Train? What Train

Yeah, no train.  Apparently Tom was only telling me about today's limited runs because of the holiday, the cost and the fact that we'll need to go down the hill to take Mad on the train for future reference.

Fine.

So, in lieu of train stories, I shall show you a little girl in training. 

*sigh*

I'm not ready.

Nope.  Not even a little bit.

Dear Godiva Chocolates,

I held you in high esteem when you were in expensive department stores.  I would eye you lovingly in your brown and gold packaging, even though I'm more of a black and silver girl myself.

On rare occasions, I would buy the smallest morsel.  Corey and I would savor it.

Years back when I wanted to find a way to say "I'm sorry to take your job, but I am a single mother and I can't choose a stranger over my son," I put together a gift bag.  The piece de resistance was a selection of Godiva chocolates.  (It worked, by the way, the recipient even sang beautifully at my wedding a couple years later.  No joke.)

Now, I'm not saying you're at the same level as XOX Truffles in San Francisco (a place so good that I have a permanent request for people to buy chocolate for me at the bottom of this blog... which no one has taken me up on *sigh*), but you're very, very good.

Hershey's?  Why does it do that odd squeaky thing when you bite into a Kiss?  Blecht!

Lindt?  Sure, they'll do in a Christmas stocking stuffer pinch, but could you eat Lindor Truffles every day?  Probably, but I digress.  The fact that they've chosen a name so close to a medical weight loss program (or vice versa) is just disconcerting.  Like those Olean potato chips that had a lengthy disclaimer at the end of each commercial warning of potential anal leakage, I don't want to be reminded of my fat ass while enjoying something naughty.

Dove?  Dark, semi-sweet and satisfyingly solid, Dove chocolates were how I would reward my sign language students on special occasions.  Most of the rest of the time it was Starburst or something from the 99 Cent Store.  Yes, Dove is good, but it's good chocolate for the masses.

Godiva, you have always been well above these knock-offs.  And yet, what did I spy while buying new panties for Mad at Kohl's yesterday?

That's right!  Display after display of Godiva chocolate treats.

How could you lower yourself to mass merchandising?  Is WalMart next?  The swap meet, which would require to set up shop in that funky smelling snack bar?!?  Have you no standards?!

Do you know how good dark chocolate Godiva pearls taste when you buy them with Kohl's cash?

Why Would You (We) Do That?!

Madelyn loves trains.  She has always been fascinated by them. 

Of course, she was fascinated by buses, trash truck and street sweepers, too.  It just turned out that "fascinated" translated directly as, "Oh holy moly!  What is that big thing?!  Can it get me?!?  AAAaaahhh!!!"

*ahem*  That was last year.  Now she's three.

As we drive up or down the pass each day, Mad requests that we go down and see the trains.  There's a fire road that extends about 2/3 of the pass.  Little semi-paved pathways shoot off that allow being right next to the southbound trains.

As long as the conductor doesn't give a friendly (obnoxiously loud) whistle, it's kind of fun.

Madelyn tells us if the engine is Thomas or Percy, and whether or not Thomas is pulling Clarabelle and Annie.

Tom thinks she'd enjoy riding on a train.  He wanted to do it for her birthday, but there is a serious lack of commuter rail lines up here, and we don't want to go as far away as Amtrak would carry us for the occasion.  As with most good things, we have to go down the hill for it.

Today we are hoping to finally take Mad on a train ride.  The fact that it's 8:45 and she's already melted down two times, refused to eat breakfast and went back to bed to get some extra sleep after I carried her, kicking and screaming, up the stairs per Mama's request... that doesn't mean it's going to be a nightmare of a situation, does it?

What the Hey?!

For the past day and a half I have not been able to stay signed in long enough to comment on anyone's blogs.  And let me say that I have typed out some brilliant and witty comments.

So if you have posted something but haven't heard from me, it's not for not trying.

Anyone else having the same problem? 

I guess I'll know if you don't answer.

Pet Names

I've mentioned the birth board I joined while pregnant with Fynnie.  Sometime around her birth I realized that (doh!) there was one for Mad, too.  (Corey was born before I'd even heard of the Internet, let alone used it.)

