Bathtime is now interactive

Charlotte (2007):

AndreAnna (1980)

Mike (1977)

Check-up

Went for a post-op checkup at my all-time favorite doctor, the gynecologist. Everything looks good, and much to my husband's chagrin, the doctor told me to wait at least one more week before resuming "sexual activity." But, all in all, three weeks of no sex after a major happy-place surgery isn't that bad.

Our wedding anniversary is on Sunday and we will be going out to dinner and a movie Saturday night while my sister watches Charlotte. Though we try and maintain a fairly active social life (we are lucky to have an awesome babysitter and family and her godmother to watch the baby), we don't get out on our own often enough. Usually, when we ask for someone to babysit, it's because we have a charity event, a party, a dinner, a wedding - rarely, do we ever get a sitter to just go out together, alone. So, this will be nice. We are going to try a new Lebanese place that opened up, so if anyone has any recommendations, please let me know!

Then, for a fun-filled holiday weekend, I get to spend it alone with a teething, whining, toddler while Mike works two twelve-hour shifts to make us some extra money. Momma needs shoes people! Or maybe I should pay that $695 electric bill that almost made me faint.

Anyway, thanks for all of your wonderful words of encouragement on yesterday's post. It is good to know that the "mommy wars" are not everywhere and that there are great moms out there who support and respect each other. Now, let's round up all the judgmental bitches and take away their hemp and patchouli.

Warning! Warning! Controversial Topic

I work. Gasp. Full-time. Gasp. Gasp. Sometimes more than 40 hours a week. Gasp. Gasp. Gasp.

And guess what? I like it. Faint.

I admit I complain about my job often, as it is a source of great stress and aggravation, but the truth is, I love working. I love getting up on the mornings I drive into the office, and cast aside the yoga pants and pony tail for a button down shirt, skirts, and strappy sandals. Some days, I may even go to town and blow dry my hair. When I kiss Charlotte goodbye, whether she is here with my mother, or at her dayhome, I am not sad at the thought of leaving her, but excited to start my day as a professional career woman. I bitch about going into work on a Monday morning as much as the next person. In my mind's eye, I devise ways I could reach into the car of the person that cut me off in traffic and rip out his larynx and speed away before he could call the cops. But even if he could call them, he wouldn't be able to talk, so I figure I've got a good 15 minutes before they trace the number. I hate that I am constantly hounded by deadlines, and page budgets, and yearly quotas. But, when I walk into that office, I am at ease in the chaos, and become the me I worked so hard for - an educated, intelligent women with a good career.

Now, before we all get our panties in a ruffle, I truly, in all honesty, cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die, do not think that stay-at-home moms are not educated, intelligent, professional, etc., etc., etc. I do not think they are not hard workers. I don't question people - fathers or mothers - for the decisions they make when it comes to raising their children. I think that staying home is one of the hardest jobs in the world and am constantly amazed at the men and women who do it. So then why, I ask you, oh Great Blogosphere, do people find it necessary to have an opinion on the fact that I work? And what's worse then the look on their face when I tell them I work full time? When I tell them I love it. You'd think I just skinned and barbecued their family cat.

I know about the mommy wars. I know that there are battles fought on the front lines everyday, workings moms versus stay-at-home moms, but I just don't get it. Isn't raising children hard enough as it is without the constant judgment from other people? Shouldn't you be proud of me for continuing to work, raise a family, have a happy marriage, keep house, have a good social life, and volunteer my time and money to charities when I can? Why is it a bad thing that I don't want to stay home?

I don't ask stay-at-home moms why they don't work. If they miss the company of adults and conversation not regarding diapers or breastfeeding? If they think that they're doing their children a disservice by not working? If they miss having an identity separate from mother and wife? Because it's none of my ever-loving business. I think staying home with kids IS work, and on some days, harder than any job I've ever had. I think many stay-at-home moms find a social network of their own, one that works with their children and schedule. I think many women are as happy as they could ever be as a wife and mother. I do not judge. Truly.

So, again, why do these same moms who I hold no discrimination against ask me why I work? Ask me if I miss my baby when I leave her? Insinuate that I shouldn't have had children if I wanted strangers to raise them. Ask whether I am harming my child by not being there all the time?

I have a taste of both worlds. I am a full-time technical editor, but I work for a company that allows me to work from home three days a week. So, on Mondays and Wednesdays, I have the 106 mile round-trip commute from hell, and one day she is home with my mother and the other is at her dayhome. On Tuesdays and Fridays, I spend my days with Charlotte - shopping, playing outside, making meals, baking, singing silly songs and dancing goofy dances, always checking emails, and working when she naps or when Mike gets home for the day at 2:30. On Thursdays, she goes to dayhome while I come home to a silent house and get the majority of my weekly editing done in the 7 hours of silence. Some weeks it's not enough, and I get behind, working late into the night so I can make up the time. And the truth? The days I am at work are far easier than those I am home. I can understand and live in both worlds. It's hard as hell but I do it.

I am a better mother because I work. Because I get to have a separate part of my life that is solely mine, I come home with a renewed sense of love and energy for my family. Again, I understand that not everyone feels this way and they shouldn't. And I don't walk into my office and forget that I have a husband and daughter. My desk is littered with photos of Charlotte and I whip out my wallet and show anyone who will look. I talk about Mike and my home life all the time. I am proud to be Charlotte's momma and Mike's wife. But I am also proud to be a good Editor. And I wish everyone could see and understand that.

