spent over an hour on it by dinner time. Today I set up a custom workout routine and set to it before the kids woke up. Now, I'm happy to report that my arms arms feel like mush and my legs no longer work. I did yoga, strength training, hula hooping, and skateboarding--all before 8 this morning.
Did you know I used to be lazy? Waking before 10 was damn near blasphemy (well, you know for a girl that was too lazy for church and decided couch worship was more suitable). I also only worked 10 hours a week and took naps between classes in college.
Mostly it was depression. Even when things were going well for me, I just didn't have the energy or motivation for most things. Then I had to start paying rent and bills and I was just exhausted, depressed, and broke. So I was only home long enough to bank some z's before hitting the daily grind. I was working 6 days a week at Taco Bell and still not making enough moolah to not have to eat the messed up orders instead of buying groceries that I was never home to cook.
So here I am, plus and minus a combination of over 100 pounds, trying to tone all of those lumps, bumps, and flaps that have somehow become my body over the last decade. I was a size 4 and roughly 120 big ones when I started my freshman year of college. Poor Dom. He thought he was getting a blonde hottie, but I soon skyrocketed to the 160's by our wedding, and another 10 pounds trying to conceive Michael in the following years. Then the all-you-can-eat buffet logic set in and I weighed in at a hefty 240 by the end of my first pregnancy.
Now after 2 kids and a 7 year marriage full of binge eating during Dom's deployments, I've gone up and down quite a bit and my body in WTF mode about what's supposed to be up and down. So yeah, perhaps I fit a demographic that I didn't understand before. And yes, it's purely ego driven of me to get up that early and force my limbs into such unnatural positions for the pure purpose of a tiny waist and better curves. But why not?
What's wrong with wanting to finally have a better body after 10 years of abuse? I was naive about diet and exercise as a young adult, and it's time for me to fix my mistakes. It makes me happy and excited to be so motivated and to accomplish something I've never been able to do before. So tomorrow I will also get up in pre-baby hours and let that creepy, animated balance board talk me into doing 6 more reps of jacknives.
Today's subject line quote is from Bones, "The Beaver in the Otter" (2009).
Dom and I bought a Wii Fit yesterday and I had already spent over an hour on it by dinner time. Today I set up a custom workout routine and set to it before the kids woke up. Now, I'm happy to report that my arms arms feel like mush and my legs no longer work. I did yoga, strength training, hula hooping, and skateboarding--all before 8 this morning.
Did you know I used to be lazy? Waking before 10 was damn near blasphemy (well, you know for a girl that was too lazy for church and decided couch worship was more suitable). I also only worked 10 hours a week and took naps between classes in college.
Mostly it was depression. Even when things were going well for me, I just didn't have the energy or motivation for most things. Then I had to start paying rent and bills and I was just exhausted, depressed, and broke. So I was only home long enough to bank some z's before hitting the daily grind. I was working 6 days a week at Taco Bell and still not making enough moolah to not have to eat the messed up orders instead of buying groceries that I was never home to cook.
So here I am, plus and minus a combination of over 100 pounds, trying to tone all of those lumps, bumps, and flaps that have somehow become my body over the last decade. I was a size 4 and roughly 120 big ones when I started my freshman year of college. Poor Dom. He thought he was getting a blonde hottie, but I soon skyrocketed to the 160's by our wedding, and another 10 pounds trying to conceive Michael in the following years. Then the all-you-can-eat buffet logic set in and I weighed in at a hefty 240 by the end of my first pregnancy.
Now after 2 kids and a 7 year marriage full of binge eating during Dom's deployments, I've gone up and down quite a bit and my body in WTF mode about what's supposed to be up and down. So yeah, perhaps I fit a demographic that I didn't understand before. And yes, it's purely ego driven of me to get up that early and force my limbs into such unnatural positions for the pure purpose of a tiny waist and better curves. But why not?
What's wrong with wanting to finally have a better body after 10 years of abuse? I was naive about diet and exercise as a young adult, and it's time for me to fix my mistakes. It makes me happy and excited to be so motivated and to accomplish something I've never been able to do before. So tomorrow I will also get up in pre-baby hours and let that creepy, animated balance board talk me into doing 6 more reps of jacknives.
Today's subject line quote is from Bones, "The Beaver in the Otter" (2009).
Friday, March 11, 2011
All this talk of blood and slaying has put me off my tea.
It has been 00:00:14:25 since my last shaving incident.
I like to kick of the warmer weather in style, like with an arterial bleed. With all the hype around vampire media, blood is the new black right? But shaving is not the biggest of my springtime worries. Well, if my ankle doesn't stop gushing soon it might become a priority issue. I mean that tissue isn't doing the trick and I can't find the bandaids! What kind of mother doesn't know where the bandaids are in her own house? The kind that bleeds to death, that's what.