Today one of the April '08 mamas posted a question about pet names for our kids.  I'm including my response here mainly so it'll be accessible to my kids one day.  Because sometimes I think of wrapping this up when they're grown and saying, "This is who I am.  This is where you are from and part of who you are."

My son, Corcheval (AKA Corey) has been Bub or Bubba, which came from a made up song where I called him my Boobahoo My Sweet Doopy Doo.  LOL, nobody who wasn't around when he was a baby knows about that one.  I've also called him Con-Chacon or just Chacon most of his life.  Oh, and sometimes I still call him Corcheval Percival Peabody Parker, which is not his actual name, but what some friends used to call him because (I'll admit) he does have a rather ridiculously formal full name.

Madelyn is Mad, Mad-A-Girl, Madaladelyn, Honey Bunny, Sweet Girl and Moto.  The song I made up for her just uses Madelyn, mainly because I couldn't believe my kid had such a classic name.  So I was trying to get it stuck in my head so it would feel natural (it does).   Not Maddie... you can pretty much define who is around her all the time or not by who calls her Maddie.  Ironically, lately she's called herself Maddie Maddie Coco Pop.

Fynn is Fynnie, Fynnie Fynn, Fynneola or Fynnie Fynnie Coco Pop (also part of a song).  Sometimes she is Cute Girl or Monkey, too.  She was also The Fynnster for a while, but that seems to be going away.

And just for self-flagellation purposes, as a child I was called Froggie or Jojo until I was no longer powerless to stop it.  Worse, one of my parents friends thought "Jojo" didn't make any sense (it was from my middle name, Jolene), so she decided to call me Sam Sam.  Worst of all, that was apparently not bad enough, so she eventually changed it to Claude Claude.  I remember going to their house and seeing that on "my" cup.  It is one of the first things I think of whenever I think of that whole family.  Still.  Oddly enough, I've gotten some nicknames as an adult, too.  Shani and Shanahan are the most common... except for Shancy Sweener.  That is Nancy's and my Brangelina.

Fynnie's Fourth* Tooth Has Broken Through

But lest you be concerned that we're about to revel in long-sleeping nights, the next two are locked and loaded.

No pictures because... *sigh*... I can't seem to get her to smile with her mouth open and her head back far enough to see under her upper lip.

*Not that I am sleep deprived or anything, but the title was supposed to say fourth, not third.

Who Are You to Me?

When I was 15, my best friend Jennifer and I could usually be found at Roller City.  Mm-hmm, that's right.  We skated.  Every. Friday. Night.  And some Saturdays. 

Oh, and if there was an overnighter, we were there!  One time I even joined a small crowd roller skating from Rancho Cucamonga to Newport Beach.  At night.  (Unfortunately, no one bothered to tell me that the girls were driving out and only the guys were skating.  I couldn't keep up and ended up riding in the bed of a pick-up truck.)  If you were to drive it back then, it would have taken about an hour to get there on the freeways.  We arrived at sunrise.

So, of course to be included on such a trip, I felt like one of the cool kids, right?  Well, as cool as you could be if your big social events all revolved around roller skates.

Somewhere in that year of being 15, Jennifer and I, totally rocked the 80's style.  I always blow-dried my hair and then used a curling iron to make it just wavy.  Bangs.  She either sported a perm or her hair was crimped to perfection.  Eyeliner.  Super tight jeans with oversize shirts.  Oh, and we both had mouths full of braces. 

One night we happened to spy this new guy.  Kinda cute.  Tiny little OP shorts and a shirt with a collar.  Curly hair.  And these massive skates like we'd never seen before.  He was fast and athletic. 

I ceded to Jenn when it came time for a "lady's choice" skate.  Here's what I learned later.

His name was Norm. 
He was older. 
A hockey player. 
And they were called Roller Blades.

Norm eventually became one of my best friends.  I have now known him quite a bit longer than I have not.  We had some wild days together, and might enjoy recounting those stories privately, but wouldn't necessarily want to share them with the world.  Thus, when Norm turned 30, he instituted a new rule:  Pre-30 Days.  Anything that happened before you turned 30 could no longer be mentioned.  He's serious about it, too.  Five years ago he half-heartedly claimed he was moving on to the Pre-40 Days rule, but there's not as much to put behind from 30 to 40, so it's not hard and fast.