Everyone is different. I hate mushrooms. I can't expect you to hate them too. But don't be mad at me because you like them. That's just unfair.

For the love of Pete

Anyone ever wonder who Pete is and why things are done for his love? Just a thought.

I am a weirdo. The busier I get, the more frenzied I get, the more I find I want to do, and the more work I create for myself. When I get anxious or nervous, I clean and organize. It helps me declutterificize (Yeah, I made that word up. I love it. Use it. Spread it.) my brain if I make my environment less stressful. See, I'm my own psychiatrist.

Things have been hectic at my job and I keep taking on more overtime work and other freelancing projects. Deadlines prance around my head, mocking me. Mike is also stressed at his job, undertaking a huge project with global deployment of a major networking system. On top of this, Charlotte has been in rare form. I don't know if it's a cold or teething or both, but her nose is running like a sieve and she is the whiniest, most inconsolable creature that ever lived. It's not like the time when she was sad and cried all day. She just seemes pissed off all the time. Nothing is making her happy. She literally just walks around the house yelling at things - the dog, her shoes, me - anything in her way or that won't cooperate properly.

So, while normal people might relax when they see a two-hour opportunity of no-work-no-baby, I freak out, almost frantically running around the house, finding things to organize, or a project to undertake. And when it's done, and I'm exhausted and have made poor Mike give up his free time to help me, I feel better. I feel like I can breathe better.

Today's insanity project du jour was cleaning out the playroom and living room and getting rid of all the "baby" toys. They will be taken to the storage unit on Thursday, along with the playmats, swings, mobiles, and other baby stuff living in the garage that I look at with brimming tears, wondering where the time went. I know I'll be back in a year or so to retrieve this "baby stuff" for the next spawn, but it still makes me sad in a way to pack up her babydom and store it in a dark place miles away.

I wish I had a bigger house so I could create a baby room, where all her old toys, blankets, and tiny clothes could stay. I would go in every once in a while, on days like this when she is fraying the last nerve fiber I have left, and sit in a rocking chair, smelling her newborn scent on an old receiving blanket, listening to the Braham's CD of lullabies we hummed together in the moonlight at 3 a.m. so many months ago. And it would heal me. And I would go back and face my toddler with the renewed knowledge that even if she is setting the cat on fire, she was once a sweet cherub who slept with her face in the crook of my neck, and will one day be a wonderful woman, and I love her more life.

This too, shall pass.

And the winner is

...SciFi Dad, who got eerily close to the correct chain of events that led to yesterday's pictures with this answer:

"In the first image, on the right, is what appears to be a waste basket opening at toddler head level. Combining that fact with the second image and what appears to be Fluff on her cheeks, I guess that she put her face in the opening and got some tissues stuck to her chin."

What actually transpired was her figuring out how to unscrew the jar of Fluff, try to stick her entire face it in, and get some out. What she didn't realize was how thick the Fluff was and thatit would not pour out, so she settled for licking the edges. Subsequently, and within mere seconds, she also got into the toilet paper, which she likes to unroll and tear into tiny pieces. This time a few telltale shards were left behind, stuck to the goo that was left behind from her Fluff event.

I swear, it truly amazes me what can transpire in the 28 seconds I was picking up dog food pieces from all over the living room.

Quiz

I'll give you three guesses to figure out how this happened:





Look closely for clues.

Toilet humor

This morning, I cleaned out the drawers in our bathroom vanity. They were filled with old hair ties, bobby pins, safety pins, floss, razors, broken hair clips, a pygmy, etc. Charlotte's favorite thing to do was open these drawers and get within seconds of hurting herself with something before I wrestled it from her. So I decided I would just clean them out completely and put her stuff in it. This way she could play in the drawers without me worrying she'd shave her head, swallow a pin, or some other such horror. I threw away all the broken stuff, relocated the other stuff, and put some of her toys in the drawers.

When I finished, I needed to shower before we did our weekly Target run. So I locked her in the room with me and she quietly sat and played, reading and talking to me through the curtain, peeking in and playing in the water spray.

The day proceeded. We went to Target. Came home. Put her down for a nap. Went to pee.

At least she's smart. Poor Nemo.

P.S. Seriously, how cute is this outfit? She can kick your ass, but By God, she will do it in pink!

Yogurt - the new dippity doo

What follows is the sequence of events that happens when you let your baby feed herself yogurt. And then decide to go to the bathroom for 30 seconds.

1) Throw down spoon. Slather yogurt on table.



2) Rub the yogurt in what little hair you have.



3) Karate chop anyone who tries to stop you.



4) Look like Encino Man.

5) Mission complete.

The News

I've stopped watching the news. I pretty much have no idea what's going on in the world. I know there's a hurricane somewhere. I also know Michael Vick is pleading guilty. I know these things because Mike tells me. I also keep up on politics by reading selective blogs and listening to certain radio shows. Occasionally, I will listen to CNN in the car on my Sirius or go to their website, where I can pick and choose what I read.

