Caved

“There's where you went wrong, sweetheart.” said my mom.

My mom, dad, brother, LL and I were on our way home from a Tigers game. Lakeland had entertained us for the almost three hour trip to Detroit, was perfect through nine innings, and had finally lost her shit once we were in the car headed home.

I knew she was tired, and I knew that she was going to continue ramping up the level of cranky until she either a) fell asleep or b) I could distract her.

And so...I caved. I did. I gave Lakeland my phone to play with and man OH man, was she happy. Day in and day out, Lakeland begs to play with my phone, only to be rebuffed. But not this time! This time, mommy caved.

I let her play with the phone for a few minutes, and then, gingerly, I took it away. “All done, peanut.” I cooed at her. And she looked at me as if I'd ripped off her ear and started screaming. And screaming. And screaming. She screamed bloody murder for the next 15 minutes. Which is a long time when you are in a car. I tried talking to her in a soft, motherly voice. I sang her favorite Ella Fitzgerald songs to her. I stroked her hair. Not impressed with my efforts, she continued screaming.

Lakeland finally screamed herself into dreamland, and I looked at my mom, seated on the other side of LL's carseat, and shrugged. “I never give her my phone”, I said sheepishly.

“There's where you went wrong, sweetheart.” said my mom.

“I know, I know. I caved. And I never cave!!” I declared. “I seriously haven't caved since, well, the last time I caved.”

Similar situation. We'd been out to dinner with friends, and LL was tired and stuck in the car. Seth and I were traveling back to our friend's house, and somewhat unfamiliar with the area. Which is why I busted out the GPS. And then Lakeland started to cry and I promptly handed over our navigation tool. Duh.

Happy as a clam in the backseat, Lakeland worked on rerouting us to the nearest Gymboree, absolutely delighted with the constantly changing screen, the arrows, and the woman that repeated “recalculating”. How fun for her!

Behind the steering wheel, Seth's face was kind of steely. I figured out waaaayyy too late that it was a horrible idea to give LL the GPS, but I couldn't help smirking at the “beep, beep, beep, 'recalculate', beep, beep, turn left in 200 feet” ,combined with Lakeland's absolute squeals of joy from the backseat.

Here's a kind of breakdown of the conversation between Seth and I:

Seth (with a touch of sarcasm): It might have been wise to not give her the GPS.

Me (outright sarcastically): Well, she's not crying.

Seth: Right. And...we don't know where we're going.

Me (hopeful): You kind of know where you're going, right?

Seth: No, not really. Can you get the GPS back from her please?

Lakeland (reconfiguring our route): Weeeeeeeee!!! Oooooohhhhhhhhhh!!

Me: Nope.

Seth (mumbling what sounded like a transcript from the dad on "A Christmas Story"): AUGH, you blurt rattle trash camel flirt, you blawter prattle sheet gerbil! Omma bomb sack botta saratta, bottom cotta botta, rotta! Billy wam wadger! Drop dom fraud hostical!

Me (because I'm an asshole): Are we there yet?

Full Name Invoked

the sad, soggy faces of lakeland's friends after being fed an unexpected lunch...

Two months ago (it's taken that long for me to mostly recover from the following experience), I invoked, in that unmistakable "mom tone", my daughter's full name. I could hear my mother's voice feathered in my own as I blurted out "Lakeland J Weinburger!".

I could hardly believe what I saw. I was astounded. Shocked. Appalled. All that. What had happened was so awful that, as soon as Seth got home that afternoon, I wordlessly took my laptop to my room, closed the door, loaded up old episodes of Roseanne (shut up, I love that show - don't judge), and ate ice cream.  Straight from the carton.

I thought it was just my good luck that Lakeland was taking a 3 hour long nap - a rookie mistake. There wasn't a peep from her room for so long that I had started to worry. I finally, slowly turned the door knob and peeked my head in, expecting to find my little angel asleep. And there she was. Covered from head to toe in "the majority of my diet for the last 7 days has been blueberries" poop.

Covered. There was black poop on and in: her mouth, hair, nose and ears. It was between her fingers and her toes...all twenty digits caked. Stuck in nail beds as if she'd been giving herself a manure manicure and a poop pedicure. She'd fed feces to Curious George, Winnie the Pooh, and Mr. Goatface, spread shit on Dr. Suess's beloved Whaley. She'd bookmarked each of her favorite reads. She'd flung dung on her gorgeous, treasured quilt. She'd defiled sheets and super fluffy shaggy WHITE lamb shaped pillow. Smudged each rung of the crib and surrounding walls.