Norm has been such a huge part of my life.  When he met the guy who would become my first husband, he pulled me aside within minutes and said, "What are you doing?  You can do so much better than this."  Because I am sometimes a complete idiot, I tensely replied, "No I can't" and then married the loser dude about 18 months later.  Norm tried to see the good in Stephen and stood up at my wedding.

He started dating Angela when I was pregnant with Corey.  Corey and I stood up at their wedding.  She's as awesome as he is.  Their 14th anniversary is coming up this fall.

When I met Tom and thought he was pretty special, I arranged for a dinner with Norm and Angela.  Norm gave his blessing by the end of dinner, which was good, because I already felt like Tom was the guy I was supposed to have waited for.

Tom and I married about five years later.  Norm, Angela and her mom were all present.  They even helped with setting up the day before.

Sometime around Norm's 40th birthday, we started hanging out less often.  I'm not exactly sure why.  And when I became pregnant with Madelyn and then Fynn, the calls became even less frequent.  (I can still count on a birthday call where Norm will recount the convoluted mathematical equation that allows him to remember my birthday.  It's a tradition.)

I know they've struggled with fertility issues.  And I know that Angela has some severe weight issues, and hockey player Norm seems to be following in her footsteps.  It seems plausible to me that either or both of those could be factors in their willingness to get together.  But I also wonder if it's not that at all.  What if I said or did something to offend one or both of them?  What if Corey took something while we were at their house that last time?  What if I'm just boring or we just don't live in the same higher home value areas and they're embarrassed?

Whatever it is, I'll probably never know.  We're not that close anymore that I could really ask.  And whatever the reason, it's not bad enough to end the friendship.  I do still get calls.  My calls are still answered.  But our invitations frequently aren't.  Or I will hear that they're going to come, but they don't and we never know why.  When someone does show up, it's Norm to a party, alone.

Last year Norm stopped by here unexpectedly.  Very unexpectedly since we live too far enough away for the casual drop in.  I burst into tears.  Honestly, I can't remember if this was right before or right after Fynnie was born.  I'm sure hormones played a part, but still...

Which all brings me to today.  Today I received an invitation to a surprise birthday party for Norm's 45th birthday.  It's for this Saturday.  Tomorrow.  The invitation came in the form of an email addressed to "family and friends," but I was the only recipient.  Sure, sure, she could have taken the time to BCC everyone, but who does that on a personal email?  And she has rented out a facility on a Saturday evening.  I know the economy's down, but could that really have happened before 10:20 this morning?

We are not going.  For a legitimate reason.  We already have a party for one of the girls' friend's first birthdays tomorrow afternoon, followed by a baseball game that evening.  I RSVP'd saying I'm sure they'll have a great time and we'd love to hear about it later.

Between you and me?  I didn't really want to even send that email.

Starting Early

Yesterday evening Corey had an appointment with one of his doctors.  As it happened, I'd promised Margaret I'd get the girls as soon as possible because she's been ill.  I wanted her to ease back into watching them.  Aaand Tom ended up working very late because he'd taken time off to be with the girls while Grandma was ill.

So the girls came with Corey and me to this appointment.  Madelyn was concerned that she might have to get up on the "zamming table" and kept stating, "I don't want a checkup.  I don't need a checkup."

Imagine her surprise when there was no zamming table.

Multiply that when it turned out that the doctor mostly wanted to talk to Corey and Mama, but not her!

Madelyn handled herself pretty well, all things considered (it was a no nap day).  She did get a little squirrely and ended up falling off the couch.

I gave my standard we-don't-whine-about-things statement, "And she's down."

Mad gave her standard response upon standing, "And I'm up!"

Doc looked at her and said, "Wow, you're pretty tough for a little girl."

Mad, "Well what does that mean?"

Doc, stuttering, "Uh... it means... uh, I'm being *ahem*... uh, sexist."

Mad, "Don't do it sir, don't do it."

Doc, "You're right.  It's my mistake.  You were right to correct me."

Madelyn's last two statements may have been coached by her Mama, 'cause Mama don't play that.

Impressed?