This whole boycott of the news is not because of the ridiculous coverage of Britney, Linsday, or Paris, rather than people's babies dying in a war we shouldn't be fighting, though those three are reason enough. It's because I can't stop crying. And not just crying -- sobbing, weeping. And then even when I collect myself, I will think back a few days after about a particularly sad story, and cry again. At work. Or in the supermarket. In the car.

I haven't always been this way. Though not a big nightly news fan, I would always read the news websites or watch CNN to keep up. I liked being knowledgable on current events, being able to keep up with other adults in the world that didn't care about the current state of my child's diapers or how many teeth she had. Now, I don't care. I don't care how dumb or ignorant I am.

I suppose it started once I had my own child. Your heart expands, and at times it feels literal; it holds more, and though the room is created for joy, its caverns can also be filled with such deep sorrow. The love I have for my child is so powerful, I sometimes feel like my chest can implode with emotion. But with this love, this power, came an unequivocal ability to empathize, to feel the emotions of others, to put myself in their place. A few months ago, I read a story that haunts me to this day about an abusive father who didn't want to hear his 18-month-old baby whine anymore. He put her out in the snow down the street from her house. The police found footprints walking in circles, the little girl apparently trying to find her way home. They eventually found her body, curled up, tears frozen to her face, as if she had just lain down to go to sleep. I cried for days. I am crying now. I could see that baby's face, though never looked at a picture. I pray for her though I don't believe in God.

Then came the American Idol Gives Back episode, where they traveled to Africa and showed children dying because they didn't have a 40-cent malaria shot. They showed 10-yr olds who were raising their siblings because their parents had died in a village raid. I kept turning away, reading a blog, or a book, keeping my attention diverted, because I was sure if I watched one more second, I would go insane with sadness. My husband noticed that I didn't want to watch it, and we got into an argument. He accused me of representing what was wrong with society now - that people just turn their heads. They chose not to see. Of course, after he removed my fist from his head, and me yelling discussing the matter further, he now understands me and has left me to deal with things on my own. In my own way. I am not the mass cancer of society. I don't not care. If anything, I care too much.

I imagine myself the mother of that little baby in the back of a rusty pick up truck in Malawi who dies en route to the hospital. I am the wife of the husband that died in that bridge collapse. I am the sister to the girl who died in the Virgina Tech shootings. I am the daughter of the parents who were robbed and beaten in a home invasion. I am the friend to the college students shot in Newark.

My heart, grown so large from the love for my husband, daughter, and family, is at times my biggest enemy. It can hold so much love. But it can also hold so much sorrow.

And for this, I turn off the news.

Our life with animals

Just thought you'd like to meet the creatures my child harasses endlessly.

Pandora, the pit/lab mix:



Cronus, the huge Maine Coon:



Daddy, the lego-tower builder:

Random Photo Sunday

Today's weather is the complete antithesis of yesterday's. Rain, rain, gloom, and chill.

Indeed, I have no energy to post. So, I've decided to enact a Random Photo Sunday.

In the oven:

Cooked:

Weird, huh?

The Zoo

It was one of those rare perfect summer days, when you turn off the air, open the windows, and stay outside as much as possible, commenting on what a nice day it is to whomever would look your way.

So, we decided to take the baby to the Popcorn Park Zoo, which is a local Jersey rescue zoo where sick, injured, abondoned, and exploited animals are taken to be rehabilitated and then to live out their lives. It has lions, and tigers, and bears (seriously, who doesn't have a gut reaction to say "oh my" after that?). We figured that Charlotte, who loves her animal books and practicing her animals sounds, would be in her element. And she was. With the dirt and rocks on the ground, which she paid more attention to than the giant bear more than 10 inches away from her. She did go right up to a sheep, goat, and deer and tried to grab their noses through the fence. I'm sure they loved that.

Despite the horrid beach traffic we had to get through to get there, it was a nice afternoon, and we all had fun.

A letter

Dear Vagina,

I don't think you and I should see each other anymore. Ever since we met a few decades ago, our relationship has been nothing short of dramatic. Sure, there were good times. Very good times. But lately, the bad times seem to outnumber those. First, there was the random tear with the tiny six-pound baby. What the hell was that all about? Like you couldn't give me more than that? After all these years together. That really pained me.

Recently, during our last meeting, you were cut open, and sewn back together, and I realize that must have been very hard on you, and your feelings were probably quite hurt. However, I think it's very spiteful of you to tug on my stitches when I stand up, or to cause so much pain when I pee that my bladder spasms in fear. I also don't think it's funny that after a food shopping trip, you think it's funny to throb for as long as it takes for the percocet to take effect. I understand you were violated, and some strange man was inside you removing a duct you had lived in harmony with for so many years. But, Senor Gartner Duct had different, worldly plans. He wanted to grow, and spread his wings. And I would have none of that. There is not room enough for both of us. So, to get to Senor Duct, I had to go through you. I know it was rude; it was callous. But, really, is it necessary to retaliate with sharp aching pains at his removal? Were you really that close?

Anyway, I think maybe we should break up. Do you feel the same?
Circle Y or N.

LYLAS,
AndreAnna

The interview

I stalk a woman named Alison. Or, I used to stalk her page for updates until I discovered Google Reader and could add her page AliThinks to it. She travels and speaks French and talks about wines with me, ignoring my extreme unworldliness. She takes amazing photographs that make me feel small and tiny in a big world, like this one or this one. They remind me I'm human. My husband is a fan of her boobs and ass. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't as well.