I just stood there. Mouth agape. Lakeland was completely naked, though highly decorated in what looked like Native American war paint, having figured out that she could have a great time finger painting with blueberry poop if she could just get her cloth diaper off, and if she stayed very, very quiet.

I was frozen. I couldn't even move past the doorway. I had no clue what to do. After several mute minutes, I took action. In what my aunt deemed the "Mommy Hazmat Suit", I stripped down naked, knowing that as soon as I got within 3 feet of Lakeland, I'd be covered in poop myself. I lunged toward my little darling and swung her out of her crib, holding her with my arms straight out in order to leave the widest possible berth between her crap-caked body and me.

A thorough scrub of two girls, and everything in between the nursery and the shower, along with the passing of two months, and I am able to impart the following wisdom/lessons:

1. It only takes one phone call to cancel cloth diaper service.
2. It only takes one blueberry poop story to get out of a "two weeks notice" contract from said diaper service company.
3. One child, with developing digestive system, should not be fed raw blueberries for 20ish consecutive meals.
4. Quiet child does not equal sleeping child.
5. Oxyclean is the shit.

Squirrel Stand Off

I spend the majority of my time hanging out with a toddler. So when really funny stuff happens, or when I make up really funny stuff, sometimes I wonder if Lakeland really gets me, or if my humor is mostly lost on her.

For instance...the other day I walked outside and there were two squirrels on opposites sides of my street. They were facing each other. On their hind legs. And I was all (in a snarky and out loud voice) "What? Squirrel standoff!?! What is it, guys, what's the problem? Money? Drugs? Women? Think it over!"

The squirrels were unimpressed. As was Lakeland. Yet, I chuckled to myself the rest of the afternoon. "Squirrel standoff", I kept thinking...that's funny. I don't care who you are.

I got snubbed by my kid

Yesterday was the gut-wrenching day that all working mothers abhor. The first day of dropping my sweet baby off with a trusted friend and returning to the office to work. It went like this...

Me: She probably needs to go down for a nap soon. Here's her food. You'll know when she gets tired because she will fall down a lot and she might start getting kind of slappy, and biting.

Stacy (the babysitter who has a daughter and knows exactly what she's doing...): OK, we'll be fine! Don't worry, I've disinfected the whole house, everything is childproofed, and I have this lovely brand new pack and play and high chair for Lakeland. It's going to be great!

Me: Maybe I should try to put her down for a nap...?

Stacy (sensing I need reassurance): OK, if you want to, but I can totally put her down.

Me (tentatively, and really trying to stall): Well, OK, let me just feed her quick.

Meanwhile, Lakeland was laughing and playing with the cats and dog and checking out her new environment with the kind of fervor only a 15 month old who still wakes up many times per night can muster. Of course I thought that she was going to be as devastated as I was when I left. She just didn't know it yet. (Prfffft)

I finally made my way towards the door, after an outburst of tears (from me, not Lakeland) and headed to work. Where I watched the clock and wondered "Is she napping OK?" and other motherly stuff like that.

Throughout the day, I received text message updates and pictures of Lakeland playing with Haily, Stacy's daughter, looking happy as can be, and my worry subsided a bit.

Later, another picture of Lakeland sleeping peacefully further reassured me. But still, I was antsy to get back to her. I was sure Lakeland was missing me as much as I was missing her... (Prfffft)

Finally, when I burst through Stacy's door, expecting a huge hug and enthusiastic waves and extended cuddle time from my daughter, I was instead greeted with an almost disregard for my presence. Lakeland sort of looked at me as if I have been gone for just moments, and proceeded to race after the cat, squealing and laughing and pointing. I barely got a glance. Feeling both relieved and rebuffed, I made plans to bring her back next week.

I'm a battered wife...

It's the weirdest. Every time Seth and I go through a drive-thru, I end up feeling like a battered wife.
It goes like this:

Drive thru guy: Can I take your order?
Seth (quickly & efficiently): Yep, I'll have a double stack, a large iced tea, a chicken nugget and a fry.
Drive thru guy: Is that all?
Seth: Nope, we also need...(and then he looks at me expectantly)
Me: Ummmmm....I'lllllllllll....haaaaaaaaaaave....theeeeeeeeeeee....ummmm......a......
Seth (all super annoyed with me) - to the drive thru guy: Hang on! (trying to prompt me by looking at me and bobbing his head like how chickens peck at grain)
Me: (kind of nervous, feeling rushed, and trying to frantically read the dollar menu before I get yelled at...) OK, I want a............um.........junior bacon cheeseburger....and.........
Seth - (whispering without whispering, in that quiet but loud way) to me: Oh my god, seriously? It's the same menu as always.
Me: I know, but you are making me all nervous. I cannot make a decision when I'm nervous. Just let me look a second. It' not that big of a deal.
Seth - (kind of apologetically) to the drive thru guy: Hang on! She doesn't know what she wants.
Me: And, I'll have spicy chicken nuggets...
Drive thru guy: What kind of sauce?
Me (all frantic again, trying to remember what my choices are): Um.....the mustard...the sweet...the honey mustard! And fries, please.
Drive thru guy: Is that all?
Seth (rolling his eyes at me like we've been in the drive through for an hour and a half, when it's really only been 2 minutes): Yes, that's it.

