A Different Kind of Pride ('Cause This Time I Mean It)

This story has been in the news for a few days now.  I've pondered whether or not I should post anything about it.  Concern about potential random freaks aside, I'm gonna do it.


Have you seen that photo of a double lightning strike in Chicago?  Perhaps you've seen it on the front page of the Chicago Tribune or in the London Mail.  Maybe you watched a story about it on WGN or heard Scott Simon talking about it on NPR.


The photo was taken by Tom's baby brother.  We're just so excited for him that we're all about to burst.  And how's he handling everything?  In typical Chris fashion, he's pretty modest.  Apparently he was at the Cubs game where Zambrano blew a gasket, but didn't get that shot.  Although no one is hasseling him about it, he says, "One day you're the hero, the next day you're the goat."  Baa.

So Proud

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I bring you news of my town:


Two women started a brawl at a Kindergarten graduation ceremony yesterday.  From what I heard on the radio today, it started with words and ended with a massive fight outside.  I'm sure any one of the students could have recited "Sticks and Stones"... if any of the morons "parental units" involved had been listening.  Can you imagine the children seeing their parents beating up ~ or getting beaten up by ~ other parents?!?  And check out the ages of the women who've been arrested so far... 29 and 31!  Time for some big girl panties, ladies!


Now the good news (for me) is that this school is not remotely close to my neighborhood.  However, the primary school system here is parent-selection driven.  In other words, it's not in my neighborhood, but if that school is renowned for its test scores *scoff*wheeze*, those people could be my neighbors.

Pregnancy Brain Strikes Again

I guess I hadn't noticed that my brain had been functioning normally for several weeks.  Must be one of those "absence makes the heart grow fonder" things, because it's clearly gone again.


Yesterday I left for work without shoes.  At least when it was winter and I did this, I was wearing slippers that might pass for really really cheap faux hiking boots.  Not so when it's 63 degrees outside (which, for this pregnant woman is about 15 degrees warmer than perfect).  We didn't get far before I turned around and headed back.


This morning I dropped Corey off at school on my way to work.  Two miles from his school (so maybe three or four from home), I realized I was again unshod.  Doh!  I did spend a minute contemplating the fact that I've gotten away with kicking my shoes off at work; maybe I could get into the office with no shoes, too?  But then I remembered how often I have to use the restroom and decided it was better to be late.  Mad and I turned around ("We go awound!") and headed home.  While there I grabbed a cup of juice for the road.


Two miles away AGAIN I realized that I'd left my purse at home.  The good news is that I was able to bring my juice cup in and rinse it out, thereby having one less thing making my car smell like that (ugh! it's a mom-car smell... like stale Cheerios).


At the same intersection where I recalled my purse, I realized I'd left the new package of hair bands that was supposed to go to Grandma's house.  With any luck those will make it to Grandma's house tomorrow.


I stuck close to the office all day today, so I never lost anything there.  But there's always another chance while picking up Mad, right?  Right.  Apparently my cell phone came out of my pants pocket while I was sitting on the couch.  I use it for an alarm in the mornings so I don't have to crawl out of bed and shuffle over to the alarm clock on the dresser.  Fortunately I remembered to tell my dad to shut the phone off so they didn't have a shrill bell ringing every five minutes starting at 5:15 tomorrow morning.


And when we arrived at home this evening, I left my shoes in the car.  Shoes 2, Me 1.


Please let me remember my bra tomorrow.

In Which I Don't Look Like A Complete Idiot

There were two fatal car crashes on the road between me and everywhere else yesterday.  It caused Tom to be about three hours late to work.  As I drove down an extremely hilly and twisty alternate (thanks for the warning, hun!), I pondered making this sort of drive in labor.  Doesn't seem like it would be fun.


I dropped off Corey and Mad and went about my morning.  When I got to my office I realized I'd been having a lot more Braxton Hicks contractions than usual.  They're easily noticeable this time because, for some reason, they tend to knock the wind out of me.  Around 11:45 I was talking with a coworker who had to make a similar drive recently.  It wasn't a stressed out, drama-filled conversation.  We were laughing about how her kids had car sickness and that they kept pulling over near these beautiful vistas with kissing couples... so the kids could get out and puke.  (We're bad mamas, I guess.)