Yesterday, she posted an interview she did with Dave from Rattling the Kettle. Since I have not been working and have been on my arse recovering from my girly bits being torn apart and stitched back together (sorry, I'm a little bitter), blog fodder has decreased dramatically. And really, how long can one go on about one's vajayjay without it becoming trite or banal? So, I decided to participate. Here are the five questions she asked me.

1) Is your name pronounced André-Anna or Andreeyanna?
The best way for me to do this is phonetically: On-Dray-On-Na. My father was born and raised in Germany and his name is Andreas, so that's where mine came from.

2) Speaking of names, what made you choose Charlotte for your daughter's name?
On the day we found out we were pregnant, we were flying into Charlotte, NC for what was supposed to be a weekend of boozing with a friend. I wanted something classy and unique but not weird or overdone. So, Charlotte it was, and I think it's fitting. My in-laws call her "Charlie girl" and my four-year-old nephew calls her Charlie Bucket.

3) You're an editor. Can you get me a job? (Just kidding.) What's the best thing about your job?
Believe me, you don't want my job. It's tedious, riddled with almost impossible deadlines, and the material I edit can turn your brain into pancake batter within minutes. But for me, the best thing about my job is its incredible flexibility and the awesome people I work with. I have the ability to work from home three days a week, which with my commute and childcare expenses is a real gift. But when I do have to go into the office, I have friends and coworkers who make the trip in and the imminent deadlines seem less awful. I also love having a career and being a professional working woman. I respect women who chose to stay home and I am not going near that can of worms, but I am a better mother because I work. This is what works for our family.

4) What was your favorite toy (or doll, or book) when you were a kid?
I was a book whore. I read and read and read. I truly can't even remember a toy or doll, though my mother tells stories of me carrying around a baby doll I named EmilyAnne but when her flip-close eyes broke and one stayed open and the other closed, I freaked out and wouldn't go near it. I said it looked possessed. When I wasn't outside playing soccer, I was reading. My favorites were the Judy Blume and Babysitters Club series, and then my godmother introduced me to Anne of Green Gables, Little House on the Prairie, Little Women. I drank them like water, and could read upwards of two on a summer's day under a tree or a on rainy day nestled in bed. I related to Ramona, and Kristi, and Laura. They were my friends when I had none because I was the fat girl. Little girls can be mean, and when my friends would hide from me, pretending they weren't playing without inviting me, I would show them no emotion, and go home and cry with the Ingalls or the March sisters.

5) What's your guilty pleasure as far as music goes?
Fleetwood Mac, Janis Joplin, Led Zepplin, Journey, Otis Redding, Etta James, Edwin Starr. I grew up with young parents of the 70s. Music was ingrained in them. It was their freedom song. I still love cranking the windows down, the music up and belting out "Don't stop thinking about tomorrow. Don't stop. It will soon be here. It will be here, better than before. Yesterday's gone, yesterday's gone." I admittedly have one of the most eclectic tastes in music. I have a special place in my heart for techno/trance music, though I was never a club kid. I just love the way it makes me feel, from the climactic beats to the beautiful tones. I also love Tom Jones and one of my greatest wishes is to see him in concert but the bloody tickets are about a frumdrillion dollars each and by the time I can afford them, he will probably be dead or at the very least, no longer touring. I also love simple acoustic singers, with their guitar a drum beat, but I have been known to shake my tush to a little Timbaland. I also like classical and new age music, and hate to admit this for fear of lighting striking me down, I even like Yanni and Enya. So, in short I guess I am the least musically prejudiced person. Other than some violent rap songs, I've hardly met a beat I didn't like. Mike is the same way and we listen to a wide array of artists in our house. And as shown by this video (which I know I've posted before but how can you not love a baby shaking her tushie to Elliot Yamin?), we've passed it onto our child.



If you'd like to play, here are the rules, copied from Ali's page.

Interview rules:
1. Leave me a comment saying “Interview me.”
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with a post containing your the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

A bag by any other name

Laural just did this, which was started by Her Bad Mother with this post.

This is a really interesting idea - that what we carry in our bags (nay-nay to the word purse) - is a reflection of who we are at that very moment. Let's see who I am:




We'll start with the top left, and then work our way right and down line by line.

• A bag of Gerber fruit snacks. Never leave home without them. They are to a tantrum as kryptonite is to Superman.
  