Really my concern lies with coloring. Springtime in Louisiana is more like summer near the equator. It gets spicier than flamin' hot cheetos and long pants are not an option unless you fancy yourself having a heatstroke by 9 a.m. Unfortunately, my complexion is a half-tint above ghostly.
And before you get judgey and assume I'm just any other white-girl of Irish decent and lack the gene necessary for tanning, let me tell you that I could probably go outside for 15 minutes and come back a nice, roasty, goldenness. But like all things in my life, karma is ready to kick me square in me Irish arse and my downfalls are two-fold:
1) My tan will only last a matter of hours. Seriously, a magic marker would stay on longer. Unless I'm planning on standing outside all day in my skivvies, a long-lasting option it ain't.
2) I had a scare with the big C regarding my skin about 2 years ago. It wasn't a major issue, but I do have a nasty scar on my back from where my dermatologist removed a chunk out of my back that was the size of a marble. Even if I did keep a tan, it wouldn't be worth going through that again.
Bring on the SPF 1,000,000! I don't really mind being a little pasty in exchange for not dying of cancer. However, people tend to get a little unnerved when they can see the veins and inner workings of my overly transparent legs. Nobody wants to see skin reminiscent of a jellyfish. Now I'm left with self tanners that make me break out or leave streaks and spots where the epidermis is too dry.
Case and point? Back before I was so conscious about skin health, I was planning on tanning the crap out of my body for my wedding. Unfortunately, I was also too ditzy and completely forgot until the week OF my big day to address the issue and had to resort to a Majestic Spray Tan. Worst. Idea. Ever.
I woke up the next day looking African...like a cheetah. There were spots all over my arms! And when I called the salon for a refund, solution, or even advice, the manager tartly stated that I must not have followed the directions (of which I was terrified of not following for utter fear of exactly what happened to me) and that "Well, you're not going to look like the girl in the video." How about not looking like something off a Discovery Channel special? I think we could manage that, right?
Luckily some lemon juice, my mom's Clinique self-tanning lotion, and a few showers got it all sorted out in time to walk down the aisle.
Moral of my story? Wear sunglasses in the next few months when you see me because I will freakin' blind you.
And before you get judgey and assume I'm just any other white-girl of Irish decent and lack the gene necessary for tanning, let me tell you that I could probably go outside for 15 minutes and come back a nice, roasty, goldenness. But like all things in my life, karma is ready to kick me square in me Irish arse and my downfalls are two-fold:
1) My tan will only last a matter of hours. Seriously, a magic marker would stay on longer. Unless I'm planning on standing outside all day in my skivvies, a long-lasting option it ain't.
2) I had a scare with the big C regarding my skin about 2 years ago. It wasn't a major issue, but I do have a nasty scar on my back from where my dermatologist removed a chunk out of my back that was the size of a marble. Even if I did keep a tan, it wouldn't be worth going through that again.
Bring on the SPF 1,000,000! I don't really mind being a little pasty in exchange for not dying of cancer. However, people tend to get a little unnerved when they can see the veins and inner workings of my overly transparent legs. Nobody wants to see skin reminiscent of a jellyfish. Now I'm left with self tanners that make me break out or leave streaks and spots where the epidermis is too dry.
Case and point? Back before I was so conscious about skin health, I was planning on tanning the crap out of my body for my wedding. Unfortunately, I was also too ditzy and completely forgot until the week OF my big day to address the issue and had to resort to a Majestic Spray Tan. Worst. Idea. Ever.
I woke up the next day looking African...like a cheetah. There were spots all over my arms! And when I called the salon for a refund, solution, or even advice, the manager tartly stated that I must not have followed the directions (of which I was terrified of not following for utter fear of exactly what happened to me) and that "Well, you're not going to look like the girl in the video." How about not looking like something off a Discovery Channel special? I think we could manage that, right?
Luckily some lemon juice, my mom's Clinique self-tanning lotion, and a few showers got it all sorted out in time to walk down the aisle.
Moral of my story? Wear sunglasses in the next few months when you see me because I will freakin' blind you.
Today's subject line quote is Alice in Wonderland (2010)
Friday, February 11, 2011
I love babies. Babies rule. Pudgy arms and stuff. But, uh, they make you old.
Ever have one of those mornings...
When you do everything in your ability to look fashionable and not be fashionably late to fancy playdate at the McDonald's Playland, but 5 minutes into it you have baby poop smeared all over your skinny jeans and you're begging friends for cash for a Happy Meal? I do. All the time.
Nothing happens the way I assume it will, so I've just started assuming everything will go to hell and I'm no longer surprised. It's only 10 til 2 and I'm already back in my jammies as I compose this half-conscious and still coasting on my dark roast, caffeine high. I do at least 3 loads of laundry a day in order to not have clothes saturated with breast milk, regurgitated breast milk, and toddler boogers. Just today I've managed to ruin 2 robes, the sheets I just washed yesterday, and the jeans I had planned to wear on our pseudo date tonight because they hold up my ever-sagging ass to acceptable social standards.