And then, when we get up to the window and we are waiting for stuff, I say to Seth, "Hey, can you get me a sweet and sour sauce too when the guy opens the window?"

Seth, in this highfaluting way says "No! If you wanted sweet and sour, you should have ordered it at the first window where you were supposed to order it...I'm not going to make that guy do extra work just because you didn't order what you wanted. "

To which I respond, "I did it on purpose Seth, because if you order extra sauce right away, you have to get in a big stupid argument with the drive thru guy over the goddamn microphone about how the nuggets only come with one sauce. Then you have to explain how you don't care, you need two sauces, and then they say 'well, you're gonna have to pay extra for that', and it's just a big hassle. But if you just wait until your food comes out, then ask real nice if you can get a sweet and sour sauce, it's not like they are going to ask you for a quarter. And it only takes one second for them to get the sauce for you."

And the way Seth looked at me, I knew he wasn't going to get me the sauce.

So then I said "Whatever. Just lean your head back when the guy comes with our food, and I'll ask him myself for the sauce. Why are you such a drive thru dick?"

Then the window opened and I got my sauce.

Team Clean Gets Mad

So twice a month, a nice young girl comes over and vacuums and dusts and cleans the kitchen and washes the floors and the disinfects the bathroom. Yes. I have a cleaning lady. I know, I know...it's incredibly self-indulgent, and I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I can't keep up. I am the leader of "Team Clean-Grand Rapids", for crying out loud, and I have a cleaning lady.

But hey! I work full time, and I'm a stay at home mom full time. How do I do both, you ask? Well, I have a cleaning lady come in once every two weeks. It's really the only way to survive in my world.

Anyway, so insert here a long story about AT & T and what bastards they are and how I hate them, and then skip to this morning...

I received a bill, which was supposed to be for $33. And it wasn't. It was for $127.37. So of course, I call customer service and start ripping into the service representative about how they purposely try to dupe people into buying things they don't want or need, etc... Insert another long story here, with ranting and raving.

Of course, the whole time I'm on the phone, LL is sitting nicely in her highchair, shoving blueberries into her mug, and the cleaning lady is dusting and wiping down tables, and presumably, listening.

I finally get off the phone, resolving the bill while simultaneously getting my gripes in, and I turn around to see a sort of wide-eyed, mop holding, sweat trickling girl looking at me with this great amount of admiration. And she says "Can you please call on my bills for me, too?"

And then she says, and this is the whole point of this story..."So...you clean when you are mad, huh?"

Sheepishly, I look at my powdery white hands and wrists, the remnants of a Comet cleanser attack on the kitchen sink. I had done all of the dishes, scrubbed the counters and disinfected the sink, all while my cleaning lady looked on...

Bromance leaps into unchartered territory...

Happy 4th anniversary!

Seth and I celebrated our 4th anniversary with flair this year...see picture, left.

Let's take a walk through anniversaries past. On our wedding day, Todd [the left ass in this picture], Seth's BFF, was the one to declare us husband and wife. It was a beautiful moment on our perfect wedding day.

On our 1st anniversary, Seth and I returned to the place of our reception, 5/3 ballpark, and took in a game after a nice dinner and some...ok many...cocktails. Followed by additional beers at a local watering hole.

On our 2nd anniversary, we were in Ohio, on Burger Family Vacation. During the day, all of the Burger girls were pampered with massages, and Seth arranged to have a bouquet waiting for me at the spa. That night, Seth and I drove into town to catch the All Star game and have some cocktails. And then we returned to the vacation house and continued with libations and laughing, in the hot-tub, until dawn.

On our 3rd anniversary, Seth talked me into going to see this Star Wars special. With Todd. Technically, it was the symphony, but it was combined with a weird and gaudy giant movie screen showing scenes from the films. And it was emceed by a guy who played either R2D2 or one of those other metal looking guys, I don't know for sure. And, after a particularly gutsy symphonic performance, Todd shot up out of his seat and yelled out "Fuck yeah!" amidst all of the children and many black tie bedecked patrons. One year later, I continue to be thankful that I had enjoyed several cocktails prior to the event.