As I stood there, I realized I was having a painful contraction.  It lasted maybe 20 seconds.  I chalked it up to standing around (which normally just makes me feel woozy) and went to sit down.  They kept coming.  I thought maybe I needed to go to the bathroom.  Nope.  Maybe I needed to eat something?  I left to get lunch, but along the way I realized that the contractions were coming every three minutes and lasting 30-40 seconds.  I called Tom, my doctor (no answering service?  really?) and labor and delivery.  Then I let Tom know where I'd be, called Nance and asked her to meet me there and headed over.


The whole time I was revving up to go, I worried about several things.  One, what if I really just needed to poop?  Two, what if it was just me trying to get in on the whole "I had to go to Labor and Delivery" thing that I've read so much about lately on this particular pregnancy board that I frequent.  Or three, what if I'm just an attention whore?


On the other hand, I was exactly two months from my due date and couldn't fathom driving home and worrying all weekend.


I got to L& D.  Of course, the really painful contractions had subsided.  Just like going to a mechanic, I swear! 


The first nurse who helped me was the same one who'd answered my tearful call.  The second one was "Call Me Phil."  Turns out she doesn't wear any rings.  She just has tiny little hands with short fingers and ginormous knuckles.


At first nothing was registering.  Then the nurse came in and said I'd had several (I can't remember right now if she said four or six) contractions in half an hour.  This was just as Tom was arriving.  So they did this fetal fibronectin test, which tells if a woman is likely to go into labor in the next two weeks.  In case you were wondering, it's like a pap smear.  While you're in pain and freaking out... and while you're "resting" up on a bedpan.  I loved it (but you wouldn't like it... try not to have one, 'kay?).  She also checked to see if I was dilating.


I was not dilated and the test came back negative.  But I was still contracting, so they gave me a shot of brethane, which worked the first time (thank goodness, because I already felt bad enough before I got the side effects).


Once everything had calmed down, our moods lifted.  We had done a little joking here and there throughout, but one thing came up that made Nancy and I laugh like crazy*.  The nurse came running in and asked if I had felt anything else.  Only Braxton Hicks contractions.  I mentioned we'd been laughing and she said, "Don't laugh, it affects the monitoring."  Note to self.


*Nancy and I have a long-standing joke about taking six mints whenever they're offered.  Why?  Because every time I have Altoids, they're gone in a day if Tom's around.  He doesn't really take six at one time, but he plows through them.  I needed one yesterday and asked Tom to grab them from my purse.  I took one, Nancy took one and then we tried to hold in our laughter as he kept pulling them out of the box.  Probably one of those "funnier if you were there" sort of moments, but that was the deal.

Dilemma

I am thinking about taking a couple weeks off before Fynn is born.  I left work three days before Mad's due date and I loved how great I felt.  I especially loved how great I felt compared to how lousy and completely unenergetic I felt on my first day off three weeks before Corey was due.  I never really regained my energy once I was off waiting for him.


If I stay at work, I will be stuck in the office for the first two weeks of August because my students won't be in class.  I am not an office person.


If I stay home I will be guaranteeing myself a 50 mile ride in labor.  I believe I can tolerate that, but the just thought of being off work early brings on a feeling of exhaustion.  On the upside, I'd have more time with Madelyn before Fynn is here. 


I just don't know which way is better for me.  Any suggestions?  I sought help elsewhere, but nothing so far.

Light and Fluffy? Pshaw!

Since Tom's tennis match pre-empted last week's birthday "festivities," I decided to try again this past weekend.  Saturday after Mad's nap, the kids and I headed to the groc to get the few items we needed to balance out our ingredients for the cake.  Sure, we bought a few extra things, like produce for a salad.  And water.  Still, how our less expensive than store bought cake tab rang up to $76 is beyond me.


We dashed home and began working on our creation right away.  Madelyn and I measured ingredients and sometimes mostly put them in a bowl.  Corey was in charge of mixing.  Along the way I defrosted and drained organic raspberries and heated the liquid and some other ingredients.  Somewhere along the way, Corey and I neglected to add all the milk to the cake batter.


I checked Wilton's baking charts.  They had baking times for two inch high pans at 8", 9", and 10" wide or three inch high pans at 8" or 10" wide.  Naturally, we have pans that are 2.5 inches tall and nine inches wide.  The bake times are about 20 minutes apart.  So we winged it (I always want to say wung it) on the first layer and had a good idea of the duration for the second layer.


