Gyminus Maximus

I went to the gym this morning while PP played in the child care dropoff and Mike slept. He is working nights for a couple weeks (which is the equivalent of torturing our whole family) so I tried to get us out of the house to keep it quiet for him. He has a bigass fan for white noise and to keep it cooler up there. Since we have a Cape Cod style house and the only rooms upstairs are two bedrooms and an attic, the heat gets trapped and it can get hot as a mofo during the day (how exactly hot is a mofo, you ask? I dunno, ok? Really, really hot). So, we crank the air (I'm ready to show my boobs to the Electric company to get them to lower our bill), and have a few fans going. What we really need is dual zones installed and a new attic exhaust fan. Oh yeah, and the money to pay for that would be awesome. I'll give you my paypal address. Anyway, I digress.

I took an aerobics class (which I will NOT reward with a treat) and spent most of my class staring at the woman in front of me. She was one of those I-have-kids-but-I'm-rich-so-they're-in-a-Montesorri-School-while-I-spend-hours-working-out-and-tanning-while-my-executive-husband-works types. She even had a matching workout outfit. I'm lucky to pull my sports bra out of the laundry, hope it's clean, put my hair up, and get to the gym, hoping the banana crusted to my pants will peel off. I don't know why she annoyed me so much. She was tan, she had a nice body from all the working out she obviously did, had her blonde highlights and expensive sneakers. Was I jealous? I have a good life: a great husband who above all else is my best friend, a good job with a situation where I can work from home three days a week, a house, a car, nice things...I shouldn't be jealous.

But I was. I wanted all that free time to get my hair done, work on my tan, exercise 78 hours a week. I am lucky to get to the gym twice a week, and though I do get my nails done, it's only once a month. How do some people seem to have it all together and I feel like I am always one step behind myself, cleaning up my own messes, and barely holding it together?

I want a matching gym outfit, damnit.

Yes, it happens THAT often

Me: Don't touch me.

Mike: Why?

Me: Because I have my period.

Mike: Again? Didn't you just have it like three weeks ago?

Me: Yeah, that's kind of how this thing works.

I'll see your 4.8 and raise you, um...

Mike lost 4.8 lbs at Weight Watchers this week.

I gained 0.4.

Not terrible, not great. I seem to think that when I work out more or do things like clean out the garage, I deserve more food, a reward if you will. I need to start rewarding my hard work with non-food items, like shoes. (Yes, honey, I need more shoes, I will always, always need more shoes.) Food is not to barter with myself with. It is not a reward. I need to remind myself of this, so that when I do go to the gym or earn some extra calories, I don't go gobbling it down with hoisin sauce.

I am proud of Mike for doing so well this week; he really made an effort not to over-indulge. I'm sure my voice at the restaurant on Friday night (Do you really want the extra piece of bread?) was more annoying than helpful, but nonetheless, he didn't eat it. And look what happened. 4.8 goddamn pounds. In one goddamn week.

I am going to start sprinkling uber-protein powder in his food. We'll see who loses more next week.

I earned my Chinese Food

When we bought our house, I was about 5 months pregnant. I was in the mad pregnant rush to get everything ready for the baby. All the rooms needed painting, the basement had to be finished, and the nursery needed furniture, I had to pick a theme. So much to do. God, why isn't it done yet? And is that dirt? Is there dirt in the molding? Must get toothbrush and clean every crevice.

Needless to say, whatever we couldn't find a place for went in the garage. And as our baby got bigger and grew out of items, they found their new home in the garage. There were unpacked boxes still there, sharpie written on them that they were, indeed, very fragile. Under 600 lbs of other boxes. Oh well.

Mike has been whining for about a year now that he couldn't stand the garage and we needed to clean it out. I kept telling him to wait until the fall and do it on a nice day. The leaves turned and fell and the garage became increasingly more full.

The winter came and it was too cold to be outside cleaning, so I told him to wait for the spring. The spring came and the shit hit the fan. The finished basement flooded, I got sick and ended up in the hospital, my grandmother got breast cancer, and I was out of work for two weeks. I was down a gall bladder, but it healed quick and by the end of April I was good to go. Then, the baby got sick with rotavirus, then Mike and I both got it, then it was her birthday... you see where this is going, right? There is never enough time, never.