And on our 4th anniversary***, the movie "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" was released. So I invited myself to go with Seth and Todd to the midnight showing, on our anniversary, because there was no way Seth was going to not go at midnight.

On the afternoon of our anniversary, pre-midnight movie, Seth and Todd enjoyed a nice lunch together. Followed by a trip to the parlor. The tattoo parlor. Where they each got a new tattoo. A new matching tattoo. Of the Deathly Hallows. Matching Harry Potter Deathly Hallow TRAMP STAMPS. A permanent indication and declaration of their bromance. On our 4th anniversary.


***I will note the following:
1. Seth wrote me a really great poem and read it to me aloud. Which is quite romantic, I think.
2. Seth took me to dinner at a restaurant we discovered when I was pregnant. Awful service and great food.
3. Before the movie, Seth went with me to Costco, and he hates Costco. That's love.
4. Seth secured a reliable babysitter. I'll give you one guess who that was...

Well, that's embarrassing

I drove through Wendy's today, and I ordered a kiddie meal for Lakeland. I've never done that before. I realized I was really embarrassed to be feeding my toddler fast food when I cut a large chunk of cheeseburger off and gave it to her. And found myself thinking, "Oh my God, what if she chokes on that? I'll have to call 911 and the paramedics will know that I was feeding my kid junk food."
I'm so ashamed...

The Best Thing Happened...

My friend Jacoba and I were talking about Real Simple magazine, and how unrealistic their "Get it Done in 15 Minutes" articles are. They have this minute by minute breakdown of how to clean your huge bookshelves in 15 minutes, or clean and detail your car in 15 minutes. It is so dumb. Who has a latter, unfolded and waiting for use, sitting in their living room, or a shop vac next to their car at all times?

Anyway, so I ordered the magazine for my friend, so that we can have monthly competitions to see who gets more crap done in 15 minutes. And I filled out the order form to be sent to:

Jacoba Clean It Alderink.

And they misread it.

And now she is receiving 12 months of Real Simple magazine addressed to:

Jacoba Cleantit Alderink

Which is worth every penny.

Jet Puffed Super Jumbo Marshmallows

The other day I discreetly followed around this grandmother and her 9ish year old grandson at the grocery store. And by "discreetly", I really mean that I tried to make my almost constant neighboring of the two of them look unintentional, not like I was invisible, which is impossible with a 1 year old [kinda loud] passenger in your shopping cart.

Anyway...

So the grandma asks her grandson, in that creaky grandmother voice "Jonathon, what would you like for breakfast tomorrow? How about pop tarts?"

And little Johnny's eye's got all big and wide and excited and he said "Really Grandma? Can I pick out any kind I want?"

And the creaky grandmother said "Of course, sweetheart. Whatever you want, and then we can go see what kind of frozen pizza you want for dinner tonight."

Johnny zoomed over to the wall of 863 different kinds of pop tarts and chose the s'mores variety, jam-packed with wholesome nutrition, I'm sure. And he cradled the pop tarts in his skinny arms as they turned to head to the frozen food section.

Together, we arrived at the frozen food freezers, me and LL pretending to check out various varieties of vegan TV dinners, and Grandma and Jonathon investigating different pizza topping and crust options. Johnny was having a hard time choosing, even with Grandma making one suggestion after another.

He finally made his selection and we were off to the salty snack aisle. Johnny's little face looked up and down, back and forth, side to side at the stacks and stacks of snacks. And then I heard the little genius say "Grandma, I'm a little freaked out by all of these choices." Wow. Good call, Johnny.

A couple of weeks ago, we were camping and one family brought the ol' campfire favorite, marshmallows. But they weren't normal marshmallows. They were these absolutely ridiculous, jet puffed, super jumbo marshmallows. They were so big that once you stuck them in the fire to roast them, they expanded from baseball to volleyball size. It was nearly impossible for them to even remain on the slim roasting stick, weighty as they were. Though somewhat entertaining, the size of these marshmallows didn't change the product. What was wrong with the 'normal' sized and mini marshmallows? Why is there a need for these Jumbo's? Why do we demand all of these packaging options for the SAME STUFF?

I think it's just overboard, overload and plain and simple over-consumption by consumers to have a need and/or demand for 91 ways to wrap up the same exact product. I'm not saying I don't fall for it. Club brand crackers makes a mini version and guess who buys them? This girl right here. With some shame. But would I buy the regular size, perforated crackers if I didn't have the mini option? Yep.

I learned a little something from Jonathon...maybe something about 'less is more', maybe something about choosing simplicity over chaos, maybe something about expressing fear of too many choices.