• My bigass wallet - houses my non-existent money, my check book, credit/store discount cards, and photos.
• A huge bottle of percocet (which I am ever- so-grateful for this week).
• A letter from my doctor with the pre-certification number for my surgery that I was told I MUST bring with me to the hospital or I would be struck by lightning and surely die. They never asked for it.
• Receipt for a Jersey Mike's tuna sub I bought for myself while Mike was away.
• Tissues. I sneeze and cry. A lot.
• Mini fold-up hair brush. For those rare occasions I actually wear my hair down, I need to tame it every now and again.
• Little pink hair bow I keep attempting to put in one of the 4 pieces of hair my daughter has but she keeps ripping out.
• Charlotte's "bippy." Never, ever, ever, be caught without this. It is almost as necessary as a condom in a sorority house. You could always go without, but why cause yourself so much pain?
• Sunglasses - cheapo pair from Target because I always scratch, break, or lose the expensive ones.
• ID for work.
• Eyewear for tanning. Yeah, yeah, I know it's bad for me. I don't go very often. Hushyomouf.
• Splenda packets because I hate all other sweeteners and sometimes places don't - gasp - have Splenda.
• Stamps from before they raised the prices and I'm too lazy to go buy 2 cent stamps, so they'll probably be in my bag until they wither away into nothingness.
• White nail polish because you never know when your French pedicure will need a touch-up because your clumsy-ass self stubbed your toe.
• Purell wipies. Me no likey germies.
• Tylenol Allergy and Sinus. I finally made an allergist appointment tomorrow. Hopefully soon I can stop drugging myself with OTC stuff that barely works anyway, and actually be able to breathe through my nose.
• Lipliner, lipgloss, and two saline bullets (for my contacts).
• New wallet photos of the baby to hand out to poor, unsuspecting souls who don't give a shit about my kid but proudly display her face in their wallet.
• Chapstick with SPF 45 for when I'm out in the sun. My lips burn and chap like the STD the guy in the sorority house got.
• Tampon. Pretty self-explantatory.
  
• Tide-To-Go Stick. Have you met me or my husband? If so, you'll know why I carry this. If you have not, imagine the two clumsiest people got married. I almost think we need a Tide-To-Go washing machine that could fit in our car.
• Two pens. An editor never leaves home without a red pen.
• Finally, some weird compass/magnifying glass Mike told me to keep in my purse for emergencies. Not sure what kind of emergency would entail me needing to read really small type, unless of course we were lost in a mystical land of midget fairies and could not read their road signs.

So, I suppose the sum of all the things in my purse add up to me being a pill-popping, clumsy, emotional, sloppy, vain, momma. I guess those are all true in some sense.

What about you? What's in your bag?

Laural also tagged me for this meme about my middle name, posting a relevant fact for each letter.

R - Really effing cool
O - Oh how awesome
S - Seriously bad-ass
E - Exceptionally exceptional.

Oh right, like I take anything seriously? Ok, I'll try again.

R - Rambunctious
O - Obstinate
S - Stubborn
E - Emotional

So, I'm an emotional bitch I guess, right? Works for me.

My friend Mother Hoodwink is expecting Baby #2 - go wish her well. Oh, and tell her I tagged her for this!

One more useless body part down

How many are left? My tonsils when I was a kid, my gall bladder went in April, and now this Gartner's duct cyst. I think I only have my appendix left, and maybe a spleen I could live without. And then I am plum out of useless organs to remove.

Obviously, I am back home and doing fine from the surgery. It feels almost eerily like I just had a baby, even down to the "tear" that accidentally happened and needed to be stitched. The pain is tolerable, and though I'm uncomfortable, at least I'm not taking care of a newborn.

Though I think if you are to feel like you just had a baby, they should rent you one from the nursery for a few hours, just so you can inhale the baby smell, and make the hoo-ha pain seem worth it.

And then send it back. ;)

Under the knife

(Warning to my male and/or squeamish readers: Stop reading now. Vagina-talk will ensue. And not the good kind)


Tomorrow morning I go in for surgery. It sounds way more dramatic than it actually is. If you remember a few weeks ago, I mentioned a trip to my good friend, the gynecologist. I wish it were for my normal annual pap and exam. It, unfortunately, was not. About six ago, while removing my NuvaRing (birth control), I felt something, er, weird. It was kind of like a little water balloon was just chilling out in my vajayjay. It didn't hurt and I didn't even notice it until this day. I immediately began to panic that my vagina was falling out. I called my doctor in the morning and they got me in the next day.

When my doctor walked into the room, he goes "So, you said you're feeling something weird? A lot of women think that there's something there but the way your anatomy works, it's usually just the folds of the vagina." Only being a patient of his for the last year - since I left my last OB/GYN after an unhappy birth experience - I suppose he thought I was a hypochondriac or an over-reactor. Believe me people, if I am in the gynecologist's office and it's not time for my annual or I'm not pregnant, there is definitely something wrong. I don't know many women who go, "Ya know, I'm a little bored this week. I think I'll make an appointment to lay on my back, spread eagle in front of a doctor and a nurse while he pries open my girly bits with a giant metal speculum." Anyway, after the examination, I sit back up and he says, "What I'm 100% sure of is that this is nothing to worry about. What I'm not sure of is what it is." Gah-reat. He proceeds to tell me that it is definitely a cyst of some kind but he has never seen one of this particular nature. Young, down-to-earth, and trying to level with me he then says, "I don't have a huge ego and I'm not going to bullshit you. I'm going to get in touch with some colleagues that I trained under at Yale and get back to you. But I think we'll definitely get an MRI."

Oooooooh-kay.

So, he called me back a few days later and after discussing my vagina with other doctors, he said they all think it was probably a Gartner's duct cyst. I did have the MRI, which confirmed this. The Gartner's duct is an embryonic remnant, that just sits useless, usually causing no problems. But, I'm me, people. Weird shit ensues.

