Stop! It's Hormone Time!

I fully intended on writing a post about my hormone problem to the musical beat of McHammer's "You Can't Touch This." It would have been AWESOME but then I realized I'm not nearly as creative as I like to think, so I gave up on it. I also tried to come up with a song to go along with the WonderPets theme, but that didn't work either. I only succeeded in getting the damn thing stuck in my head. AGAIN.

You're Welcome.

Anyhoo, Zach's amount of time spent on the boob is tapering off and my hormone levels are adjusting upwards accordingly. Fun for everyone. Especially DJ.

Which explains some of my recent posts and why, upon initially reading about Baby Emily, I was a blubbering, teary mess for a good while. And when I say a GOOD while, I mean MUCH longer than I would have been normally. And then, NO ONE commented on that post, and I thought I totally ticked everyone off for telling asking you to donate to her family and THEN it took a while for more than 2 of you to comment on my RECIPE post and I thought for SURE I'd pissed you guys off and then I got all high-schoolie and was like "OMG, nobody likes me and I'm such a loser and I have no friends and no one is going to ask me to the prom and OMG." And then 2 more of you commented and Tootsie even gave me an award, which reminded me that Z had also give me an award and then I started to feel better but I was still not sure you all weren't mad at me and then it got hot and I drank a glass of wine and I complained and then you commented and now I'm starting to feel better about myself. And THEN Holly gave me an award and I was all "OMG, I'm totally going to be PROM QUEEN because people like me so much!"

But I'm still hormonal. Could you tell?

And in case you're wondering, Baby Emily is in Boston at Boston Children's Hospital and the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, which is where Chris from Crazy Sexy Cancer is treated, so it can't be a bad place for her to be. Also, I've been following this blog lately and she even linked to Emily's story, so all the guilt I felt about bringing it to you has been washed away. To clarify, I didn't feel guilty about bringing you the story, because it's a desperate situation and her family needs help and I don't feel bad about helping them get it. NOT. ONE. BIT. I'm not sure where the guilt part comes in. Probably because I HATE asking people for things. Apparently that holds true even if the things aren't for me.

And now I must go because I've been blogging all morning and Zach has playgroup in half an hour and I haven't even showered yet.

But First! Deadliest Catch premieres TONIGHT! TWO HOURS! Set your TIVO or DVR or whatever!

Some People Are SO Stupid

I really don't know how some people make it through life. I heard about this woman yesterday, who is apparently very beautiful and college educated, but you wouldn't know it by her day to day actions. Supposedly, she put a pitcher under the water dispenser in her fridge door (to make some lovely Lipton Cold Brew Iced Tea, which, according to the STORY I heard is her favorite*) and promptly FORGOT about it. Shortly thereafter, she had a HUGE puddle of weak iced tea all over her newly laid tile floor. Apparently she forgot about the pitcher for so long that it took two bath towels to mop up the water AND she had to pull out her fridge to dry up the water that had seeped underneath it.

GAWD, some people are such morons. I even think I heard that she has, at one time or another, forgotten to turn her Crock Pot ON and OFF. I'm so glad I'm NOTHING like her.

*From what I heard, Iced Tea is her beverage of choice (during the daytime hours, of course) and Cold Brew perfectly supports her lazy ass because all she has to do is fill a pitcher, add some tea bags and VOILA! 10 minutes later she's got iced tea. Of course, it's not necessarily time/energy saving when she forgets to remove the pitcher before it overflows. Then, it takes a lot of extra time and effort to clean up. But, I'm sure that only happens once a week doesn't happen all that often.

Just Set It and Forget It!!!

Have you ever bought anything from an infomercial? Like a juicer or a meat roasting contraption or soap? Or have you ever bought anything BECAUSE of an infomercial? Like, you were too embarassed to actually order it form the 800 number, so you logged on to the website or Amazon or EBay to purchase it, or snatched it up when you saw it at Target or the As Seen On TV Store? Or, have you ever jumped in your car and driven directly to the As Seen On TV Store for a specific item immediately after seeing it on TV?

I ask this because A) it's Saturday morning and my TV is littered with "Paid Programming" and B) because I'm actually considering ordering something I've Seen On TV. Two things, actually.

First, I totally want to jump onto the "Bare Minerals" bandwagon. Really. I do. I've even figured out what shade I need to order (light to medium). My hope, as is the hope of any dope who's ever fallen for the claims of an infomercial, is that it actually IS AS AWESOME AS THEY CLAIM. Will I end up with flawless looking skin? Will it make my skin glow and radiate and shine and reflect light and make me look downright awesome? Will it? Will it? Will it? Can you tell me? Will it?