Part of the first layer stayed in the bottom of the cake pan, but it gave us something to sample, and we liked what we tasted.


Raspberry filling is surprisingly easy to make.  The frosting's even easier.  However, it wasn't until the frosting was done that I realized we were making a pink cake for Tom.  It's okay, he's a Renaissance man.  His high school senior portrait shows him sporting a pink dress shirt and 'fro mullet (don't tell him I added the "mullet" part, just know it's the truth).


Once everything was prepared and cooled, I assembled the cake.  I remembered what I'd heard friends say about not letting the filling ooze from between the layers.  After the first layer was frosted and covered in raspberry goo, Corey and I marveled at our masterpiece.  The second layer went on without a hitch.  Frosting it was no problemo. 


Visions of the lovely 'morrow filled my mind as I covered here and swirled there.  We'd have a lovely late lunch of steak salad together before heading off to my niece's latest play.  The cake would have to go with us because we'd want to share this concoction of love.  Maybe we'd leave some with Dad and Margaret for watching Madelyn.  Probably we'd bring some to share with my brother's family after the play.


***Okay, this is where you should know that I must have been on crack.  We never stay after the play because A) Bro's family lives in an LA suburb far, far away, B) The plays go until nearly 10:00, C) We don't leave Mad with the grandparents overnight (just because we're like that, not them) and D) Tom leaves for work at 4:30 A.M.


Fast forward to Sunday morning.  In my pregnancy haze, I've misplaced my debit card.  The store we do our main grocery shopping at doesn't take checks unless the address on your license matches the one on your check.  Mine doesn't.  And they don't take credit cards.  So Tom has to do the week's shopping.  And I need two more things that I didn't get at the secondary grocery store yesterday.  Shouldn't be a big deal; he's the usual shopper anyway.


We talk about it at 7:30.


At 8:00.


10:40.


At 1:00 I mention it again as I go to make something to eat until we get to "lunch."


Just before 2:00 I am sitting here, fighting tears and wondering if any of my plans will ever come to fruition.  I am also thinking of all the things Tom does that annoy me and how I could say this or I could do that.  I do and say none of them (so far... with my mouth-brain connection, there's never a guarantee *sigh*).


Tom comes in and asks if we need anything from the store.


"Only what I've requested."


*blank stare*


Here's where I'm glad I don't have blood pressure issues.  Tom's forgetfulness seems only to relate to things I've said or conversations we've had.  Perhaps it's pregnancy related, too.  We'll see in about nine weeks, I guess.


By the time he leaves, I am convinced we'll have to grab fast food on the way down the hill.  I wonder if the cake will even get eaten.  But he returns in record time and we sit down to a somewhat hasty late, late lunch.


Before we've gotten to the cake, Corey asks, "What time are we leaving?"


"According to our original plan, in eight minutes.  But I still need a shower."  (Here's another fun fact from the day, Corey was supposed to run the dishwasher, but was so slow loading it that it finished running just before we sat down to eat.  The thought of showering while it was running hot and hotter water... well, no thanks.)


I take the cake out of the fridge.  Corey and I collaborate on what to do with the birthday candles that spell out "Happy Birthday."  We decide on the anagram, "A dry hippy bath" (because we can, and most of our other options make even less sense).   My plan is to use one letter (the last H) to light the rest.  This is a bad plan.  Not only does the H start melting next to each candle, it's taking so long that other candles are now melting onto the cake, too.  Apparently the wicks are pretty short.  Halfway through "hippy" the H is done.  Plan B is a mechanical lighter.  I can't operate it, so Tom has to light his own candles.


Corey and I sing to him, which Madelyn hates.  She begins crying and saying No!  As soon as we stop, she is relieved and happy again.  She says, "I like cake.  I like *dramatic pause* eat it!


So do we, honey.  Oh, so do we!


I grab a knife and cake server and... force my way through the rock hard cake.  Not terribly worried, I mean, it's cold, I hack away and produce a slice of cake for Tom.  The filling looks like filling.  The cake looks dense.  We taste it.  It's not the same great cake as yesterday.  None of us, including Madelyn, finishes our cake.  The ice cream gets cleaned off each plate pretty quickly.


Tom, despite occasionally making me want to say or do those things, loves me and tells me how great the ca... er... the uh... filling is perfect.  To seal my love forever, he adds, "Anybody can have a light and fluffy cake!"