The next step, however, was what exactly to do about it. Unfortunately, with these cysts, most doctors say to leave them alone if they are not symptomatic, as they are benign. Though not in pain regularly, it affects and causes pain during the shakey-shakey-booty dance, if you know what I mean. I also could no longer use my Nuvaring (I had to switch to The Pill and HATE it). While the answer seems logical enough -just remove the duct - it is apparently a complicated surgery. When my gyn called back to discuss surgical options, he said "Most gyns wouldn't touch this with a ten-foot pole. I'll be in the room and assist, but I need to find someone who will agree to perform the surgery." He did call back a few days later with the name of a gynecology oncologist who agreed to perform the surgery. Though my cyst has nothing to do with cancer, this surgeon is skilled in difficult gynecology surgeries and agreed to meet with me. After my appointment with him, he explained the procedure to me and why it can be a difficult procedure.

Apparently, this duct can have a large blood supply making excising it a difficult task, and sometimes transfusions are necessary. His surgery plan involves attempting to remove the duct, but if he encounters problems and feels it is in my best interest, he will abort the excision, and just remove the part of the cyst that is bothering me, doing a procedure called "marsupializaton" where he essentially cuts it, then sutures it to itself, allowing it to close over. The reason he just doesn't do this first is that the duct still remains and the cyst can come back. Even though it sounds scary, they assure me it will be fine. It is only a 30 minute outpatient surgery and since I go in at 5:45 am (kill me now), I should be out of there by early afternoon.

Because I have to be there so early, I have to drive myself. Mike will get up with the baby and take her to dayhome and meet me there. I normally don't mind being by myself and have had enough surgeries that I know I won't die from the anesthesia. However, the last time I went under for my gall bladder removal in April, I had a bad experience with the anesthesia. When I woke up, I could see people and hear people and was mentally awake enough to want to talk to them. When I saw Mike I wanted to ask how the baby was and see how her day was. I was thinking clearly. But I could not move. I could barely speak without slurring. I couldn't keep my eyes open. I wanted to wake up and I couldn't. I felt trapped in my own body and started to panic, but couldn't tell anyone. Eventually, it wore off, but it took the rest of the day and the night. That is what I'm afraid of. I don't want to have that feeling again. I'm hoping it was a fluke, or maybe the type of surgery it was required me to be more "out," or maybe I just had a bad anesthesiologist. In either case, I will definitely be telling the doctors about this when they come to see me before the surgery, and hopefully since it is only a 30 minute procedure, it won't happen again.

I'm sure the anticipation is worse than the actual surgery and I will be fine in no time. I figure the healing and pain will be similar to that of my stitches from my tear from giving birth, hopefully less, since it will be controlled cuts rather than a tear. And of course, just like giving birth, there will be an approximately four-week coitus hiatus, much to my husband's chagrin. I'm sure he'll live.

I want to go to a bacherlor party

When I got married, my best friend planned an incredible bachelorette party for me. We had a limo, went into NYC, had an awesome dinner/drinks at a Cabaret place called Lucky Cheng's (transvestite waitresses), and VIP access to a club/bar afterwards.


How young do I look? Ugh, and this was only two years ago.


I show you this picture so you can see that we drank from tubs of liquor, literally.


We're some sexy bitches. Well, except Lauren (the one all the way on the left) who at this point was too drunk to function properly and tried to puke in a coat closet at the next bar we went to. Good times. :)

That same night, Mike also had his bachelor party and they got a limo and went in the opposite direction - to Atlantic City. They gambled, they ate, they saw some hoochies at some point I'm sure. We all got home around the same time, partied a bit more, than passed out.

I tell you this story because I think bachelor parties are changing. My husband is leaving this afternoon for a THREE-DAY-LONG bachelor party. Tonight, he heads to Dave and Busters, (for those of you who do not know what this is, think adult Chuck. E. Cheese) for dinner, drinks, and entertainment. Then they head to a cabin in the Poconos and tomorrow morning they go white water rafting. Upon the completion of the manly display of taming rapids, they will again go out to eat and drink, and I'm sure find a strip club. Then, the return trek home begins Sunday morning after a grisly breakfast of many meats, cheeses, and carbohydrates I imagine.

I tell you this story not because I am upset or any of that nonsense. I am happy for Mike because he deserves this weekend away and doesn't get to do stuff like this very often. He will have fun with his friends and away from the responsibilities of being a husband and a daddy, though I'm sure he'll think about and miss us. I hate sleeping alone and the baby and I annoy each other after awhile. But I will take care of everything happily while he is gone. Because he would do the same for me.

Now, all I need is a bachelor party. Anyone in? A fake one will do.

Stop the presses

Mike and I are actually going to see Harry Potter tonight. An actual movie theater. With seats. Not the big TV in our house with the lights off, laptops put away, microwaved Orville Redenbocker mocking me "THERS IS NO BUTTERY ON THIS!"

So, when you add up the cost of the tickets, the popcorn, the soda, the nachos Mike MUST have, the M&Ms I plan on buying at WaWa en route, the gas in the car to get to the theater, and the cost of the babysitter, I estimate tonight's adventure will cost us approximately eleventy huzbillion dollars.

But, it will be worth it. And it's cheaper than getting a sitter and going out for dinner and drinks with our friends (thought extraordinarily fun), because that costs at least one frumdrillion dollars, and what we get is fat and hungover. At least for this, we will be entertained for 2 hours and 18 minutes by totally useless fiction.