Take Ivy's whole birth experience for example. It was a scheduled, repeat c-section that should have taken all of 30 minutes in surgery, a few hours recovery time, and they'd hand me a screaming bundle of joy. Instead, my OB was late because she was on the phone with Fisher-Price tech support and then my baby had to be in intensive care for 10 days because she forgot how to breathe. It took over a week before I was able to hold her, and I got to be a visitor instead of her mother.
The genetics were there; she has my nose and stubby legs. But as a caregiver, I was useless for a week and a half. So I got up every 2 hours to pump and deliver a few ounces of breast milk to the NICU freezer. It was all I could do as a parent. And it may be selfish, but even though my baby was the one hooked up to IVs and tubes out the wazoo, I wanted to feel needed. I needed to feel needed. I had just spent the last 9 months incubating and growing my daughter, and suddenly my services were obsolete?
Now she's a perfectly healthy baby, with colic and all. It's still hard to process. At one point after her lung collapsed, we asked the neonatalogist if we had to worry about Ivy being in stable condition. She answered, "If you're asking me if the baby will die? I don't know."
How do you go from that to complaining about leaky diapers and extended bedtimes? Aren't I supposed to be grateful for every frustrating minute I have with my kids? I suppose I just have to do what I can , when I can--whether sucking the juice out of my boobs at 3 a.m. or a load of onesies and pants covered in poo.
Todays' subject line quote is from How I Met Your Mother (2005).
When you do everything in your ability to look fashionable and not be fashionably late to fancy playdate at the McDonald's Playland, but 5 minutes into it you have baby poop smeared all over your skinny jeans and you're begging friends for cash for a Happy Meal? I do. All the time.
Nothing happens the way I assume it will, so I've just started assuming everything will go to hell and I'm no longer surprised. It's only 10 til 2 and I'm already back in my jammies as I compose this half-conscious and still coasting on my dark roast, caffeine high. I do at least 3 loads of laundry a day in order to not have clothes saturated with breast milk, regurgitated breast milk, and toddler boogers. Just today I've managed to ruin 2 robes, the sheets I just washed yesterday, and the jeans I had planned to wear on our pseudo date tonight because they hold up my ever-sagging ass to acceptable social standards.
Take Ivy's whole birth experience for example. It was a scheduled, repeat c-section that should have taken all of 30 minutes in surgery, a few hours recovery time, and they'd hand me a screaming bundle of joy. Instead, my OB was late because she was on the phone with Fisher-Price tech support and then my baby had to be in intensive care for 10 days because she forgot how to breathe. It took over a week before I was able to hold her, and I got to be a visitor instead of her mother.
The genetics were there; she has my nose and stubby legs. But as a caregiver, I was useless for a week and a half. So I got up every 2 hours to pump and deliver a few ounces of breast milk to the NICU freezer. It was all I could do as a parent. And it may be selfish, but even though my baby was the one hooked up to IVs and tubes out the wazoo, I wanted to feel needed. I needed to feel needed. I had just spent the last 9 months incubating and growing my daughter, and suddenly my services were obsolete?
Now she's a perfectly healthy baby, with colic and all. It's still hard to process. At one point after her lung collapsed, we asked the neonatalogist if we had to worry about Ivy being in stable condition. She answered, "If you're asking me if the baby will die? I don't know."
How do you go from that to complaining about leaky diapers and extended bedtimes? Aren't I supposed to be grateful for every frustrating minute I have with my kids? I suppose I just have to do what I can , when I can--whether sucking the juice out of my boobs at 3 a.m. or a load of onesies and pants covered in poo.
Todays' subject line quote is from How I Met Your Mother (2005).
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Is it just me, or did the world just get blurry?
Since my absence, I've had several requests to revive the blog. Unfortunately, even though I've been feeling better physically, I just haven't necessary gusto to provide a decent entry...or decent thought... It's been a classic "life gets in the way" scenario. Sharing my body with another person, even if she's only a 4 pound fetus currently, just makes it difficult to be myself.
But I'm now 34 weeks along in the pregnancy, and I am beginning to realize that I need to write to thrive. Also, I only have about a month before my entire existence is thwarted by a newborn and I'll never have the time or brain power to blog again. Between sleep deprivation and being constantly covered in baby, bodily fluids, I'll be lucky to turn on the computer, much less type out a brilliant and hilarious entry for the masses.
So where do I begin--again? This blog rebirth has taken so long, I have literally tens of stories to relay. Dom and I finally took our European vacation, I may (or may not) have run over a pedestrian here in Slidouche, we hosted a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party for our now 3-year old, and am now blackmailing said child into brushing his teeth and not crapping his pants with the infamous Santa Claus fable. Today, however, I think I'll just fill you in on a few thoughts regarding the holidays.