So, my sister called me this week and asked what we were doing this weekend. Since we've had Charlotte, we're mostly unable to partake in any typical Memorial Day events (drinking till you puke and have a hangover the next day isn't as much fun when you're being beckoned at 5:30 am.. Momma!!! Dadda!! Uh-oh, bunny!!), so I told her were would be hanging around the house and to come over and the kids can play in the baby pool. She said if we needed to get anything done, she could watch Charlotte for the day. This would be the day. Oh yes, we would clean the garage. So, it was set. Saturday morning rolls around, and we get up and outside to play out front waiting for Amy and Colin.



Charlotte is obsessed with her climber - it's a miniture version of the one we have in the backyard, but it's perfect for out front. She used to just walk around it, trying to climb up the slide, but this weekend she managed to actually climb up into it all by herself. I looked away for 2 seconds and looked back to find her at the top, gleaming with baby pride, reaching for me, and suddenly I saw a teenager who didn't want me to kiss them goodnight, hug them, or be seen in public with them. I will remember this. I will remember her climbing to the top. I will remember her as a baby because this day will only be here now. I will.

My sister got here around 10 am, and the kids played in the pool (after I made about 73 trips into the house for buckets of hot water to warm up the ice cold hose water) while Mike and I started unloading the garage.





It took about two hours to get everything onto the driveway and front lawn. I powerwashed the garage floor while Mike ran to the sub shop. Then, we broke for lunch while the baby napped. There's nothing quite like a Jersey Mike's sub, chips, and soda on a hot day where physical labor is involved. Hits the spot.

Then we put together the huge mofo industral shelves we bought from Home Depot the day before (350$). We then began the process of putting everything BACK into the garage, this time organizing and purging.

Me: What the fuck is this? Do we really need two bookbags full of video games from 1984?

Mike: Yes, I need them. What if I want to play them?

Me: You are not going to play them.

Mike: Maybe I am. I want to keep them. Put them in the collectible pile.

Me: Oh, you mean with the other old ass video games?

Mike: No, with all my old Playboys.

Me: I give up.

So, fast forward 7 hours, 1 more trip to Home Depot (another 250$ for a 12 foot ladder), 10 feet of garbage out by the curb, 2 skinned shins, 1 asthma attack, 4 gallons of water to combat dehydration, 2 sticks of deodorant to combat massive stank, 2 inches of dirt caked on my skin, and we have one clean-ass garage.

Around dusk, we came inside, showered, ordered, and ate the hell out of some Chinese food. My sister and nephew left shortly after. Mike and I both took pain meds and went to bed at 9:30. We are party animals.

Today, we mostly putzed around (I got a manicure and pedicure while Mike played with the Peanut) and we went to our friend Steve and Brandy's for a BBQ. They have a Wii. Mike is now obssesed. I have to admit, it was fun. I still can't justify one more game system in this house, but it was nice to see them, "bowl" in their living room, and act goofy. Brandy is due with their first baby in 7 weeks. Being around her and seeing her cute belly gives me the baby itches again. I mean, I know I my baby is still a baby, but I miss being pregnant.

My friend Lauren is getting married in November and I am a bridesmaid. I don't want to be all fat and extra-jiggly in her bridal party. And to be frank, would like to get my drink on at said event. She's marrying a real-life Scotsman - how can you NOT drink at that wedding? But after that, I'm hoping to get pregnant again. Having a person grow inside you is one of the most amazing feelings in the world. I was lucky enough to have it once and I hope I am lucky enough for once more.


(How can you not want to eat her little face?)

Shake it like a polaroid picture

My kid has a thing for Elliot Yamin. Sure, she's only one. And yes, he is last year's third place on American Idol. But they are a match made in heaven. I always liked him on last year's show, so when he came out with his own album, I downloaded it, and it became a regular on our household playlist.