This just in

Finally got Charlotte's pictures back from her birthday shoot (actually taken at 14 months)

See? Normally she's a happy kid. Just a rough patch. This "thing" she has finally turned into a cold of some sort. She is all clogged and snotty, though still clear. (You can all go to bed happy tonight knowing the color of my child's snot.) Despite the extra goop, she was in better spirits today, though I only got to spend about 2 hours with her, since traffic sucked big hairy Sasquatch balls and didn't get home till almost 6.

I did give her some "nakey" time, which she loves, while Mike and I were eating dinner. She runs around, squealing, rubbing her belly, screeching "bay-ee! bay-eeeeee!" Today, however, she decided to use nakey time as pee-and-poop-on-the-floor time. Good times, people, good times. But Mike said it best, "Must feel way better than diaper." Yes, I suppose it must. I know I would like to drop trou and pee on the kitchen floor.

On a sidenote, my good blogfriend Michael C is going into the hospital for a few days while he starts a new medication. Go drop him some well wishes (or keep him occupied with riddles). Says me.

You are what you eat

But what are you when you're in the refrigerator? Charlotte decided that this would be a lovely place to sit and drink her milk.



Yes, that is peanut butter on her face. That's all she would eat tonight for dinner. Peanut butter on a spoon. Three of them to be exact.

She is better today, though still a little whiny and clingy, but we were able to avoid the meltdowns of yesterday. We even made it out of the house this morning and to Target, where she got her first big girl booster seat. We are retiring the high chair as of tomorrow. I love it because I can put her in it with a snack, and take a shower, knowing she can't get into trouble. But it is big and cumbersome (Too heavy, too light, too black, or too white, today or tonight - I'll give a dollar to he-who-names-that-tune), and must go to make room in our kitchen for my sanity.

She was even good at the Weight Watchers meeting today, charming everyone with her giggles and applause when someone was celebrating a weight loss or milestone. She went up to total strangers and let them pick her up, toddled up and down the aisles, saying "hi" to anyone who would smile her way, and being a meeting composed of all women (minus my oh-so-manly husband), she was the hit of the day.

Mike and I each lost 2.8 lbs at Weight Watchers today. Word to your mother.

Before she started teething again

She was happy to sit half naked and read her "buhk" in her Dora chair.





Now, she is the saddest little girl that ever lived.




(Like the sweaty nap bedhead?)

I thought she was getting sick on Friday night when she was restless and awake most of the night. She had a slight fever so we tried to give her some Motrin (Tylenol just doesn't work on our kid). She gagged it up before she could get it all down so I didn't give her more because I wasn't sure how much she took in before hocking it up (thank goodness for hardwood floors in the bedroom). Saturday morning she had one bout of diarrhea, nothing too terrible. The rest Saturday and Sunday were pretty much the same routine. Cry, whine, nap (for FOUR hours), cry, refuse to eat, cry. I gave her Motrin here and there if I noticed her fever was back, but she was fever free by yesterday morning. I really thought the cold of all colds was impending. Nope, nothing. Nary a sniffle or cough. Not pulling on her ears (we've yet to encounter the dreaded ear infection). I checked her mouth and I believe this is where the culprit lies. She has 12 teeth already - the four top and bottom middle ones, and both sets of first molars. I think the top eye (canine) teeth are en route. I can see the white through the swollen gums.

I feel so bad for her. I took her to the doctor a few months ago because she stopped eating for at least 5 days. I figured she had something like a throat or ear infection. All was clear, but the doctor called me over as she held open her mouth with a tongue depressor.

"You see those?" I peered in and was baffled to see the jagged edges of two top molars popping through - she was only 11 months!

"That is the cause of this. She's associating eating with pain. Give her Tylenol every four hours and she'll be eating and fine in no time."

"That won't hurt? To give her medicine for a few days?"

"Honey, if you and I had to teethe like this as adults, we'd all be on Vicodin. A few days of Tylenol will be just fine. Call us back if she's not eating and feeling better in a few days."

And she was. Until the bottom molars came through. And now these. These are the worst of all.

At least I really hope that's what this is, because if not teeth, what else? She hasn't pooped since Saturday but then again, she had diarrhea and hasn't really been eating, so I'm not worried about constipation yet but have been giving apple "joosh." If it is an ear infection or a cold/virus, I wouldn't do much of anything anyway, since I'm pretty anti-antibiotic. If it's something like a UTI, she'd be spiking a much higher fever than the 101 is was over the weekend and would still have it.

Tonight has been the saddest night of all. She's just walking around crying; nothing is consoling her. And she's clingy and wants to be held, and just puts her head down on our neck and whines, which is so unlike her. Usually, she wants nothing to do with us and is off on her own, building something, carrying around a purse and wearing her boa, or reading a book. I figure I'll give it a couple days more, then call the pedi if it doesn't get better.

Anyone else ever had a kid teethe this bad? Or should I be concerned it's something else?

My grandmother is doing better. She has emphysema and was put in the hospital last week with pneumonia. When I went to visit her on Friday, I left weeping. She was suffering. I didn't recognize her bloated body from the steroids or her red, sweaty face from her inability to breathe. Beneath a CPAP mask stapped to her face, she panted, "I feel real bad this time honey, real bad." I told her to fight and to get better. I spent the rest of the day waiting for "the" phonecall. I didn't sleep all night, sure if I let myself sink into the abyss of slumber, I'd be startled awake by the news that my Nanny had died.