I don't know, but I'm glad I melted those Jet Puffed Super Jumbo Marshmallows down and made them into rice krispie treats, because the bag on top of my refrigerator kept reminding me, in an annoyingly judgmental way, of how much we really have, when we really need very little.

Proof of Jorts

Proof of jorts. With dragon shirt. And socks with sandals. Awful, right?

I hate baths.

I hate taking baths. I maybe take two baths a year...maybe. Both on the advice or insistence of a well-intentioned Seth, telling me that it will make me "relax" and "feel better".

Honestly, I don't know how sitting in ones own filth is relaxing. I mean, it's a production just to get to the bath-taking part of taking a bath. I have to scour the entire tub and rinse it all out, and clean the sink, toilet and counter, because if I don't, the whole time I'm supposed to be relaxing, I'm looking at (and obsessing over) a sink, toilet and counter that need to be scrubbed.

I'm not sure who started the rumor that a bath is relaxing. What benefit does a hysterical, naked woman receive from sloshing around in hot, soapy water? When I am all stressed out, and my sweet husband has tried everything else to calm me down..."Honey, what can I do?", "Do you need a beer?", "Do you need to get out of the house?" , "Babe, you haven't said anything in like, two hours, are you really OK?"... he disappears for a little while and then returns, leading me by the hand to the bathroom, my most unfavorite place in the whole house. 

Where he has run me a bath. 

And set out a clean towel. 

And filled up a water bottle. 

And turned on music. 

I mean, what was I supposed to do with all of that thoughtfulness?

There was nothing I could do except take the bath. So in I go, and I try not to look at the spotted fixtures that need to be buffed, and I try not to see the long strands of my hair on the tiled floor, and I try not to look at the rugs that badly need to be shaken out, and I try not to think about how I'm definitely going to have to take a shower as soon as this whole bath experience is over.

So, you can just imagine how horrified I was when, one night, our 1952 "Original that Came With the House" soap dish fell off the tiled wall, leaving a gaping, disgusting, wet hole. The owner of our neighborhood hardware store hooked me up with some cement stuff and said that the ceramic soap dish AND the hole needed to be "extremely dry" before I could fix the wall. Which meant the only way to get "clean", at least for the next day or two, was to take baths and try not to get any water in or around the big gross cavity that used to be a nicely tiled shower wall.

I waited an eternity (two days) before cementing a slightly damp soap dish all around the edges, and then I shoved the old thing as hard as I could into the wall. It was a bit crooked, but what did I care?! Hole COVERED! The job was fairly sloppy, so I dragged my finger along the cement and smoothed it down a little, making it look a little less like the construction job of an uncoordinated 5 year old. 

And I waited. 

I waited exactly 12 hours less than the directions noted before taking a much needed shower. Upon stepping out of the tub, I looked at my handiwork, which was still holding strong, though I noticed that the gray adhesive looked a bit, well, gummy, I guess. But who cares!??!! I was CLEAN!

Not long after drying off, Seth and I heard a giant crash but neither of us could identify the noise and so it was quickly forgotten. Until the next day. When he yanked the shower curtain back in preparation for his morning shower and saw that ugly wet hole again, and this time, the monstrosity was paired with the pieces of a broken ceramic soap dish laying on our Elmo bath mat.

And just like that, we were forced to take to the tub again. Only this time, in addition to the partially dried, gray, gummy cement that had to be removed from the tiles, I also had to find a replica soap dish that would actually fit over this gaping eyesore. And it turns out that it's difficult to find a soap dish made of ceramic that is the size of a Buick. So I had to buy a slightly smaller soap dish and a giant tube of caulk. And I had to wait. Again.

I sustained one more bath and then decided I needed to figure out a way to take a shower without actually fixing the stupid hole.  And the same idea dawned on me that has dawned on many incompetent tradesmen before me. The thing that owns its very own rhyme, smartly incorporating the F word. The thing that is sported on many a t-shirt, is the pun of so many jokes, has become a very popular and cost efficient material for hats, prom dresses, wallets, purses and countless crafts, the thing that every single household has in droves, the thing that saved me from any further bath-taking....DUCT TAPE!

Paired with Saran Wrap, Duct tape saved the day, the week, the (embarrassingly) month! It may have been the ugliest "window" in the house, but it was by FAR my favorite.

Flip the bird

There is a reason I don't flip the bird. Actually there are a couple of reasons, and they dovetail quite nicely with the reasons I don't honk my horn and I don't merge in construction at the last possible second.

The reasons are 1. I have horrible luck and 2. I usually end up feeling bad, guilty, or embarrassed about my outburst.