I don't know what it is about him, but as soon as one particular song comes on, no matter what Princess Peanut is doing, she will stop on a dime and shake what her momma gave her (not much in the tush department I might add). I don't know where she learned it. We don't go to music class or gymboree or any of that nonsense (we have a CD player and a yard, thanksverymuch). We don't watch TV and I certainly never taught her to dance like that. So, only two explanations remain. One: we are truly born with an ingrained sense of rhythm, albeit some more honky than others. Or two: my mother is teaching her how to shake her moneymaker while I am at work.

In either case, here is the proof:

Superstar

I work in a corporate work environment, Office Space style. On the two days a week I commute the 53 miles (yes, each way), I go into my cubicle, unpack my files, get a friend, and get coffee.

The department is usually pretty quiet, considering we're editors and are supposed to be, you know, reading and stuff. Usually, there is a curse word or two or 7,278 being uttered at frustration from author corrections, deadlines, people screwing up, people royally screwing up. It's more tense than it's not.

But there are friendships built on years of coffee talk, lunch dates, business meetings, commiseration, ducking when a stapler flies across the room -- and most of my colleagues are funny goofy people. However, in the deadline-driven chaos that is a publishing company, we often lose sight of that at work.

Today I was in a particularly giddy mood after lunch and a couple people I share a pod with (a section of 8 open cubicles) started talking about Saturday Night Live. When it was good. Will Ferell, Molly Shannon, Cheri Oteri... and this came up:



By the end of re-enacting Sean Connery on Jeopardy, I decided to go around to each pod, especially the quiet ones, and without a word, re-enact this scene:



Within a few minutes, everyone was laughing, talking to each other, making fun of me, calling me "that weird girl," trying to trip me -- but, hey, we had a break in our mundane stressful day and remembered that life isn't always meant to be taken so seriously.

Sometimes, we need to stick our hands under our armpits and smell them. Like this.

George Michael Said I have to Have it

There's a post over on All & Sundry that I came upon and it hit me on many levels. She questioned her lack of faith in a "God" and wondered what impact it would have on raising her son. I worry about this all the time.

Though neither my husband nor I have any religion to speak of now, we both grew up around it. I went to church every Sunday at Calvary Episcopal on 45th Street and Broadway. I wore little pink and white dresses, made communion, memorized creeds for conformation, ran around with the other small children during "coffee hour," the time all the adults would gossip after mass.


My memories from this time are so vivid. There was the mean little girl Jessica who would pinch and bite me, would deny it, and the adults believed the little con artist. There was the overweight elderly woman always in a green dress, with greasy peppered hair, who smelled so bad I would want to cry if she sat down in any pew near me. There were the bake sales, filling the church basement with aromas of chocolate chip cookies and brownies. My grandfather was a gardener in his spare time, always planting and weeding in our little 10x12 urban backyard. He took to taking care of the grounds of the church too. He planted a tree for the birth of his two grandchilren, my sister Amy and me. I have pictures of my tiny foot opposite his on either side of a shovel, ready to break fresh earth and plant "my" tree. Now, almost three decades later, the tree still stands, blanketing the grass with beautiful pink flowers in the spring.

I believed in God then. I believed if I was good I would go to Heaven where I would be reunited with all the other people who were also good. I would see my grandfather again and I would slip my tiny hand in his calloused palm and we would walk to the flea market. I would get to meet Jesus, who sacrificed for so many. We might even have cookies and milk together. I might become an angel or at least fly with one. All hopes of a child.


As I grew into an adult, I drank books. I read whatever I could. I would scream if my mother moved the cereal box off the table because I couldn't read the ingredients or how it was part of my complete breakfast. I became educated about the world around me, medicine, science, and began to question my place in all of it. The more I went to school and the less I went to church, the further Heaven became. And with that went God, Jesus, the Bible. They all became stories and characters, and I found scientific explanations for every religious moral story I was ever told.