I mention that Corey and I had a back-up plan; if the cake baking didn't go well, we'd run out to Winco and buy one of those pre-made dealies that he liked so well a few months back.  Tom's eyes light up until I am forced to admit we didn't do that.


Later Tom says that the only reason he's not going to have much more cake is that he doesn't need the calories.  Oh, and he doesn't want to disappoint Corey by eating it all himself.  No worries there.  Corey grabbed a huge slice for himself today.  It's still sitting on the table.

Good News All Around

This was started on Friday last week, but it sucked mightily.  Hopefully it sucks less now.  Either way, I haven't changed the time perspective.


The family seems to be well on the road to recovery from the stomach flu.  I managed to dodge the bullet.  And since I behaved like an anti-social germophobe at work for most of this week, I think I've managed to ensure I didn't pass it along.  (It was mostly not awkward, except the part where I told an employer who I barely know, "I'll love you from afar" instead of shaking his hand.)


Corey has managed to get into summer school.  The only thing that saved his tardy rear end (he turned in the form about two weeks ago; it was due May 7th) is that his school is even more behind than he is.  Summer school will be at a central location for the district.  His school submitted all of their applications Wednesday afternoon.  When I went to see if his name was on the list, it wasn't.  The receptionist heard which school he was from and sent me to a counselor.  She confirmed that she'd put him into one class and then made sure he got into the second one, too.  Corey needs to pass these two classes and then 14 more over the course of the next school year.  (This is based on the assumption that he only failed one class this past semester.)  At least he has a chance to graduate.


And the biggest news of all, my mother is... behaving normally (relatively... we're talking about my family here).  It's been years since she and I were able to have a conversation where I didn't either dominate or have to pull info from her.  I went to her house yesterday afternoon and we spent an hour talking, mostly about baby stuff.  I learned more about her pregnancies and labors with my brother and me.  We talked about how things are going with Fynn.  Yesterday she felt Fynn move for the first time.


I was trying to remember when things had changed between her and I.  Maybe it was the year my grandfather died.  She adored him.  The following year, so did my grandmother.  She loved her mom, but not like her dad.  I think that made it harder for her.  In between their passings, Tom and I got married.  She loves Tom.  He's like her dad, she says.  I'm not sure how, since she always called Grandpa "Mr. Fix-it," and Tom will be the first to proclaim his short list of handyman skills.


I have wondered if our marriage was the unintentional kink in the wire, but that seems unlikely.  I mean, maybe she felt pushed out of the loop, or lonely.  But she has been strange with my aunt, too.  My aunt has commented a couple of times lately about how my mom has initiated deeper conversations.


Part of me wonders if my mom is aware of some illness and just not telling us.  That would not be unlike her.  Or maybe she's just more aware of her own potential life span and has decided to get back to participating?  Whatever it is, I'm happy to feel a little closer to her again.


One of the things we talked about yesterday is the plan for Fynn's labor and delivery.  I told Tom that I'm not really sure I want my mom there this time.  Last time she stood against the wall the entire time.  When Madelyn was born and finally in my arms for those few short minutes, she didn't come over to say hello.  And then there were those months and months afterward when she didn't come around.  It was just pathetic that first Christmas, when I could look back and know that my mother-in-law, who lives 2500 miles away, had spent more time with Madelyn than my own mother, who lived less than five miles from us.


Oddly, she's made more of an effort since we've moved farther away, but visits have still been more uncomfortable than relaxed.  So having this open, almost breezy conversation was really something.  It completely changed what I said about Fynn being born.  I told her she's welcome to be there (I would never have said she was unwelcome).  If she and Corey feel like staying at her place and hanging out until things get close to delivery time, that's cool, too.

Snippets

So I've been thinking about doing a running series of snippets.  Parts of conversations that I've been in on or overheard.  I don't know if the series thing will happen, but here's a gem from my husband today:


"It's like my penis should be coming out of my chin instead of below my waist!"


And now I'll go edit the other posts I started recently.

Like Throwing Money Away

This evening was full of decisions.  One about laundry and the other about sod.


My dad, who's an insurance investigator, came by and checked out our home.  It's not worth making a claim on our insurance, but we do need to replace the laundry room flooring and the washer.  Turns out we bought it four years ago; it was the dryer we had to replace when we moved.  Our old place was all electric, and this is wired for a gas dryer.  From what I've been hearing, four to five years is now the common life span of these "durable goods."