Today I amazed and astounded my coworkers with my ability to look right and left.

Was it the chiropractor?
Nope.  I sure would like their hours, though!

Pain meds?
Nuh-uh.  One full day of heartburn and a terribly upset stomach was enough, thanks.

Time, a few office cubical deep tissue massages, slightly better sleep and a (brief) trip to the gym seemed to be key.

So yes, Inquiring Minds, I went.  I arrived in plenty of time for the dance class, but that was definitely not an option.

I rode the most relaxed stationary bike ever.  Seriously.  It has arm rests.  Twenty minutes of random hills on level five of 20.

That was it.  I would have attempted the adductor and abductor machines, but a pair of women were lounging on them.  They should have had umbrella drinks.

Aside from going to the gym, I have to say, my biggest accomplishment was not going at the gym. 

And if I ever think about taking Advil again, please print this post and slip it under the bathroom door.  I'll find a way to make it stick.

Pain in the...

I used to listen to Howard Stern.  I was young, whimsical, (not so) secretly rebellious (if you knew me away from work).  And he was kinda cool.  Dorky, self-deprecating, madly in love with his wife. *swoon* 

Plus, there was a good chance that I could learn something.

One time he had a guest who said that certain so-called normal actions were actually little markers of mental illness.

Losing your keys every morning?  Instead of just saying "I don't want to go to work," you're trying to sneak out of it.  Making excuses.  (His explanation was lengthier and more detailed.  You get the gist.  Right?)

As a bona fide morning key loser (and member of a highly questionable extended family), this struck a nerve.  I did not lose my keys for more than a few seconds for years after that.  If I couldn't find them, I would simply acknowledge that I didn't want to do whatever I was trying not to do, remind myself that I had to do it anyway and then *poof* remember where I'd left my keys.

July of 2000, Corey and I were invited on our very first camping trip.  Ever.  My neighbor, Shannon (aka Sha-Nay-Nay) invited us to join her entire family on a trip to Big Bear.  My previous camping experience included "camping" in a huge and well-furnished RV during my teen years.  Oh, and that one time I spoiled the backyard sleeping bag adventure by freaking out about the coyotes that I could hear waiting to eat me as soon as I fell asleep.  (In my defense, we lived in the foothills just outside Los Angeles.  There were coyotes.  I could hear them.)

I bought sleeping bags and enough s'mores components to satisfy a small army.  I was excited!

And then I was intimidated.

What if I made a fool of us?

What if the other people didn't like me?  (No question they'd love Corey.  Just me.  This may be shocking, but I'm not exactly a new people sorta person.)

I did not lose my keys.  Nope.  My back went out.

Now I do have a history of back problems.  Mostly from ages 7 to 14, a time that encompasses almost my entire gymnastics "career" and a year of living normally afterward.  But I was 29 (about to be OLD by Sha-Nay-Nay's nine years younger mind).  I knew what it was.  It was my excuse not to go.  Once I realized this, I got down on my bedroom floor, flat on my back and stretched out while I gently scolded myself.  A few minutes later, my back was magically healed fine. 

Corey and I had a lovely time.  And I learned the correct ratio of people to s'mores ingredients is not two full-sized bars per person, with extras "just in case."

Fast forward to modern times.

Did you know that Thursdays are "Tom's night"?  They are.  Sometimes he plays softball.  For the past year or so he's been playing tennis.

Last week I finally got a night of my own.  Tuesdays.

In anticipation of selecting a night, I have driven around with almost enough gym gear.  I set myself up for the eyes of Big Brother had my fingerprints scanned so I can enter the gym I've been paying to be open just in case I care to drop in.

Last Tuesday was the big night.  My dilemma was whether I should go to the gym near work, but then drive for nearly an hour after that when I might be getting sore from my heavy-duty workout, or if I should go to the gym near home.  The big fear about going to the one at home was whether or not I'd actually go, especially since I didn't really know where it's located.

I left my office and drove about a mile to the gym.  And found a decent parking space.  (Not that I care if I have to walk a little.  It's the gym, after all.)

Where I realized I didn't have a lock.

And I had to go to the bathroom.  Which I was totally not going to do at the gym.  I mean, seriously.  Eww!