Mike was raised Catholic, went to Catholic school, and his father still sings in the choir at church this very day. My father-in-law has trouble finding time to fit in all of his projects, but he will never ever miss church or choir practice. I am not sure when my husband lost his faith or why, and I guess that would be his story to tell. But one of the reasons we clicked so well is we were both on the same page. We believe in something, in some greater good, but it wasn't "God." No god of ours would let children starve to death, give them cancer, or create HIV. Therefore, there was no God. There was only science and economy and reasons. There was no faith, because what would we put our faith into if our baby got sick? Would praying to a God make her better? Or would the doctors have a better shot at that?

We believe that what we put out in the world makes an impact in some way, leaves a footprint, and will come back full circle. If you put good out, good will come back. It may not be tomorrow and it may not be in a form you can see, but it's there. We respect others' beliefs. We bow our heads when others are in prayer. We just don't pray.

But now I have a child that I am raising. In a faithless world. Part of me questions whether I am depriving her of a part of life that made my childhood so alive with colors, smells, memories...comfort. To always know someone was watching us, to know we'd see our friends and family who have left this earth again, and to just "be good" and we'd be rewarded. How can I take that sense of comfort and warmth from a child? But then, I look at all we are giving her. We are teaching her to be responsibile for herself and her actions. That they affect other people and leave an imprint on the world in which she lives. That being good should be to make herself and the world a better place, not to get into the gates of an afterlife.

And yet, some days when I sit and really think about it, I am jealous of those that have faith in their God. Some days, I wish I had never lost mine. Even though I now believe religion is just created to control and is the root of so much horror - holy wars, child abuse - I have pangs in my gut wishing I still was ignorant to my own knowledge and beliefs. I sometimes wish I still believed in God and Heaven, because now, if those things don't exist and any member of my family is ever taken from this earth, the thought of never seeing them again hurts so much I can barely catch my breath.

Kibble

When we feed my dog, she always, always, always takes a mouthful, walks away, then drops it. Then returns to her bowl, where she repeats this process one to two more times. By the time she is finished, the floor is peppered with little round pieces of whitefish and sweet potato kibble.

We were at first puzzled why she did this. Was it to annoy us so we'd step on said round hard bits with bare feet? Was it to keep us on our toes and wrestle these pieces from our daughter who, coincidentally, has an esophagus the same size has the round kibble?

We knew it wasn't a food aggression/possesion issue since we have raised her since a puppy, always messing with her food, putting our hands in her bowl, taking it away, pulling her ears and tail while eating. It may seem mean, but we were pregnant when we adopted her, so we knew we had to train her to be around a baby who would be doing all of the above. And it's a good thing we did, because Princess Peanut hurls herself onto our poor dog, gleefully giggling as she pulls ears and tail alike.

It came to Mike the other day why, in fact, our dog does this little routine with her food.

She is taking one for herself, and leaving one for her homies.

I heart benadryl

Ok, so I'm not an advocate of drugging my kid. I don't like to give her medicine unless I absolutely think she needs it - i.e., has a fever or is in pain (like when she cut four teeth at once, remember that? Oh jeeeezus, it was like armageddon - I swear I saw locusts). However, she started with a runny nose yesterday afternoon and it progressed to full-on congestion... when you ask? Oh, right around 11 pm, as soom as we had laid down to sleep. Then she was up all night long. About 5 or 6 times. I think I was awake more than I slept. She wanted her pacifier (what she calls "bippy") but her nose was too stuffy to suck on it. Nothing we could do would make her happy. It was a l-o-n-g night.

She was still pretty snotty this morning so I called her dayhome to make sure it was okay to bring her. Michele (the "nanny") said that as long as she didn't have a fever and it was running clear, that it was probably allergies. So, I let out a sigh of relief because I have more work to do than I can even stand without crying, and took her this morning. When we picked her up, she was still stuffy and Michele said she had kind of a rough day. She was a little whiney, had red-rimmed eyes, and kept sneezing copius amounts of snot. Then she would wipe her face on my shirt. Within minutes, my arm sleeve was covered in clear baby mucous. Oh yeeeeeah, baby. I am a sexy beast. You know you want me. So, then we went to my Mecca, aka Target, and used up her gift certificates to buy her a bunch of stuff she needed, and also picked up some benadryl. She is over a year now, so I am allowed to give it to her. She was so miserable, I figured it couldn't hurt.