I did find our old washer online, but I also looked into some bigger, schmancier models.  One that I especially like is about $250 more, but it's a high efficiency top loader with rave customer reviews (except for the one in which a person self-identified as the cranky old lady down the street, but with different words... she hated it).  Sort of the best of both worlds.


We talked it over.  Under what I think of as "normal" circumstances, we'd go ahead and upgrade.  We ultimately decided to save our money now, even if it means not having lower water bills in the future.  Without trying out the bells and whistles washer, we don't have an effective means of judging the potential savings anyway.


So I went online to order the simple washer.  It's not available for delivery or in-store purchase for at least 90 days.  I might have cackled with glee when I read that.  And the other one?  It'll be here on June 22.  That's a long time to go without a washer, especially since Mad's still dealing with diarrhea.  In the meantime, I'll have to find out where we can get our laundry done.  Margaret has offered to do our laundry for us, and she did do a desperation load for me on Monday, but we don't feel right having that become a two-week long habit.


The second decision has to do with our sod, our realtor and the title company from when our home was in escrow.  Today I received documentation showing that the lien against our property for not having appropriate ground cover out front has been lifted.  Dave, the realtor, ended up going to the head of some department in our city to get the fine waived since the work has been done and we were not the owners when the fine was levied.  While following up on that he told me, "In my research I found that two additional liens were filed (against the original owners).  The title company handled those, but the city hasn't cleared them yet."  He took up that matter with the city, too.  So we also received proof that those liens are resolved.


Then Dave requested that I send him our receipt for the sod and related equipment.  He wants to go after the title company and make them pay.  He said it's unlikely to happen, but he would attempt it for us.  Usually when he says that, he makes "it" happen.  Tom and I talked it over and decided to let it go.  The amount we'd potentially recoup would be quite helpful.  It would more than pay for our schmancy washer.  It just isn't our thing.  Tom said he knew the lawn would have to be replaced when we bought the house.  I figured we could just reseed and water it.  Whatever.  If Dave could get some sort of commission from this work, or if we had the money for a lovely thank you gift, that would be one thing.  All we can offer him is what he already gets from us:  Our undying respect, admiration and appreciation.  Oh, and we pass on his name whenever it seems appropriate.  So we're done.  The lawn is in.  The bills will be paid.  Life goes on.


If you need an amazing realtor, who really will go above and beyond for you, and you're in southern California, let me know.  I'll give you Dave's number, too.

House of Yuck

Yesterday evening Corey went from being tired (which is his usual excuse/attempt to get out of many things) to, in rapid-fire succession, getting one symptom of the flu after another.


Last night I headed upstairs to go to bed sometime around midnight.  Tom was in bed with a wet cloth on his neck and clearly not sleeping well.  I grabbed a couple of pillows and headed back down to the couch to (hopefully) avoid being the last one to be "it" in this horrible game of tag.


At 3:00 this morning I was awakened with the most awful sound.  Turns out it was Tom vomiting.  Upstairs.  With our bedroom door and the bathroom door shut.


Part of me wants to grab Mad and head for the hills, but the fact is there seems to be a 1-3 day incubation period for whatever we're dealing with here.  I could already have it.  I hope not.  After listening to Tom, I think I'd be afraid to get it even if I weren't pregnant.

When It Rains, It Pours

... right through the air conditioning duct and into the kitchen.


The good news is that Mad is eating and peeing a little, back to trying to get out of diaper changes and refusing to sit in her high chair (compared to what I saw the past few days, I'll take the hassles over the laying around and not really caring what's happening around her).  She slept all night last night and took another extremely long nap today, but has kept everything down that she's consumed.


The massive pile of laundry is about half done.  I resorted to making a pillow for Mad by putting her crib comforter into a pillowcase.  It's a lot easier to wash a little comforter and have it be useful later than it is the pillows she vomited all over.


The bad news, if you couldn't tell, is that our washing machine is malfunctioning somehow.  It's upstairs.  I noticed a spot on our ceiling today.  Two, actually, about five feet apart.  I checked the water hose while Tom was gone playing tennis; it seems to be operating normally.  It did seem like maybe the washer has been moved somehow.  When he returned, Tom unhooked it and moved it off the pan, which has a hole in it (why? how?).  I was downstairs and could hear the sound of rapidly trickling water from the living room.