And I forgot a towel.

And if I did go in and get changed, I wasn't going to buy a lock.  I mean, c'mon!  And really, I wasn't going to schlep my work panties out the front door and come back in to work out.  Who does that?!?

So I drove away.

Went home.  Went to the bathroom.  Nursed Fynnie.  Went to the bathroom again (nerves).  And left.

And realized I still didn't know the location.  So I called Tom and he told me.

Upon arrival, I realized I didn't grab a towel.  I have one covering the passenger seat of my car so a stain doesn't show.  Nope, the baby blue towel is much less conspicuous.  I took it with me.

Went in and did the death grip on the StairMaster for 10 (long) minutes, and did some other stuff, too.  Saw that they have a dance exercise class on Tuesday nights.  I arrived too late to jump in, but I spoke with the instructor later.  She's great, and I told her I'd see her next week.

Tonight.

Only yesterday morning I woke up with my neck all kinked up.  I cannot look to the left, although my head keeps tipping that way.  Limited range toward the right.

This is the kind of pain that takes your breath away.  And, according to my coworkers, is painful just to see.  One of them, Joanie, gave me a deep tissue massage yesterday evening and again this morning.  My chiropractor is just not available during times when I could go the past few days.  Another coworker gave me an Advil.

I don't take pain meds very often, but it worked really well last night, so we bought some more.  Today it has wreaked havoc on my stomach.

Part of me is wondering if this is my lost keys.  I don't know.  I hope not.  I do have a lot of problems with my neck.  The last time I messed it up, it turned out I'd dislocated a rib.  Rolling over in bed.  (I do wish the story had more to it, but that's how it happened.)  This is, comparatively, not that bad, but it ain't great.

But I also have a long history of finding reasons not to exercise, and the flabby ass and giant thighs to prove how effective my excuses have been.

So I've decided that I may or may not go to the gym tonight, but I am going to do something.  It can't aggravate my heartburn or make me turn my neck, bend over or move up and down more quickly than your average post-operative septuagenarian.

It also cannot be here at home.  I'll let you know how it goes, and whether or not I lose my keys.

The Excitement Comes to a Screeching Halt

Today, since some (one) of you were wondering, I started my day off with a meeting.  Four agenda items and it still took nearly two hours.

That ain't right.

Yeah, My Job Sucks

Yesterday I had to go to that schmancy luncheon and canoodle with Tommy Lasorda.  Today I had to chaperone a bunch of middle schoolers at a baseball game.  It's an annual event.  It's awful(ly cool)!  I hate it (when it's over and I have to go back to the office).

Girl, Whaaat?!?

No really.  I swear it's true.

What's that?  You didn't get my text?  It said I spent three hours spent surrounded by guns and now I smell like Tommy Lasorda.  I'll add that I laughed and cried and laughed.  A lot.

Dude, I couldn't make this stuff up.  This is way better than the naked hug with my doctor, too.  I swear.

Today was the annual Police Recognition Luncheon.  Tommy Lasorda was a surprise guest speaker.  His stories about a few less than academic ball players were HI-larious.  ("Saxie, what's today's soup?"  "Of the Day.")  Afterward, my friend Lisa and I got our picture taken with him.  His cologne was awesome.  We kissed him.  Tommy Lasorda's cheek is soft and smooth.  As Mad used to say, "dey nice."  Speaking of which, it was my idea that we kiss him, but it was Lisa's decision to ask if we could fondle his cheeks.  He did not decline.  We stuck to the soft cheeks on his face.

I'd post the pic, except that I don't have it yet.  Oh, and for some reason I asked my skinny friend Lisa to be in the shot with me.  Why did I do that?  The last time we had our photo taken together, my head appeared to be three times the size of hers.

Here's a quick summary of why I'm pretty sure I won't be posting the photo when I do receive it.

By the numbers

One heck of a roller coaster, that's what the past few days have been.  This roller coaster (that used to terrify me as a kid) aptly sums up our experience... if played on repeat for three days.