Second, I want, no, I NEED, the Pancake Puffs pan. Hello?! Pepperoni Pizza Puffs? Meatball Sandwich Puffs? Pigs In A Blanket Puffs? Sign me up! Right. Now. I know, I know, I astound you with my gourmet sensibilities. But really, I want it. That shit is right up my alley. I wonder if you could stick mozzarella (or better yet, smoked mozzarella) tomato & basil in there? Are the possibilities really endless? Could I spend hours coming up with Puffs recipes and then come back to you to report on them? Then, you too could order a Pancake Puffs pan and join in on the fun! OMG! It could be a whole blog carnival thing. Like, every Tuesday (what day doesn't have a gimmick attached to it yet? I can't keep up) we could all come together and make some sort of puff recipe. Just kidding. That totally wouldn't work, but that's JUST HOW EXCITED I am about my impending perfectly palatable Pancake Puff pan purchase.

And, in the interest of full disclosure, the two things I've purchased from informercials are:
1) ProActiv as a zitty, oily skinned teen ager. It worked. I used it until about two years ago when I crossed my fingers and hoped that age and pregnancy had changed my skin enough that I would be able to survive without it. It had. Although I still keep some on hand Just. In. Case. Like, for when I develop a zit on my chin, which happend yesterday. Sweet. I'm 15 again.
2) Winsor Pilates. 20 minutes a day, three days a week?! Even I could do that. And, I'll look like Daily Fuentes. Awesome. Sadly, the VHS tapes are stacked with all my other VHS tapes in the cabinet in my bedroom.

So, have you ever ordered something from an infomercial? Have you ever WANTED to order something from an Infomercial but didn't? And, I didn't even upon up the can of worms that is QVC, HSN or the best one EVER, Celebrity Shopping Network. And I had NO idea that ProActiv & Winsor Pilates would be the top two products on the CSN homepage until I just went there. Awesome. See how awesome I am?

Most importantly, though...Will Bare Minerals work for me? Will it?

Put Me In A Straight-Jacket and Institutionalize Me

Okay, so I realize, much to DJ's chagrin, that I've outed myself to you people as being completely insane. On more than one occassion. But I really, seriously, truly need to be tossed into the Looney Bin. That's probably not politically correct. The Crazy House? No, that doesn't work either. The Insane Asylum? Do those even still exist? Okay, whatever. You get the point.

But after last night, it's been reconfirmed. Sign it, Stamp it, Certify it and stick it in the mail. I'm Certifiable.

It all started out innocently enough.

Put Zach to bed. Check. Sleeping soundly, no wheezing, hacking or visible discomfort.

Put Dylan to bed. Check. "I don't need a book" means I just want to go to sleep. Fine. "Good night. No Bugs. See you in the Mornin!"

Cut to 3:00am. I'm awakened by something. I'm not sure what, just something. I listen. It's hard to hear over DJ's snoring breathing (he's still stuffy). Then I hear it. Dylan coughing. No, HACKING. Bad. Like, really bad. I jump out of bed and race to his room. Um, no. He's sound asleep. Doesn't even wake up when I go bounding in there.

Okay, back to bed. I must have been dreaming and it woke me up and I was uneasy from the dream and was still half (or 3/4) asleep and thought I heard something, but I really didn't and I need to just forget about it and go back to sleep. Nothing to see here, folks. Head on pillow, eyes closed. Almost asleep.

Again, there's something. I roll over, sit up and listen. Definitely, something. Coming from outside, maybe? It sounds like someone screaming, crying. A toddler? Outside at 3:00am in the 40 degree weather? No. Maybe? I open my window and listen. Muffled freeway noises. Night noises. "You're hearing things" I tell myself. There are no abandoned children wailing outside your house in the middle of the night. "But" I think, "remember that urban legend about the murderer who plays a recording of a baby crying to get people to open their doors and then he attacks and kills them. What if it's that? What if it's NOT that and someone has ACTUALLY left a baby outside my door. Clearly, they've seen my awesome parenting skills and have chosen ME as the best person to raise their child." CLEARLY, the don't read this blog. There is no noise, there is no abandoned child, there is no serial killer playing tapes of crying babies. Just my imagination, once again running wild. So, back to bed. Again.