I gave it to her at 5:45. By 6:15 her nose was drying up. She had a bath at 6:40 and by the time I gave her her last bottle at 7:00, she was completely decongested. Then, around 7:25, she took her pacifier and passed the hell out.

Dear Diphenhydramine,

You are my one and only. Can we be BFF, like 4eva? Circle Y or N.

Signed,
One sleepy snotted-on Momma.

The Big 0-1

Well, we invited around 30 people and we had 20 come for Princess Peanut's first birthday party. We had it at a little Italian place that I've frequented for years in Red Bank. They gave us the whole back room and the waitresses and owner were awesome. The food was awesome. The bes part is that it was a BYO place, so we showed up with over a dozen bottles of wine and only left with a handful. That's how I like to party at an infant's celebration. Like a rock star.

She was the cutest thing in her birthday dress that I have ever seen.



And she also really enjoyed the cake.



She also had a weird obsession with lemons, which my friend Lauren was none to slow to show her how to make a face with.



My grandmother was the party animal, having more glasses of wine that I could drink. Halfway through the party, she tapped me on the shoulder, made me bring my ear to her mouth and whispered "Honey, I think someone is drinking my wine. I close my eyes and it's gone." Completely lucid at 75, I knew she was kidding, but I kept pouring anyway. When you've reached a certain age, why hold back? She was out of the house, she was with family, she was having a good time, a bottle of wine never hurt anybody. The look on a buzzed septuagenarian's face is priceless



Afterwards, we brought PP back to my in-laws where they had agreed to watch her for us so that we could do out with our friends. We went to the Dublin House and sat outside for a little while



Until we decided our respective asses were freezing and we moved the party inside. We all had a few more drinks and called it an early-ish night, since the day had already been long. One of my best friends, Brian came in from Philly for the weekend and we had a great time with him as always. He's great with the baby and he makes jokes at other's expenses - what more could you ask for in a friend?



Here's Bridget and Mark (my brother-in-law), PP's godparents. Nice role models, all drunk-n-shit. ;)



Anyway, that concludes the photo journal of the baby's party. It was a good time had by all. Especially the elderly.

Princess Peanut turns one!

On year ago today at this very minute, I was being administered cervadil to start a labor that was taking it's sweet ass time. Shortly after this, I sent GamerDad (then just known as Mike) out to eat with my sister since I had been told that I was only 2 cm dialted and it would be awhile. Well, within 10 minutes of sending my husband (you know, the one who put me in said predicament) the contractions starting coming every 2 minutes and boy did they hurt. For the next two hours, my husband and sister sat a diner eating yummy diner food, while I cursed the very existence of diners. I wanted to die. I couldn't talk, couldn't walk, couldn't breathe. All I kept waiting for was to be 4 cm so I could get my epidural. My mother keps trying to comfort me, help me breathe properly, and not technically being a mother yet, I didn't quite understand her need to soothe or her pain at seeing her child in her own pain. All I wanted was for her not. to. touch. me. god. damn. it. Of course, now I understand, but then I just wanted to hold my breath until I died and then maybe, they could cut the baby out of me while I was unconscious and they would revive me, I would wake up and have my baby.

That didn't happen. I eventually got my epidural and it was heaven. All the pain stopped. The only side effect was that I could no longer feel my legs, and when I touched them, I could see that I was touching them, therefore my brain knew I was touching them, but it felt like a dead person. Cold and clammy. Very weird. I then of course was bed-bound and my labor slowed. A few hours later, they give me pitocin to speed up the process. By 9:20 pm, I was ready to push and by 9:50 pm, she was out. I should have known then that she was going to be trouble when she was in such a rush to get out, she stuck her hand out first and tore me somethiing awful. A score of stitches later, I was as good as new. Her right eye was swollen from the birth and she had a cut on her head from where they screwed in the internal fetal monitor. People say no matter what, your baby is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen, and to some extent they are right. She was the most beautiful prize fighter baby I've ever seen.



And apparently, her Daddy thought so too.