2 teeth coming in

2 ear infections

1 sore throat (still too soon for the culture to come back)

3 medications ~ one antibiotic, two fever reducers

24 hours ~ the point when I was expecting things to be looking up

36 hours in two hour increments ~ how long it really took before we started seeing any improvement at all.  It was a faint smile at Madelyn and slightly more effort at nursing

30 seconds ~ roughly how long it took to take Fynn's temperature five times, each time seeing the number go higher and higher.  Almost three full degrees in 30 seconds.  Having a baby whose temperature can literally shoot up 10 minutes after being dosed with fever reducer makes people who say brilliant things, like "she should have been to the doctor long before her temperature got that high" make me want to call them bad names in places other than my mind.  Instead, next time I'll just ask to see their medical degree or politely go tell them what they can do with the borderline accusations of neglect unsolicited advice.

104.4 ~ the point when I thought we'd be seeing another febrile seizure any second.  But just as quickly as it rose, it started dropping. 

1 more video ~ this one showing the point at which we were finally allowed to disembark the roller coaster from hell.

Whatever You Do, Please Do It Now

We are starting on day three of one sick Fynnie Fynn.  What the heck?  Like getting two consecutive front teeth isn't enough for this week.  Well only one has broken through, but the other one is right there.

Nope.  What started out as a mild teething fever has turned into double ear infections, a sore throat (possibly strep... I suppose we'll hear on Monday) and, tonight, vomiting.  With any luck, the vomiting was due to getting fever reducer (we're onto the children's medicines now... infant stuff isn't cutting it) right after the antibiotics.  But if, when it's time to take the next dose of amoxicillin, your child's fever suddenly goes from 99.4 (the lowest it's been since Wednesday afternoon) to 103.1, you don't wait for the stomach to settle.

As with last night, Tom is taking the first shift of snuggling a diapered baby who's wrapped in wet towels.  Last night my shift started at 12:30 and went straight through to morning, so I'd better get some sleep.

If you are a chanter, a prayer, a sharer of good vibes or thoughts, or a sender of white light, please, do it now.  And maybe send something for the future.  This is Fynn's second set of ear infections in two months.  Doc said that sometimes there's a link between teething and ear infections; they don't know why.  She has a lot of teeth waiting to come out.

Whatever you do, Fynnie loves you for it.

The Mother's Day You Deserve

That's what a friend said she hoped I am having, the Mother's Day I deserve.  I don't know if I am or not.  I suppose so.

Let's see:

Corey is not here.

I had to cancel plans for time with my mother and Corey, and part of me is relieved. 

We started this weekend with a vomiting toddler and a teething infant.  The tooth has again receded, so we'll get to go through all that again. 

Tom's brilliant idea for a Mother's Day gift was to put a rosemary hedge in front of our house, something I've been longing for since we had to leave our rosemary plant at our old apartment when we moved.  Only the general consensus from the informational cards we read at one big box place and the person we spoke to at a local nursery is that the shade from our north-facing house will likely kill the plants next winter.  Same thing with lavender.  Or any plant that we would actually want to put there.  Plenty of sun in the backyard, but no sprinklers and I do not think that Tom's "if we're diligent" suggestion is likely to happen.  We remember to water the front lawn because we see it every day.

Fynnie and I just woke up from a lovely nap and either a pox is upon her or she has been bitten repeatedly on her abdomen, chest and back.

And I'm on my period which, true to form for the past few months, has come with a really nasty attitude.  I told Tom that I'm thinking about talking to my doctor about it.  He said it doesn't seem like anything's that different.  Fortunately, for both our sakes, I have the sense that he meant things aren't as bad as I'm making them out to be.  But he doesn't hear all of the things that I say under my breath nor the things that I somehow wrestle my tongue out of saying.

So... is it the Mother's Day I deserve?  (That's a rhetorical question!)

Something Awful

Isn't that a strange phrase?  How does it translate into "a lot" or "with a passion"?

Why don't people realize that's what I mean when I say things like, "I love to sing something awful"?

Maybe they've heard me sing.

I love to sing.  I have always loved to sing.

In fifth or sixth grade I tried out for the Tri-Cities Choir (those three cities were Ontario, Montclair and... I'm not sure what the third city was, but clearly this was only a big deal to the people applying).  I don't recall what song I sang.  I do remember standing next to the upright piano, singing my heart out and wondering what it was going to be like as a member of this choir.  I mean, I breezed right into my school's choir which was an awesome way to get out of class proved how talented I was.