An example. The other day, I was driving the speed limit on a residential street, and this red Pontiac Sunfire zooms up behind me. Usually I just mutter "what's your big hurry, asshole?" to myself, but on this particular occasion, it really pissed me off, so I tapped my brake. Yep, I did. And I know that this driving move is frowned upon, but seriously, the car was all but in my backseat. So the driver of the Sunfire honks, several times, then proceeds to step on the gas and pass me (in a no passing lane).

Without even looking at my target, I rolled my window all the way down and stuck my whole entire arm out and waived around "the bird" like a crazy woman. And then I glanced over at the offender. And she. was. very. large. and mean-looking. And she seemed pretty upset about my gesture.

She swerved in front of me and mirrored my own obscene salute, but with even more flair and vigor. And anger. Which made me um...a little nervous. I left a wide berth between her car and mine, quite sure that at any moment, she was going to throw her car in park and stomp out into the street to kick my ass.

It turned out that she didn't beat me to a bloody pulp, but what did happen was that a block up, there was a red light. No matter how slow I went, and I went sloooooooow...I still ended up totally stopped and unpleasantly close to her (though I would have been uncomfortable at any distance shorter than about a 5K). I mean to tell you, I was near enough to see her red eyes glaring like the devil in her rearview mirror. Thankfully, I went unscathed. But this is the type of thing that happens to me when I flip the bird.

It's the same with honking my horn. The three times I've been irritated enough to lay on the horn, my victims were undeserving, like an old lady turning into her church.

And I don't even try to be one of those people that merges at the last second in construction, because I guarantee that a semi truck would block me, and all the other drivers would cheer. Or I'd end up butted up to the giant blinking arrow sign on wheels, (the one that tells you if you aren't in the other lane yet, you're screwed) with my turn indicator on, sheepishly begging someone to let me over. All the drivers who already made the merge would simultaneously hug the bumper of the car ahead of them and flip me the bird.

The Coffee Whisperer

It starts at a little before 6am. Daily. My one year old, who prefers sleeping in my bed over her crib, is sitting next to me, high-fiving my face with one hand and signing for milk with the other. Sparse sleep habits have trained my body to depend heavily on caffeine. And so, I hear the whisper in my head... "I need coffee...".

I coax Lakeland back to sleep for 15 minutes, and then the sequence repeats itself...tiny hands slapping my sleepy face awake, signing for milk, and that whisper.

I finally give up on the notion that Lakeland is going to go back to sleep, and rise at around 7am.

My first priority is simple. Make coffee. Make coffee right now.

I slog to the kitchen, a babbling baby on my heels, and that's when my maniacal behavior begins. I see the coffee pot, but it's beyond my reach, blocked by the stack of clean pots and pans that have air-dried overnight. So I put away the dishes, and notice that the dishwasher needs to be emptied as well. Might as well get everything put away in one kitchen-cleaning swoop. And once the dishwasher is open, and empty, I might as well load any lingering dishes from the day before. And wipe down the counters. And chip the dried food off of the highchair. And sweep up the stepped on dust particles that used to be cheerios.

OK. Time to make coffee.

Oh, wait. Actually, I need to change LL first, because she's been hauling around a 10 pound diaper. So I lead her to her nursery, looking longingly over my shoulder at the coffee pot. The empty coffee pot.

Once LL's diaper has been peeled off and replaced, I notice that her vicious talons have returned, as they do every 4 days it seems, and she is in serious need of a nail clipping. And in a sing-song voice, I tell her it's time for her morning manicure. So off we go to the bathroom to clip both finger and toe nails, and, since we are in grooming mode, brush our teeth.

It's been almost an hour, and the whisper has become louder and more urgent. "Coffee. Coffee. NEED COFFEE."

And though I have every intention of turning towards the kitchen, a stray pile of dirty clothes catches my eye, and I feel a powerful pull toward them. It will only take a second. Then, I realize that in that pile is my only pair of jeans, and they have smashed avocado and hummus ground into them...I mean more than the standard amount of ground-in food, which I would happily and willingly sport. And I need to wear those jeans today. And so, off we go, downstairs to start a load of laundry. And there is already a load in both the washer and the dryer. Of course. So we end up downstairs for 15 minutes, me frantically folding and LL nabbing and unfolding, both of us working (against each other) as quickly as possible.

Finally, it's time. Coffee time. Happy dance!

Back in the kitchen, Lakeland finds and inhales all of the cheerios on the floor that I missed on my first swipe through. She's obviously hungry, and I need to feed her. And again, the coffee is on the back burner. Well, actually, no burner at all.