Again, something. My attention is drawn to the baby monitor. ZACH! OMG, It's Zach! I, literally, FLY out of bed and into his room. He's lying there, asleep, making these creepy little moaney-type noises upon every exhale. HOLY SHIT. There must be something wrong with him. Some terrible case of RSV, newly developed from his little innocent cough. His lungs don't work and he can't get enough air. (Mind you, I JUST commented to Mrs. Flinger that RSV is not nearly as dangerous in older babies as it is in little newborns, but that realistic outlook doesn't cross my mind at 3:15 in the morning. Or when it's my child. DUH, I'm prone to freaking out.) So I turn on the hallway light, pick my baby up and inspect him. Blue lips? No. Bluish fingernails? No. He starts to fuss. Oh, shit. I'm waking him up. Insert pacifier. He fidgets, opens his eyes. Looks at me like "Where the hell did you come from?" and gives me a little smile. I sit down with him in the rocking chair and get him back to sleep, all the while I monitor his breathing for any irregularities. There are none, save for the occassional moaney-type noise upon exhale and occassional little cough. Put him back to bed. Watch him for a few minutes to make sure he's fine. Go back to bed myself. Lie there, thinking about the HUGE probability that he's going to stop breathing at ANY MOMENT and return to his room to bring him to bed with me. At least I can keep my eye on him, and in the event of his imminent death, I can be there for CPR until the paramedics arrive.

So what happens? I bring him to bed with me, he sleeps. And BREATHES . I lie there, wide awake. Still freaked out about the serial killer and the abandoned child. Once I forget about those things, I start to think about, what else? BLOGGING. Holy shit, people. I laid there, in bed, with my breathing child, at 3:30 AM, and thought about how I would relay this whole incident to you, the internets. Really, I did. For, like, an hour maybe. I kid you not.

Now, if thinking there was a serial killer playing the sound of a crying baby, or that someone would actually PICK me to raise their abandoned child, OR that I was convinced my baby was about to die because he was making a kinda funny noise WHILE BREATHING, if all that wasn't enough evidence to prove that I need to be committed, surely the fact that I laid in bed and wrote my blog post IN MY HEAD about the whole situation is proof enough. Yes?

All I can say is that I hope they have wireless interent in the psychiatric hospital.

Oh, and this post was much more amusing in my head in the middle of the night than it is right now. Why is that?

Open Mouth, Insert Foot

Have you ever said something so mind-numbingly stupid that you wanted to melt away and disappear, right there on the spot? This WOULD have happened to me last night if I'd been with people other than my in-laws. What I said was still mind-numbingly stupid, but I didn't want to melt away. I just laughed and thanked my lucky stars I wasn't with people I felt the need to IMPRESS, because, let me tell you, what I said was FAR from impressive.

It all started because of this incident:
**Contains footage that will make you close your eyes, cover them with your hands and peek through your fingers, because you just HAVE to see what happens, even though it makes you feel physically ill. It's like a really bad car accident. You can't look away even though you REALLY don't want to see the horrors.**


So, anyway. We were at Ou*back having dinner (can I get a "Whoot Whoot" for the Queensland Salad?!) discussing current events. Like when our kids pooped last, how awful night shifts are for my sister-in-law, etc, when I have the genius idea to bring up the above referenced incident. I'd seen it on TV the night before and had JUST read the article in the local paper. Yes! We saw it! Oh My God, how awful was that? Did it sever a vein or an artery or something? WHAT EXACTLY HAPPENED? everyone says.

Oh, Oh! Pick me! Pick me! I KNOW THIS!!!! I JUST READ IT IN THE PAPER!!! I watch Discovery Health! I'm totally knowledgeable about human anatomy! TOTALLY.

"Well, what happened was, his teammate's skate came flying up at him and cut across his neck and severed his CARTOID artery. " Blank stares. "His WHAT?" sayd DJ. "His CARTOID (like CAR-TOYED) artery. Apparently it supplies blood to the brain. Unlike the jugular vein which takes blood away from the brain." Duh, I think. These losers are SO stupid.
DJ looks at me incredulously and starts to laugh. "I think you mean "Carotid" artery." "NO", I say, starting to feel foolish, because I KNOW what the CAR-O-TID artery is. Duh. "The newspaper said it was his 'CAR-TOID' artery. And anyway, isn't 'carotid' artery spelled "corotted"?

To make a long story short, people, I'm apparently dyslexic and read "carotid" at "cartoid" and thought there was some new, previoulsy unknown to me, artery in the neck. There is not. And it's spelled "CAROTID" not "COROTTED."

DJ said it was the "most un-educated thing" he's ever heard me say. I guess that's meant to be a compliment. Right?