Fast forward maybe 15 years when I was saving my mom from being featured on Hoarders decluttering my mom's apartment in advance of a move.  She pulled out this file that she'd kept with my accomplishments.  Dozens of (participant) ribbons from all those years I spent competing (without advancing) in gymnastics.  (Motivational) Certificates for doing things (like attending) in school (without faking sick because Luke and Laura were trapped on an island).  What else did I find?  The rejection letter from the Tri-Cities Choir.  Suddenly I recalled how the bearded, corduroy wearing man wrote on a little scrap of paper, "F flat."  Only his "flat" was underlined three times.

When Corey was a baby I would sing to him to help him sleep.  When he was maybe 18 months old I noticed that he was increasingly distressed at bedtime.  One night it finally came out.

"Hush little baby, don't say a wor..."

*sobbing*  "No song!"

"Hmm hm-hm hm-hmm..."

*bawling with tears shooting out of his eyes*  "No hmm-hmm!"

As I've aged, it seems to me that I can now occasionally hit keys.  Madelyn has enjoyed having me sing to her.  But I guess that's changing.  She's three now and more discriminating than when she was two.

This evening as we were driving home, we talked and sang.  Sometimes we talked in sing-songy voices.  She finished my sentences.

"I cannot..."

"... sing!"

*sigh*  At least we know she's got taste.

Goodbye April, Hello May!

Sure, some good things happened in April, but here is just a sampling of why I am happy to see it leave.  In fact, this sample represents one week, Saturday to Friday.

Saturday:  Had Mad's birthday party.  Struggled to pull it off.  Barely Managed with the help of several people, not really including my own mother.  Wrapped up the party with Mad having what seemed to be a seizure.

Monday:  Mad was unusually cranky and wild.

Tuesday:  The in-laws left.  That night Mad, Fynn and I were definitely coming down with something.

Wednesday:  Have to go to work.  I have no more sick time, and my work is balking at letting me use the Paid Family Leave that I qualify for.  Struggling to keep Fynnie's fever down, she ends up with the typical 24 hour dose of fever reducer.  In a one hour period (yes, under her doctor's care... half of it was given at her doctor's office).

Friday night:  Spent in a hospital emergency room with my son who was having "bad thoughts."  When he thought he might have to be admitted, the thoughts suddenly vanished and he was sent home with a list of numbers to call "if this ever happens again."  Turns out he hadn't been taking his medication regularly because of... *bigsigh* my mother's hygiene habits. 

That, my friends, was one week of my life.  I'm glad April is over.

Now that May is here, things are looking up.

Fynnie has started lifting her heinie a whole inch off the floor.  Yesterday she started scooting.  Okay, she goes backward, but she can do corners and turn all the way around.  She can also get that thing I keep moving out of her reach.

Two days ago she said her first word and it was MAMA!  Okay, it was Mama immediately followed by a raspberry (on five separate occasions, so clearly she has some strong feelings).  Go Fynnie, go!  And let's leave April in your dust!

I Guess It's Been a While

Last week I finally decided to stop in at my gym.  I figure I pay someone to work there a few hours a month, maybe I should check the place out.  Plus, it's been a while since I've seen my gym ID card.  Not, like, decades... I definitely recall seeing it on the nightstand upstairs. 

I walked in to the place and read perused the sign on the door about the "no copies of IDs" rule.  Made sense to me.  Imagine my surprise when I learned that the rule only applies to parents who are dropping off children in the kids' club.  No, the rest of us don't need to bring any ID.  Why not?

They scan your index fingers. 

That's right.  I've been away from the gym long enough for Star Trek to have landed.

Oh, you were wondering how my trip to the gym went?  Totally successful.  Did what I set out to accomplish.  When I'm ready I'll go back and, you know... exercise.  I've even got appropriate exercise type socks in my car as we speak. 

No, I do not think I'll be using the high heels that are also in my car.  I plan to put some tennies and exercise clothes in there, too.  I just can't find the right outfit.

Anyway, Tom just came back from a run.  I feel worn out just thinking about it.