Thankfully, that never happened and when I went to visit her in the ICU the next afternoon, she seemed better. She was very tired and had a tube through her nose into her stomach, since she began bleeding and vomiting blood. But she was breathing. And alive.

By Sunday she had progressed to just nasal oxygen and was eating water ice and drinking juice.

I'm waiting to hear from my mother tonight but hope the news continues to be good. It has to be. I am not ready to lose her. I know that is selfish and I should let her go if she decides she is done fighting, but that's just tough titties. I want her to see her great granddaughter sing a song, pee pee on the potty, or ride a bike. It may be selfish, but I don't care.

Ugh

Baby is sick.

Grandmother is very sick.

I hate Mondays and it is approaching quickly.

Will write a more detailed explanation later.

For now, I need some quality mind-numbing TBS movie to pass the time. I so hope Mannequin is on. If you have never seen that movie, consider yourself no longer my friend.

Holly-WOOD!

How to keep a baby occupied

Give her a little Fluff on a spoon. This works for a good 10 minutes due to the supreme stickiness of the yummy goodness that is Fluff as the baby tries to lick it from the spoon. This free time should allow you to finish unloading the dishwasher without the baby grabbing the knives from the bottom rack or trying to climb into the dishwasher.

MMM, tasty!

Want some?

"What Fluff? I ain't seen no Fluff! You crazy woman!"

Alumni Newsletter

Swistle has a hysterical post up. She got the meme from this post over at The Twinkies, and demanded we asked us to consider ourselves tagged and do one for ourselves. I'm a Swistle ho. I read her blog everyday, thinking to myself how lame I must be that I am tired at the end of the day with one baby and she has FIVE! And one is a set of twins. Did you hear me people? TWINS and THREE more, one is a NEWBORN. Oh, I need a nap just typing that.

Since it is either this or a detailed recounting of my trip to the gynecologist today, this seems like the idea that will make people gag less.

These are the rules (stolen verbatim): First write a nauseatingly perky paragraph about your life, the type of paragraph you see in alumni newsletters. Then write a franker, funnier one.

AndreAnna is putting her Literature degree to use as a technical editor for a worldwide publishing company, working on journals in the exciting fields of quantum electronics and biomedical circuits and systems. Though she works full time, she is able to work three days from home and has another full time job as a mother to her beautiful 14-month old daughter, Charlotte Rayne. Her days are filled with squeals of baby giggles and the clickity clack of the keyboard, keeping up with the office. Happily married to her husband Mike, they both like to spend time traveling, dining out, working on home improvements, and playing with their baby.

AndreAnna is wasting her education on a profession that really requires little to no command of the English language because many of her authors are foreign and write mostly mathematical, chemical, or biomedical material, completely unintelligible to most normal adults without a Ph.D. in quantum physics. She spends about 6 hours a week in traffic commuting thinking of ways to maim the driver in front of her, and only goes into the office two days a week. The other days, she works from home while taking care of her home and daughter, Charlotte, who seems to be perpetually teething or hitting her in the face for taking away an electric cord. Her days teeter on constant hysteria, literally running around the house some mornings, fielding calls from the office, emails from authors, and trying to keep her baby from setting herself on fire. And other days, she is so bored, she could just cry. Her wonderful husband also works full time and starts many household projects with the best intentions of which many remain on hold due to time constrains. In the evenings, they opt for Chinese since they forgot to defrost dinner.

(Ok, think I got it right this time).

This would be my self-written blurb:

Seriously people, where is my underwear? I went in the shower, and - oh, there they are. On the baby's head. She keeps repeating "Pretty, mama, pretty" but I need my underwear. I have an appointment! Oh, e-mail. I need to check my work mail. Damn, an author has a problem, Crap, I'm still naked. Take back the underwear. Beautiful child smacks me in the face, then throws herself in a fit. Because I will not let her wear my underwear. Ring. Yes, honey, I can stop and get milk. No problem. They have samples at the food store - Score! Breakfast. Oh, crap, did I pack lunch? Does the baby have enough diapers? Two hour commute to work. Edit mind-numbingly boring crap, schmooze, beauracracy, two hour commute home. Cherrios abounding. Crushed beneath my feet. Dog licking high chair. Husband sitting amidst mess reading books to baby. Could be worse. Take off heels. Baby runs over to me. Can momma have a kiss? "No, mama! Shooooes!!" Baby steals heels. I walk into the kitchen, go through the bills, look to the backyard at the weeds which outnumber the plants, the half-completed herb garden, the layer of pollen on the patio table, and the god-forsaken squirrel who keeps eating my twinkle lights. And sigh. Then smile.

I'm tagging Michael , With Love, Fat Girl, and Sunshine. Do it! Or feel free to tell me to suck a duck egg.

Sometimes all you need is to hear a baby laugh

We are now working on eye teeth. At almost 15 months, Charlotte already has 12 teeth and is cutting a few more. On days like this, when I commuted 3 hours total, worked 9 hours, and came home with just enough time to hear my baby whine and cry for the last hour she was awake, I watch this and it makes me smile and forget what a Shitty McCrappenheimer day I had.


(Charlotte's first belly laugh at 6 months. Please disregard my ridiculous commentary. I was drunk on baby love over her first real laugh and sound like a giant buffoon.)