I have finished my Christmas shopping in record time this year because we drew names out of a hat for both Dom's and my family. Since I don't have to waste all my precious brain cells coming up for with approximately 20 billion horrible gift ideas, it just happened that I purchased my last holiday obligation this morning. Now if I can manage to avoid any public venues until January, I can rest easy knowing that I have successfully dodged the Christmas spirit being shoved in my ears and left to mix around my brain until it's a cheery, puree of holiday gray matter.
Want a fun fact? I don't go out between the months of November through January without a charged iPod at the ready to drown out the ridiculous and incessant carols. Nowhere is safe! I can't get a sandwich at McAlister's Deli without hearing some tune about a fat man who's creepily watching me sleep--and probably pee. So I just crank up my playlist and pretend the archaic language of these songs isn't being blasted around me on a P.A. system that's probably more than a decade old. Because lets face it, gaily decking someone's halls sounds more like a hate crime than decorating a mantle with fake, evergreen leaves.
Today's subject line quote is from Dom, disembarking the plane in Ramstein, Germany (September 2010).
But I'm now 34 weeks along in the pregnancy, and I am beginning to realize that I need to write to thrive. Also, I only have about a month before my entire existence is thwarted by a newborn and I'll never have the time or brain power to blog again. Between sleep deprivation and being constantly covered in baby, bodily fluids, I'll be lucky to turn on the computer, much less type out a brilliant and hilarious entry for the masses.
So where do I begin--again? This blog rebirth has taken so long, I have literally tens of stories to relay. Dom and I finally took our European vacation, I may (or may not) have run over a pedestrian here in Slidouche, we hosted a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party for our now 3-year old, and am now blackmailing said child into brushing his teeth and not crapping his pants with the infamous Santa Claus fable. Today, however, I think I'll just fill you in on a few thoughts regarding the holidays.
I have finished my Christmas shopping in record time this year because we drew names out of a hat for both Dom's and my family. Since I don't have to waste all my precious brain cells coming up for with approximately 20 billion horrible gift ideas, it just happened that I purchased my last holiday obligation this morning. Now if I can manage to avoid any public venues until January, I can rest easy knowing that I have successfully dodged the Christmas spirit being shoved in my ears and left to mix around my brain until it's a cheery, puree of holiday gray matter.
Want a fun fact? I don't go out between the months of November through January without a charged iPod at the ready to drown out the ridiculous and incessant carols. Nowhere is safe! I can't get a sandwich at McAlister's Deli without hearing some tune about a fat man who's creepily watching me sleep--and probably pee. So I just crank up my playlist and pretend the archaic language of these songs isn't being blasted around me on a P.A. system that's probably more than a decade old. Because lets face it, gaily decking someone's halls sounds more like a hate crime than decorating a mantle with fake, evergreen leaves.
Today's subject line quote is from Dom, disembarking the plane in Ramstein, Germany (September 2010).
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Find your own funny quote, I'm too lazy.
I halfheartedly apologize for neglecting this site for the past few months. With the joy of a little one on the way, I have become an Olympic caliber athlete in the categories of toilet hugging and bitching.
But since the first trimester is coming to a close, I find myself slowly moving out of the worst of the pregnancy. Now instead of doing the technicolor yawn every forty-five minutes, I've simply joined the ranks of the walking comatose. Seems I'm unable to function by 2 p.m. these days. I have to hope I sitting down by mid afternoon and not falling asleep during my 78th trip to the bathroom.
There are women who adore being knocked up; they're the ones who never get morning sickness, back aches, and sneeze out their kids in a 4 hour, natural labor. I never got my invitation to the super-awesome-at-being-pregnant club! I have to slave and toil, from the ralph-o-rama to 46 hours of labor. Even then the kid had to be surgically removed from my uterus because I utterly fail at being a preggo.
So to all of you who had it easy and think I should embrace the "miracle of life", kiss my ever-growing ass. My babies are smarter than yours.
But since the first trimester is coming to a close, I find myself slowly moving out of the worst of the pregnancy. Now instead of doing the technicolor yawn every forty-five minutes, I've simply joined the ranks of the walking comatose. Seems I'm unable to function by 2 p.m. these days. I have to hope I sitting down by mid afternoon and not falling asleep during my 78th trip to the bathroom.
There are women who adore being knocked up; they're the ones who never get morning sickness, back aches, and sneeze out their kids in a 4 hour, natural labor. I never got my invitation to the super-awesome-at-being-pregnant club! I have to slave and toil, from the ralph-o-rama to 46 hours of labor. Even then the kid had to be surgically removed from my uterus because I utterly fail at being a preggo.
So to all of you who had it easy and think I should embrace the "miracle of life", kiss my ever-growing ass. My babies are smarter than yours.
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