And that concludes our anatomy lesson for the day. Unless you want to hear about my cervix, in which case you can just scroll down. Enjoy.

Peeps are Kuh-Razee

Or, maybe it's just me for watching it on TV.

I turned to TLC at 12:17pm today expecting to see another riveting, informative episode of What Not to Wear. Sadly, it was a riveting, not really informative episode of Bringing Home Baby. Of course, I sat here and watched it (Zach was eating, so I wasn't being completely lazy). Then, at 12:30 yet another episode of Bringing Home Baby came on. Uh oh, it's MLK day, which means TLC random show marathon. I sat here and watched that one too. I was trying to dis-entangle something that had been horribly disfigured in the dryer, which, with Dylan's "help" took me almost the full half hour and included a few slips of curse words, one swat at his diapered ass, followed by a few tears and some hugs.

Then 1 o'crazy came. A new series of TLC shows called, wait for it...Kids by the DOZEN. Yes, you heard correctly, DOZEN. Each episode, and there are four airing in a row, profile different families with 12 or MORE kids. And NONE of the episodes focus on that crazy nice family with, like 32 children. Who are they? Oh yes, Jim Bob & Michelle Duggar. Nope, not about them. There are, apparently, more people out there who reproduce without stopping. The first family was, shall we say, a little strange. They seemed nice enough, they drive a re-conditioned school bus around Colorado and their oldest daughter, GASP!, doesn't speak to them. Huh. Oh, and the best part was that they were throwing one HUGE birthday party for all the kids. They spent $130.00 on food for the 150 people coming to their party. I kid you not. That's just the ALCOHOL bill for my parties. (Remember, mark your calendars for March 15th.)

The second family, currently being profiled, seem like nice, normal people. Apparently mom & dad like to, you know, Boom Chika Bow Wow and don't, apparently, believe much in birth control. Anyhoo, the basis of their story is that their oldest, at 18, is presently getting ready to leave for college. Mom's bummed, cause, how, HOW will she keep herself busy with only 11 children at home? Oddly enough, the oldest kid seems like the nicest, most thoughtful 18 year old kid I've ever seen. A BOY. EIGHTEEN. With 11 younger siblings, thoughtful and nice. Wow. I might have to track down his parents and ask them how they did it. Not the 12 kids part, cause NO THANK YOU, but the whole raising thoughtful, nice boys part.

Especially today. Cause mine? Not so thoughtful or nice. I've been yelled at, grunted at, cried at, pointed at, frowned at and pretty much boo-hoo'd at. It's been a real treat. In an effort to, I think, keep me from giving them up for adoption, Zach decided that today would be the day that he'd get all cuddly. You know, not "I'm a baby and I'm cuddly by nature" cuddly, but, "I'm 5 months old now, aware of my surroundings, I LURVE my mommy and I'm tired, so I'm going to cuddle my head into her shoulder" cuddly. Oh Good God, I totally melted. It was so sweet. That made me decide to keep Dylan around. Cause, you know, he was like that once too. And Zach enjoys his company. So do I, sometimes, I guess.

***
Dylan just came out from his "nap" which consisted of playing with his trains and the dog. Hmmm...what's that smell? Oh. Nap time consisted of pooping WHILE playing with his trains.

Me: Dylan, did you poop?
Dylan: No, don't touch me. Don't touch that, it's mine.
Me: Don't touch what? What's yours?
Dylan: My poop. It's mine. Don't touch my diaper. (Yelling Now) DON'T TOUCH MY DIAPER. I'm going to dump this out. Proceeds to dump out entire basket of Mega Bloks.

***
Lesson: People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. I'm just as Kuh-razee as the rest of em, I just don't have 12 kids to prove it.

She's Trying to Burn the House Down!

Have any of you ever made a kick ass dinner in the crock pot (like, say, Oh, I don't know, Turkey Chili) and turned it to low to keep it warm...and then realized the NEXT EVENING that it was still on low?

No? Okay, good...me...either.

No Links, Just Pictures

OH MY. I spent the day picking up/cleaning the kitchen and moving the Kissmas stuff out to the garage. I even hand washed dishes, DRIED them, and PUT THEM AWAY!

Here's what my sink looks like right now.

And my Island.

Wha?! Where is the Meghan you all know and love?! Where has she gone and who is this neat, tidy woman who has replaced her?

Have no fear. This is what the chair in my living room looks like right now.

So that I don't have to leave you with that image, here are some recent shots of the boyz.