She was so small when she came home. I had expected to have a big baby since I was so big, but instead we had a little legume and her name became Peanut. She barely fit in her Daddy's hands.



Now, it's a year later. A year of trying and failing at breastfeeding, of getting up and going into work when she was only 7 weeks old, and on barely any sleep. A year of colic, screaming, colds, viruses, bumps, bruises, temper tantrums. But it's also been a year of smiles, laughter, first words. I am constantly amazed by her - every time I see her do something new or see her brain trying to work out a problem, I am convinced I have a genius baby. And am amazed that Mike and I created something so beautiful in a world that can be so ugly.


Happy Birthday Charlotte! Mommy and Daddy love you more than the whole word. And we always will. Even when you're 17, have green hair, a boyfriend named Ted who smells like patchouli, and swear you hate us and we are the worst parents that ever-ever-ever lived. We will even love you then.

Seven things I've learned about biking

Ok, so I mentioned earlier today that I went biking this morning for the first time in a long time. The last memory I have is riding my bike from my house to the beach - about 5 miles. And I also remember passing out once I got there and calling my dad to come get me because I couldn't bike back. I was probably 250 lbs then and didn't exercise at all. Mike and I decided we needed something to do together with the baby that could get us both some exercise in so we went out and bought bikes, and helmets, and a baby trailer, and water bottles... every essential for the hardcore suburban bicycler.


(Princess Peanut's new hot ride. We're gonna soup it up with a spoiler and chrome rims.)

After I dropped the baby off at her dayhome and before I dove into a day of editing, I decided to ride a trail by our house to make sure it would be safe to take the baby. First time in ten years, but in much better shape, here's a list of things I learned.

1) Massive Attack is awesome music to bike a wooded path around a lake at 730 am.
2) After 45 minutes of my rear end on a small firm bike seat, I suppose my flesh down under (and I don't mean Australia) may be the color of a large singing purple dinosaur.

3) A hardcore runner can outpace my slow ass on a bike for almost 5 miles, making me the most pathetic biker ever.
4) A bike fanny pack is an essential. Without one, you have no where to hold your keys and are forced to either put them in your bra or shoe, neither of which is very comfortable.
5) I am unable to read the warning label on the crossbar of my bike while riding and not have a near miss with a tree.
6) Inevitably, there will be a gaggle of geese around the only blind turn on the path. I almost had a Dicken's christmas dinner.
7) It was a lot harder than I thought but a lot of fun and I look forward to making it a part of our family life.

Never got weighed

Just when I thought we were all in the clear, Mike came down with The Virus on Tuesday afternoon so we never got to go to Weight Watchers.

The test results came back on a little girl in Charlotte's dayhome and it was in fact rotavirus. Luckily, it seems to have gone through everyone in everyone's family, so hopefully it's all behind us. Michele, the daycare provider, was so upset that all three of her little girls got so sick and she blamed herself. I tried to explain that no matter how clean of a house you keep, children are nasty germ factories and it wasn't her fault.

We bought bikes yesterday afternoon and I went biking for the first time in literally ten years this morning.

I will have more on that later, but for now I have to work while the baby is at daycare. I must squeeze every second dry of "free" time, though work is hardly considered free.

Weigh-in

I have to weigh in at Weight Watchers today after a two week hiatus. The baby was sick last Tuesday so we had to stay close to home awaiting the next diaper explosion. It's a lot harder to stay on track when you don't have to hold yourself accountable each week. But it got me to thinking, why do I need to face myself and that scale every week? Why can't the motivation of losing weight and being healthy be enough?

I've lost 74 lbs since the day I gave birth almost a year ago.

>
(Three days before I gave birth)

It sure sounds like a lot, but when I think about the 120 lbs I had lost prior to getting pregnant, I want to kick my past pregnant self for gaining so much weight.