The spots don't seem any larger, but 10 minutes ago Mad slipped on a massive puddle in the kitchen.  I guess I'm glad the water's not just sitting up there, and that it's found a way out.  However, how is it getting into the ventilation duct?  Where else is it going?


Of course our home warranty expired five weeks ago, and the warranty on the washer was more like three weeks ago.  Hopefully we aren't going to have to make our first foray into the world of home insurance claims.  My dad is an investigator for a major insurance company and has said for years that people who make claims get canceled.  I'm hoping that's his naturally pessimistic outlook more than reality.

Wonder No More

The answer is, "Yes, she will wake up later.  Several times.  Vomiting every time."


Tom slept with Mad on her floor last night because everything from her bed was in the laundry.  I have snuggled her in the rocker, the recliner, on my bed and on her floor today.  The lone piece of toast she at 9:00 this morning came back this afternoon not long after her nearly five hour nap. She is asleep right now, but when Tom gets home (hopefully very soon), we're heading down the hill to urgent care.  Mad hasn't peed all day.  Considering how little she's consumed, and how much has come back up, this is no surprise.


Yes, there are a couple of urgent care facilities around here.  No, they aren't with our medical group.  Tom's mom has said if Mad's dehydration is too severe, the urgent care will hospitalize her.  The hospitals up here aren't that great, thus the trip.


Please send her lots of positive, healing energy.  She could really use it.


***UPDATE***


Mad did pee during her last nap.  We've given her some more Pedialyte and Gatorade.  If she can keep those down and pee some more, we aren't going anywhere.  *fingerscrossed*

The Numbers, Time Warp, Poop, Vomit and Irritating People Day

So, yeah, a good day all around.


I am in a bind at work.  I have taken on a massive job to help spend money that must be spent in order to protect our grant.  But the job hasn't gone as smoothly as I'd figured and, effective Wednesday, I'll be down to four classes from the usual 18 because of summer schedules.  Those four classes, three of which are low producers, have now got two weeks to do as much of the remaining 45,000 pieces.  It ain't gonna happen.


To complicate things further, I've had one of those weeks with roadblock after roadblock.  For example, Margaret was sick on Wednesday, which never happens.  Nance was stuck schlepping boxes of completed work from schools in three cities to the employer.


Today I stopped at our office to pick up three small jobs that had been dropped off.  I can't lift the boxes, so I asked for help.  Should have been out of there in 10 minutes, max.  Half an hour later I called to see if maybe the facilities guy had forgotten about me.  Nope, he was just stuck dealing with an IT problem so the IT people don't have to come out.


I was so late getting out of there that I went straight to my chiropractic appointment.  I'm usually there for 10-15 minutes.  Today, naturally, I was there almost 45 minutes.  Because of the short schedules for some classes, it meant not being able to get to one of my schools where the big job is being done.


I picked up Madelyn later than I care to on a Friday afternoon.  About two minutes after traffic leading up to the Cajon Pass came to a complete halt, Corey called to say he needs to provide drinks for tonight's band event and can I have them there in half an hour.


Uh, no, but I will get them there.


I called Tom to ask where one could get cold 2-liters of soda.  He suggested checking a pizza place.  Mad and I stopped at Papa John's, where I noticed the distinct aroma of a dirty diaper... coming from my daughter, not the "restaurant."  Not much I could do right then, so we made the purchase and headed over to find Corey... who realized he had forgotten to bring appropriate clothes to school for the big event.  Oh, and call time was in three minutes.


The three of us headed home so Corey could locate his stuff and I could clean up Mad.  Just as we pulled into our neighborhood, Mad puked.  Repeatedly.  All over herself and her carseat.


Change of plans.  I sent Corey in to find what he needed before we raced back to school.


Corey had no idea what time the event would end, so I had him ask his teacher.  Her response?  "When it's over."


Really?  (This woman has driven me nuts all year with her similarly unhelpful and immature remarks to Corey, but I haven't addressed it because of his own behavior.  Sometimes I am compelled to act like an idiot around him, too.)


I have her cell phone number and called to get a better answer, but she didn't pick up.  So I pulled around to the band room, dragged my puke and poop covered daughter out of her nasty carseat and marched into the class, where I asked to speak with her privately.


I expressed, rather clearly, that I had sent Corey for an answer.  Because of the situation with my (smelly) daughter, I couldn't attend the event that night and I needed to arrange for someone to pick Corey up (Tom has trainings down the hill on Friday nights).  And, while I understood that she and Corey haven't gotten along all year, I didn't appreciate her lack of professionalism.