I get LL all set up in her highchair, and throw some non-floor cheerios on her tray to buy me a few minutes to forage for something decent for her to eat. I inadvertently find whatever is going to create a giant mess, pretty much every morning, and start feeding this ravenous creature, food flinging everywhere. Which means a full on bath is in order after breakfast, not to mention yet another wipe down of the kitchen.

And then it's nap time. Hers. Not mine. And I need to start working, so I turn my computer on and head back to the nursery to put the baby down for her nap. Once she's down, it's around 9am, and I've deprived my body, for three hours, of its only basic need thus far in the day. It's not craving sleep or food or drink...hell, I haven't even peed yet. Just coffee. Simple, beautiful, aromatic, dark, wonderful coffee.

And finally, I make a pot and the whispering is quieted. Until tomorrow...

JORTS!

He said he got them as a joke. Seth bought THE most rancid pair of jean shorts (Jorts) he could find. They are so stretchy and old manish. They are that kind of bright blue color - more dye than denim, and he rolls them up. Twice. So they are also short. Gross.

He unveiled these shorts on the Saturday of Memorial Day Weekend, after having threatened me for months that he was going to get a pair. Everyone was cheering him on, but I refused to be an accomplice to his misguided purchase and poor fashion decisions.

On Monday, Memorial Day, he said "Don't worry, honey. The jorts are just a joke, and I'll only wear them when we go camping." That's what he said.

Fast forward to the next Saturday, our town's festival. I had strep throat, so I couldn't go downtown and eat meat on a stick and listen to accordions, but I gave Seth my blessing to please go, enjoy, and take Lakeland. I picked out a super cute outfit for her, and then shuffled back to bed. Seth, adorned with the jorts (you knew that was coming), put Lakeland's sandals on, WITH socks, which totally ruined the cuteness of her outfit, and headed out. I was too weak to argue the merits of stylish footwear.

Sunday. Seth pulls the jorts on. Again.

MONDAY. MORE JORTS!

I don't know. Three days in a row is excessive for any article of clothing to be worn no matter what it is, in my opinion. Add to that, he knew I could do nothing to stop him. I was too sick to swallow my own spit, so protesting was absolutely out of the question.

I feel pretty sure that the jorts are to become a staple in Seth's wardrobe. Which is funny and sad at the same time. It also means we get to start playing the game where he has to hide them from me, out of fear that they will never return from the laundry pile in the basement. Feel free to ask him where his half-calf cowboy boots are...just sayin'.

The Whistler

Seriously. There is an old man that lives three doors down, and the dude whistles all day, every day. And I always forgot about it until those great summer days roll along, when you can't help but open up every single window in the house.

So here I am, working away in the kitchen on my ailing laptop, daughter snugly tucked away for her nap, and I'm listening to this nonsensical whistler. There is no rhythm, no order; he's not whistling the "Star Wars" theme or anything else. He's. Just. Whistling. Nonstop. It NEVER stops.

Probably more than half of me is irritated, and the other less than half part is all "How neat! This guy is so freaking happy all day long, every day, just to be putzing around in his yard, so he spontaneiously whistles to let some of that joy out."

The irritated part of me wonders why this old coot doesn't ever take naps.

The Blue Devil

Seth bought this old tin can of a car. It's so old that when I tried to research the last year the car was made, not even Google could find any relevant information. And it's so small that it can fit in our recycling bin.

This car is so ugly that I'm afraid if I'm even unfortunate enough to have to hitch a ride, I'd have to sit in the back seat, all hunched over, embarrassed teenager style, lest someone I know see me.

Originally, Seth had talked about buying this car for "rainy days"...so he didn't have to walk to work in the rain. Originally I said "I don't want that P.O.S. car in my driveway." Originally, he said "Honey, it will stay on the street". Originally, that was the plan.

And then we went on a week long vacation. And Seth decided that this car, dubbed "The Blue Devil", would make a magnificent anti theft device if parked in the driveway while we were gone. Perhaps because anyone that owned a car that ugly couldn't possibly have anything worth stealing? I certainly don't think the car gave off the impression that someone was home. Looking at it, it was far more likely that the car was sitting there because it couldn't' quite chug it's old self into the garage.

And that is where The Blue Devil lived. For three weeks. Because it died. Right there in the driveway. The very first day of ownership.

No worries though; Seth figured out the cause of death, revived the car, and now it sits once again, in my driveway, as a deterrent to thieves while we are away.

True (pregnancy) Stories

True Story: So I went to Target to shop for baby shower gifts for a friend. I’m standing in the baby section, surrounded by 800 billion different products, and I start BAWLING because I don’t know the purpose of ANY of these contraptions. Like, there are these dispensers for stuff, and little ovens for certain types of bottles and wipes, and these kits with these attachments, for what I cannot even imagine, and special dishwasher baskets and hand washing baskets and these crazy devices where I guess you can pump certain stuff out, or keep other stuff in (and fresh! Don’t forget fresh!) and special designs for every single thing! I know what baby powder is, I know how to get the right size diapers, and I know what onesies are. Beyond that, I got bupkis.