Zach has found his tongue. He makes some obscene gestures with it. I might nickname him Gene Simmons.

Oh, and a large assortment of my Swarovski crystals came today. It was quite a lesson in restraint to not widdle away my day making stuff with them. I have refrained and will start that tonight while we watch Superbad. SO. EXCITED.

I Wasn't This Crazy Before I Became A Mother

I used to not be afraid of anything. Well, almost anything. There were the usual fears of rabid dogs and strangers offering candy, which was well justified. (I'll tell you that story another time.) But for the most part, nothing caused the sort of fear that made my heart beat fast, my throat close up and a vague sense of nausea sit at the bottom of my stomach. I never had an overwhelming urge to get out of bed on a chilly winter night to make sure that things around the house were okay.

Then, I became a mother. Suddenly the world held dangers that I had never before realized. Around every turn, out every door, beside every stranger there is some horror about to befall us. I constantly check that my doors are locked, both to keep others out and to ensure Dylan stays in. Windows are closed and locked at night, regardless of the warm summer breeze, because, GOOD GOD, someone could sneak in the window and steal my baby. The boys are strapped snugly into their car seats because car rides have become the number one danger. Plane trips, which used to hold so much excitment, now instill a fear in me that never existed before. Not because I'm worried about terrorists, but because PLANES CRASH, and who's to say that the one I'm on with my children won't? Car doors are locked because of the fear of a carjacking. Banks are off limits because we might be involved in a bank robbery (we have a serial bank robber running amok in our area right now).

I've woken up at night before, out of bed and screaming because of a dream that masked men had come into my bedroom. Last night, I dreamed that Dylan's shirt had gotten caught in an escalator and he got sucked into it right before my eyes. I woke up with that now familiar rapid heart beat and sick feeling. I FORCED myself to stay in bed, because I KNEW there was no way an evil escalator had snuck into his room and gobbled him up. He was FINE. There was no need to check on him. Within about 10 minutes he'd made his nightly trip into our bed, so I pulled him close, just to reassure myself that he was there and whole. As soon as I heard Zach start to stir on the monitor (YES! He sleeps in his own room now!) I got up and brought him back to our room. I needed them with me, to reassure me, their crazy, insane mother, that everything was fine.

I've been shaking my head and pulling my hair out over the "insane" fears that Dylan has developed. Santa is currently at the top of the list, but the vacuum and any type of power tool are a close second. I keep wondering how long these "irrational" fears will last. Will he grow up terrified every time a drill is used? Will he be 8 and still run away in terror every December when we run into Santa at the Mall? No. He's only 2 1/2 and as far as he's concerned, the vacuum is just as likely to suck him up as it is the dog hair on the floor. Santa is a big, imposing figure in a bright red suit with a hidden face. Can't really blame the kid for being wary of him.

He'll grow out of his fears and dive into the ocean, as I did as a child, without any worry about drowning. He'll hop into a car with his friends one day and won't even think twice that they'll get into a car accident. He'll grow up to use power tools and won't be consumed with fear that the saw will cut off an appendage.

I realize that it's my job to worry about all of that. To make sure that the lifeguard at the beach is close by and that the surf isn't too high. To make sure that seatbelts are worn, safety glasses are donned and bike helmets are snug. That's the job of being a parent. To take on the fears that your children are too innocent to know on their own. To keep them aware of the dangers, but not consumed by them. To get up in the middle of the night to make sure they're okay. To be on guard for potential dangers, without instilling in your children a fear of the outside world.

So, I accept my temporary insanity. I won't make any apologies for it. I'll allow my children to run in open fields of wildflowers without telling them that a rabid dog MIGHT, JUST MIGHT, run out of the forest and attack them. But I'll be there with a big, rabid dog beating stick tucked securely away, within easy reach.

Hey, you never know. Better to be prepared than caught off guard, right?

I'm an IDIOT

I was SO proud of myself earlier that I'd gotten my shit together and actually PLANNED ahead and put a roast in the crock pot. YUMMY...warm roast w/gravy and potatoes on the rainy night we're supposed to have...what could be better? We could all sit by the fire and eat our scrumptious slow cooked roast while listening to Christmas music and gazing into each others eyes*. All of this would have been possible HAD I REMEMBERED TO PLUG IN THE CROCKPOT. So now, I hope my roast has enough time to cook, or I'm going to have to come up with something else to make for dinner. It's hard enough for me to make ONE dinner a day, let alone two.

*None of this would EVER actually happen, save for the eating of the roast.