She, the woman who just last night was among the crowd of people laughing when Corey mentioned that his name is really Corcheval, not Corey, had the nerve to say that she and he have been getting along great this semester.


"That's your side, but that's not what I hear.  Now what time can I pick him up?"


She couldn't narrow down a specific time, but I did at least get a ballpark.  I called Tom and asked him to skip the training because I don't want to have to put Mad back into her carseat until I can clean it.


I brought Mad home, stripped her down, tossed her in the tub and flung her into bed.  Well, not quite like that, but she's clearly not feeling well and went to bed without dinner.  I wonder if she'll be up later?


Tom came in and we talked about our days.  Then he mentioned that he made plans for tennis on Sunday. 


Know what Sunday is?  The one day that I've asked him to leave for family things.  Like his birthday.


Calgon?  Anyone?

She's Got a Lovely Personality

One thing I never could have imagined when I was pregnant with Corey was gaining an understanding of the person within.  People who seemingly knew everything about their babies before they were born... or even a year after... just struck me as the worst kind of know-it-all.  Of course, at that tender young age I lived on the fence about everything requiring an opinion.


Having children 15 years apart gives a mom clarity that more traditional parents can't have.  Enough time had elapsed between births that I could tell the ineffectiveness of some of my less than stellar parenting choices.  And well before Madelyn, I'd learned where I really stood on so many different aspects of life.  I figured out that there are statements I can make about my children's preferences and personalities without permanently pigeon-holing them.


For example, Corey and Fynn have a lot more in common than Mad and Fynn.  My oldest and youngest are both pretty mellow, but always on the go, with periodic bouts of extremely high energy.  Madelyn never moved as much nor as forcefully as Corey did.  Fynn has been moving around in every ultrasound, even the very first when she was more like a bean or Mr. Peanut.


All of my babies have had hiccups.  Corey and Fynn just let them happen.  Yesterday alone, Fynn probably had hiccups six or seven times, for several minutes each time.  (She's having them now, too, in case you're wondering.)  When Mad was en utero she would only tolerate half a dozen or less before throwing a little fit and making them stop.  It really seemed to upset her.  I imagined it being like one of those old Tom and Jerry cartoons.  "Tom" was Madelyn and "Jerry" was the hiccups.  Almost as soon as Jerry entered the picture, Tom was flipping out.


I'm interested to see how Madelyn and Fynn compare on the outside.  Madelyn has always hollered and yelled her way through learning.  Crying during tummy time?  Only until she mastered it.  Crying louder while trying to turn over?  Right up until the second time she did it.  Screaming her head off if she wasn't allowed to touch something?  Only until she "got it" (then it became more of a game to see if we'd catch her).  On the other hand, she is the smilingest and happiest member of our family.  She gets out what's bothering her and moves on to what's good.


Corey was such a mellow baby and toddler.  The only times I ever recall him crying really loudly were during his circumcision (which took place while I was outside of the doctor's office, on the diagonally opposite side of the brick building... but I could hear him anyway, even over my own sobs... which is why I would never do it again had I ever had another son) and during the one night my ex-husband and I decided to try letting him "cry it out" (we were completely uneducated as to what that really meant... we lasted 45 minutes... and it's why I was so glad to find another way to offer sleep training to Madelyn). 


I wonder if Fynn will be as easygoing as Corey was.  And if, like him, she'll be secretly pissed about what's happening around her, but unable to express herself.


I guess in 15 years or so, I'll have an answer.

The Latest and the Greatest

Had a checkup yesterday, when I was officially 29 weeks.  Several good things came from it.