True Story: Overnight my boobs, once a cute duo of Volkswagen Beetles, are now a couple of Cadillac touring sedans. I don’t care who you are, or what size your airbags were before that sperm drilled into your egg, nobody likes to be forced to rent a cargo van when they are used to driving a compact car. And I keep hearing that this is just the beginning. Which freaks me out. A lot.

True Story: Before you decide on a baby name, I’ve discovered that it’s incredibly helpful to yell out said name very loudly, followed by a pretend offense the forthcoming child will surely commit, and see how it feels. If I feel embarrassed to yell out “Neil Steele, did you smear peanut butter on the TV?” (Which incidentally, I would feel embarrassed to yell out, due to the rhyming), then it’s just not going to be a good fit. I also found it to be highly amusing to be downstairs, folding laundry, and yelling fake names at fake kids for fake naughtiness. Total stress reducer!

True Story: The grocery store is the worst place ever. I thought if I could just avoid the meat and fish departments, I’d be fine, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. And do you know why? Because. People don’t brush their teeth. And they don’t shower, and they don’t put on deodorant and they just don’t care. And being pregnant magnifies all of these scents about 6,000 times. I cannot help but glare unabashedly at these people and make low growling noises. If the offender is particularly disgusting, I say “gross” out loud when I walk past. I figure it’s nicer than punching them right in the face. Plus, this way I don’t have to touch them.

True Story: Our neighbors and good friends have 2 cats and a dog, a black lab I’m in love with named Luke. I stopped by the other day, entering, as usual, through the side door. And I must have turned an ugly shade of green because my friend immediately asked me what was wrong. I wanted to yell at the top of my lungs, “OH MY GOD!” Where is the litter box and why haven’t you cleaned it EVER???” Of course, I wouldn’t normally say anything like that, because it’s rude. However, as I am quickly learning, I no longer have a “Don’t say that out loud Erin” filter. And that lack of filter, coupled with an overwhelming sensitivity to smells, did in fact make me say “Jesus, woman. Where the F is the litter box? It smells like ass in here!” And I said this in the kitchen, and the litter box, which had been emptied and freshened just a day or two before, was in the basement and on the complete opposite side of the house. As so I learned that litter boxes, no matter how clean or how far away, are so pungent that you could swear a cat just took a shit on your upper lip.

True Story: I was almost asleep, thinking about the delivery room at the hospital (OK, mentally decorating the delivery room at the hospital) when I suddenly realized that I am to give birth at a Catholic Hospital. So I roused Seth from his near sleep and asked “Seth, am I not allowed to swear at the hospital? Because that is not going to work for me.” Seth is of the opinion that if you’re giving birth, you get kind of a free pass for swearing, but I’m worried. I don’t know what I’ll likely yell out, but I can tell you that I’m no stranger to the phrases “Jesus Christ” and “God Dammit”. They, along with a plethora of other ‘non-taking-the-Lord’s-name in vain but shouldn’t be yelled in public’ expressions are kind of part of my everyday vernacular. I guess the best I can do is hope those nurses don’t dole out Hail Mary’s and stuff while I'm in labor.

Tidbits of chicken

First, let me say that I'm the baby of the family, not the first born. And I'm exactly the same way as my friend Jacoba in the "must control the kitchen" department. I'm not totally proud of it, but for real, if raw chicken touches the blade of the kitchen shears, then they better be washed. In hot water. With soap. The antibacterial kind. Along with the sink, the counter, and anything else in the kitchen that could have raw chicken germs on it, either from direct or indirect contact.

So when Seth cooks with chicken, I either stand in the kitchen, hovering and hovering and wincing and making nonsensical outbursts that consist mostly of short bursts of air leaving my lungs and traveling noisily through my lips, or I leave the room. And try really hard not to think about what's going on. While cradling my antibacterial spray bottle that will make everything all better in the morning when he leaves for work and I start the disinfecting process.

And the thing about it is...Seth and I get mad at each other, or alienate the shit out of one another, while Cob and Rob joke around and laugh it off. Is this a duration of marriage type thing?

i am quite sure that to Rob, it's rather irritating for you to say "go make dinner" and that you "don't care", and then you back seat cook the whole time he's in the kitchen. or maybe it's not irritating anymore? does he accept it, and love you even more for your crappy kitchen maneuvers? honestly...