(Here's what I looked like before I lost all the weight - circa 2002)

I was just so hungry all of the time and in the 8 months I was pregnant (Princess Peanut was born 4 weeks early) I gained 77 pounds. I just want to take it back and rewind and eat healthier and exercise. I was just so paranoid after a miscarriage scare that I didn't want to move off the couch. I went from going to the gym 4 days a week to going to White Castle 4 days a week. What if I jogged the baby loose? What if I strained on the weights too hard and made the placenta come off the wall? Looking back, these are pretty ridiculous thoughts, and now that I have completed a healthy pregnancy and know what to expect, I suspect I will continue to be active next baby.

I've got 20 lbs left to go to be at the weight I was on my wedding day.


(God, this makes me sick to my stomach sometimes)

I may never be that size again since I don't have the 12 hours a week I used to spend in aerobics classes and the gym, but I want to be that weight at least. All in all, I'd like to lose about 30 pounds in the next 6 months. I have a friend's wedding I'm in on November 3rd and would like to look awesome. Then, Mike and I have decided to try for another baby after that (so I don't have to be pregnant for the wedding) and I would like to be as healthy as possible before getting knocked up again.

That and I don't want to be one of those women who just look like they get fat when pregnant. I want the cute baby belly, not a tub of lard taped to my ass, hips, and middle.

My turn

I spent the morning in the bathroom. I thought I was impervious to the baby germs. I take vitamins, damnit. I drink V8 and eat healthy food. I have a good immune system.

I was wrong.

And because I usually go into the office on Mondays, I had to work at home (while taking a sick day.. I know, I know, ridiculous) in order to keep up with my deadlines. My morning went something like this: poop, edit, puke, edit... think about food, puke, edit, poop, check email, edit, poop. I started feeling better around noon and ate dinner at 5. It's now 8:28 and I have been successfully away from the bathroom.

PP has taken to not having a good afternoon nap and as a result, she turns into a seed of Satan around 4:30 pm. Nothing will console her. Today, she didn't even want her bath. I don't know if it was because I was the one bathing her when it's usually her current favorite "Dada," but she cried the whole time, and afterwards her screams were akin to pouring acid on a a cat in heat who just got hit by a truck. I got a bottle, she chugged it, and passed out early at 7 pm.


(Like this...)

What did I do with the extra half hour of "free" time? Dishes.

One day, I will read a book. Oh yes, I shall read like a crazy literate mofo. Next on my list is Harlan Coben's new one:

And I'm spent.

It's Sunday morning, and I'm still kinda beat from the weekend (ya know, the one that isn't even over yet).

Princess Peanut had to stay home on Friday instead of going to her dayhome since she was still kinda sick. Which means, I lose yet another day of work, which I am frantically making up for in the 35 seconds of free time I find. Luckily, Friday was puke/diarrhea free, and she slept a lot. I took this to mean she was fighting off the last of whatever virus was kicking her little ass. I had a Mom's Night Out planned for Friday night, and since she seemed better, I still went. I was the designated driver for a few of my friends and we went to a pub that had karaoke.

We got there early enough so we got a table right up front by the dance floor section. There weren't that many people there, but already I could tell it was going to be an interesting crowd. As soon as the music started, there were two women, late 30s, dressed like they were 19, dancing with men half their age. Ok, let's preface this with the fact that usually I am not a hater. I live and let live. You wanna make a fool of yourself, by all means, go for it. It affects my life as much as Lindsay Lohan doing cocaine in a bathroom. But these women were so. damn. obnoxious. They were so drunk (all this by 10 pm) that they couldn't dance in their own spot. They were flailing around, swapping men (and a significant amount of saliva), and bumping into people. The apex of the story comes about an hour later when I had to pee for the first time. Those diet cokes really get to you. I walk in the bathroom to see a woman's pink underwear-clad ass sitting on the floor of the stall. People were trying to talk to her to see if she needed help, and there was no answer. She was obviously passed the hell out. I had to stop for a second to remember that it was not 1999. I was not in college. This was not one of my friends after a frat party. This was a grown ass woman passed out in a public bathroom. One I had to use!! Immediately! So, we found a very nice guy coming out of the bathroom and had him man the door so my friends and I could relieve ourselves in the suprisingly clean men's room.


(Me and MaryTara - we both look high on different things.)