1) I don't have gestational diabetes nor any other concerns based on recent lab work.  It did make me want to order an apple crisp with lunch today, but I refrained.
2) Even though the official ultrasounds from the perinatology center recommend a due date of August 15, Doc is sticking with the 18th.  I get that Fynnie will come when she's ready, and changing the due date won't alter that fact.  I don't care.  But in this case, I would like her to stay in a wee bit longer (whereas before I've always thought a wee bit early would be lovely).  If she arrives like Corey (25 minutes late) or Mad (19.5 hours early), I will only have to work 2-4 days in December.  Aside from that (and the one day a month I'll have to put in during September-November, because I won't really be on maternity leave by then, just "off contract"), I'll be off until January.  That will make Fynn about the same age Madelyn was when I returned to work (4.5 months)... which was hard enough.  I cannot imagine doing it sooner.
3) Even though I only gained half a pound in the last four weeks, Fynn grew the equivalent of six weeks.  Okay, this puts her at five weeks ahead of gestational age, which is bigger than Mad ever was.  Don't be surprised if you see this fact on some other, less happy list.
4) I am cleared to go up into the mountains.  I didn't think this would be a huge no-no, especially since I have to go over a 4200 foot summit to get to and from work each day.  It's just nice to know that I can get to cooler temperatures.  We've been in the mid-90's this week.
5) My next appointment is only three weeks away!  As Nancy said when I called to tell her, "What?!  Weren't we just at this point with Mad two months ago?"  Yep, practically!  *big grin*


On the other hand...
1) When I asked Doc about advice, recommendations and things to be aware of since I (A) am having this child way closer to the last one and, (B) live 50 miles from the hospital (a 45 minute drive if it isn't a holiday weekend and/or a truck hasn't overturned going down the pass), he started in on his induction schedule speech again.  As with last time, he told me he'll check me at 38 weeks and see if I'm inducible.  (This actually happened at 37 weeks last time because he was so concerned I was having a "big baby"... she was 8.3 so, not huge.)  If so, he'll induce.  Uh, no you won't.  If I end up having to take Margaret up on her offer to stay with her and my dad for the last week, that's what I'll do.  However, sleeping on a couch, futon or Margaret's very soft bed (which she'd most likely insist I use) doesn't strike me as fun or comfortable while I'm that far along.
2) Fynn is measuring quite large.  Mad never was more than three weeks larger than expected; generally she was 1-2 weeks larger.  (Rebecca, if you've got some words of wisdom, now would be a great time to share.)  I keep reminding myself that this is the guy who doesn't do numbers real well.  Me and my grain of salt are staying mostly calm.


Oh, and two days ago I began noticing a distinct side-to-side motion while walking.  Please don't call it waddling.

And It Smells Like...

Wood!


Okay, so I commenced the whining too early.  Monday morning I called Perfect Dresser Dude; it was still available and he agreed not to take any buyers until we could get there to check it out.  We left at 9:30, found the place, spent about two minutes confirming that it would work for us and 10 strapping it into my Escape with about nine bungee cords.  A quick stop for gas and snacks that Mad could spill all over my newly vacuumed interior, and we were off.


The timing was great, too.  We didn't have much traffic coming down the hill, and going up was a breeze.  By the time we were almost to our off-ramp, the southbound traffic was jammed up with trailers and boats and cars full of hungover Vegas losers.  (Okay, and maybe a few winners, but statistically you know I'm right.)


Corey had spent the weekend at my mom's, but they arrived just before we did, so the dresser came in and upstairs immediately.  No foul stench stinking up the place, and it looks nice, too.  For now it's in the loft until we can move the desk that has been Mad's changing table into our room.


We spent the afternoon hanging out.  Tom grilled burgers and corn.  A cooling breeze blew through the house.


That evening I got an email from another person who was interested in the dresser I had posted on Craigslist.  I gave him a call and our address.  The guy actually showed up.  Even better he was excited about the dresser.  He loves to refinish pieces and believes that this dresser might actually be solid walnut.  To me the top looks like a veneer, but I could be wrong.  I don't refinish, I have only finished raw wood.  This guy seems like more of a semi-pro than a hobbyist, so I took the opportunity to show him our dining table (like that was hard, it's still sitting, 3/4 finished, in our garage; it was right next to the dresser).  We talked stains and stripping agents.  Hopefully I'll remember all about Blue Lightning when the time comes (yeah, that link is more for me than for you, unless you're interested in helping with my table and chairs, lol).  We were in total agreement that Tom and I should have never selected chairs with spindles in the back.  In a complete reversal of traditional roles, Tom stated, "But it's pretty."  Yes, dear, it's pretty.


The man paid us and promised to send pictures when he's done with his latest project.  It was then that I remembered we'd never introduced ourselves, not even on the phone.  After he and Tom loaded the dresser ("upright, please") into his truck, we exchanged names and went our separate ways.


And with the purchase and sale of the dressers at $45 a piece, Mad and Fynn's new dresser is still free, which is way better than $100!