Then, if this weren't a bad enough display of maturity in a place that carded to make sure all people inside were at least over 21, someone drops a stink bomb. Not once, but twice. Yes, a stink bomb. Those things you buy from the joke shop that 12-year-old boys would drop in a school dance or in gym class. Oh, sigh.

Then (oh yes, there's more), some older white woman was not pleased that the man she was there with (or so I assume) decided to shake his ass with a young pretty black woman. The next thing I knew, arms were flailing, hair was pulled, and security was carrying the older woman out. One of my friends went outside for some air few minutes later and the police were there talking to this woman and she took a swing at one of the officers, at which point he promptly knocked her out. Ah, classic.

So, we left around 1ish before there was a gang shooting or something equally increasing in violence. Got home around 2 and GamerDad let me sleep till 930. Then, PP and I went to visit Nanny who is back home at my mom's from the nursing home while GamerDad worked in the backyard. We stayed for a couple hours, and sat outside blowing bubbles and having coffee. Then we got home and went to a garden shop, got plants, and spent the afternoon planting and weeding while our cousin Michelle came and played with the baby. The backyard looks a ton better. Then I passed out.

And that brings us to the current time and place. I think I need a nap.

Enjoying the weather

Here is GamerDad and Princess Peanut enjoying the great weekend last week before she got sick :(

I love this picture. It makes me feel hopeful when I look at it. Like no matter how bad things can get, we're being protected and loved by one another.

Why I don't share my meds

Yesterday was a day that at the end of it, you needed a beer. Or a percocet. Or a hit from a guy named Luigi in the back of a pizza joint. (No, I've never done that).

My back hurt, so I took my prescription medication and GamerDad was having his own aches and pains from this week, so I shared one. The night progressed fine and we watched a few DVRed shows and went to bed. Around 1230, PP woke up crying because she couldn't find any of her 6,876,902 binkies. I woke up, went in her room, crawled under her crib to retrieve one, and rocked her back to sleep. I stumbled back to my bed to see my husband had not even moved. Ok, fine. Then, about an hour later, our neurotic dog decided to pace the room. Click, click, click on the hardwood. I tried to convince myself she didn't need to go out and would go back on her bed. Click, click, click. I began to wonder what kind of hat I could make from a terrier/lab mix. Again, GamerDad remained blissfully unaware that I was being tortured. I got up, walked down the stairs, let the dog out, came back to bed, where I proceeded to shake him awake to shut the windows because it was 78 degrees below zero in our room. We both went back to sleep until the baby woke at 5 and I brought her in bed with me while he got ready and left for work.

So far today, we are bodily function spew-free and she seems in a pretty good mood. She is playing on her own and has eaten breakfast and drank a bottle of juice. I keep thinking that the worst is behind us and she's getting better. And then she pukes on my face.

Moral of the story: no more narcotic pain medication for GamerDad before bed.

And I start with this...

My poor baby has rotavirus. It's a really nasty, long-lasting stomach virus. Bodily fluids have been spewing forth since Sunday night. I feel so bad for Princess Peanut (PP) as she cries between wretches and diaper changes. I'm hoping tomorrow is better, because I don't know if we as a cohesive family unit can take much more. Vomit-caked hair and overflowing diapers are so last week.

One of the hardest thing about having a sick baby when you're a full-time working parent is trying to juggle your job, caring for your baby, and taking turns with your spouse on who goes into work. I have the wonderful priveledge to work from home three days a week, only one of which PP goes to her dayhome so I can actually "work" from home. And the other two days I go into the office and she's there on Mondays and my mom comes over on Wednesdays. Well, this week, she couldn't go to the babysitters for obvious reasons and I told my mom to stay home so she could avoid the bug and stay healthy for her vacation to Florida tomorrow. So I stayed home Monday with PP and GamerDad stayed home on Wednesday. And tomorrow it is my turn again. I am not quite sure when I am supposed to get all of my work done, but I have an e-mail request into the universe to add a couple extra hours to each day, so I'm waiting on that.

Hopefully, tomorrow will be a puke-free/poop-free/fever-free day and we can enjoy the awesome weekend weather we're supposed to have.