no appropriate behavior

This Ain't No Foolin' Around (+ a Gluten-Free Birthday Cake Recipe)

2012-01-26T18:11:00.012-06:00

Monday was my birthday.

Which means I did what any reasonable person did: I fantasized about cake for months.

Full disclosure: if I weren't gluten-free, I probably would have ordered a fancy-smancy cake for myself from some fancy-smancy bakery. But, heh, as good as Kansas City is with the gluten-free, it's not that good.

Good thing I like to bake.

(Oh yeah, me. Not Aaron. You heard that right.)

Criteria for a only-girl-in-the-house's birthday cake: it must be pink; and multiple layers; and good.

Aaron got home from his business trip late Sunday night (lucky man), and then home after 8pm on my birthday (not-so-lucky-man) (I will not discuss the projectile vomiting Emerson did around 7pm, after I gave him the tiniest smidge of buttercream frosting) (oops), so cake was served late.

Gluten-free Vanilla Birthday Cake with Vanilla-Cherry & Chocolate Buttercreams

Vanilla Cake

1 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature
2 cups sugar
4 large eggs
1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 cup whole milk
3/4 teaspoon salt
1 tablespoon baking powder
2 1/2 teaspoons xantham gum
3 tablespoons corn starch
2 3/4 cups gluten-free flour mix*

Preheat the oven to 350; butter and line two 9 inch circle cake pans (or if you have a smaller size, whatever) with parchment paper.

In a stand mixer (or large bowl), cream butter and sugar until fluffy, scrape down the sides. Add the eggs one-by-one, vanilla, and milk: once you add the milk it will look like cottage cheese and this is totally fine, don't worry. (Welcome to gluten-free baking!)

Scrape down the sides, and sprinkle in the salt, baking powder, xantham gum, and corn starch; scrape down the sides again (dude, I know). In small batches, sprinkle in the gluten-free flour until fully incorporated. Stop the mixer, scrape down the sides, and incorporate any remaining bits by hand. Divide the batter between the two cake pans and bake 20 - 25 minutes, or until slightly golden and a toothpick comes out clean. Cool completely.

*I prefer to use King Arthur's All Purpose Gluten-free Flour mix (and I only wish I could be paid for saying such a thing)

Cherry-Vanilla Buttercream
(I made a 3/4 batch for this cake, a full batch would have made for a prettier cake)

1 cup unsalted butter, at room temperature
6 to 8 cups powdered sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup half & half or heavy cream
1 tablespoon vanilla
1 tablespoon (or more!) of maraschino cherry syrup

In a large bowl (preferably of a standing mixer), beat butter until light and fluffy, two or three minutes. Scrape the bowl, add one cup of powdered sugar and salt, and mix. Add vanilla and cherry syrup to half & half or cream, and slowly add to butter/sugar mixture. It will look awful, it's okay. Trust me.

On low, slowly add 1/4 cup scoops of powdered sugar; add more sugar and mix until desired consistency. If the frosting looks watery, add more sugar. Transfer to another bowl, if you are making the chocolate buttercream afterwards.

Note: If you want it pink without the cherry, do it how you like it! But if you are adding syrup be sure to use at least half & half or heavy cream, not milk, because milk + syrup = too much water, not enough fat. (I found the cherry syrup in the local grocery with - of all things - maple syrups.)

Chocolate Buttercream
(I made a half-batch of this for my birthday cake)

1 pound semisweet chocolate chips, melted and cooled (I use Ghiradelli brand)
1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
1/3 cup hot water
1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter at room temperature
2 to 3 cups powdered sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/4 teaspoon kosher salt

Whisk together cocoa powder and hot water, set aside.

In a large mixing bowl, beat butter and one cup powdered sugar until light and fluffy. Add vanilla, salt and cocoa-water mixture. Slowly add melted chocolate chips.

Slowly add more powdered sugar until it's at a consistency and sweetness you like. You can also put the mixture in the fridge and beat occasionally.

If you beat the mixture a little, you will have a dark, dense, rich chocolate frosting (like in photos). If you over beat you will have a light, fluffy, whipped chocolate mixture. Make it how you like it.

You ready for cake? Let's finish!

Split the two 9-inch cakes in two width-wise, to end up with four cakes. Put the top of one cake upside-down on your platter, surround with strips of parchment paper (unless you like the frosting-everywhere look; in which case, go on with your bad self!).

Put some cherry-vanilla buttercream in a frosting bag (or do what I did, put some in a plastic bag and snip a corner off), and outline the outside of the cake with the pink frosting (this prevents chocolate buttercream from seeping out the sides). Spread chocolate frosting in the center. Place the other half of the cake on top of the frostings, smush down. Repeat the layers, then frost the outside in the cherry-vanilla buttercream.

Then have your children decorate with sprinkles.

Then you go have yourself some birthday cake too.

(Both Griffin and Aaron have birthdays in February and they are already plotting what they want.)
(Hold me.)

Like a Boss

2012-01-17T17:26:00.004-06:00

I always get a little slap happy (confession: a lot slap happy) when Aaron works his crazy-ass schedule and, especially, when he travels.

We're on day nine of a not-yet-time-determined trip.

Which explains why I sing this all day (alert: not safe for work, not safe to play around the kids - but you can get by with the first 30 seconds to get the gist) .

make breakfast LIKE A BOSS

feed the dog LIKE A BOSS

do the laundry LIKE A BOSS

send emails LIKE A BOSS

scrape the van LIKE A BOSS

drop off kids LIKE A BOSS

do some shoppin' LIKE A BOSS

forget apples LIKE A BOSS

make some coffee LIKE A BOSS

update files LIKE A BOSS

sort spreadsheets LIKE A BOSS

make a sippy LIKE A BOSS

change a diaper LIKE A BOSS

wash my hands LIKE A BOSS

go up the stairs LIKE A BOSS

trip on the last step LIKE A BOSS

See? I can go on and on.

edit photos LIKE A BOSS

answer the phone LIKE A BOSS

build a fort LIKE A BOSS

wash peppers LIKE A BOSS

slice peppers LIKE A BOSS

eat pepper slices LIKE A BOSS

Oy. See? Out. of. my. damn. mind.

publish this post LIKE A BOSS

To the End, Always the End

2012-01-05T17:58:00.004-06:00

Sitting at the table, with pieces of broken gluten-free pretzels...

"Mine, mine, mine. Ky-wee. Mine. Ky-wee."

There's no question where Kylie the not-really-a-puppy-but-we-still-call-her-a-puppy's weight gain is coming from.

(We won't discuss where my weight gain is coming from.)

(Cookies.)

It Sounds Like a Whisper

2012-01-03T19:56:00.000-06:00

Happy new year to you.

I keep flipping between excited and nervous for a new year. I feel it in my bones, this year will be different (and hey, maybe in part that will mean conquering some of the hoarding tendencies in this house) (I sure do hope so).

We have a lot of changing already happening, none within our control. It's becoming a strap-on-your-shoes-and-do-some-ass-kicking moment. I feel like I kick enough ass as it is, thanks, but apparently more needs to be tackled. So tackle it I (and we) will.

But in the between, I'm looking to the light, to the hope for happiness and ultimately the best outcome for my family. To three smiling little faces who wrestle and scream and run in the house, who chase the dog and tickle each other and join me in my crazy kitchen dance parties.

It's an adventure, this crazy little life.

It's Too Close For Comfort

2011-12-01T13:48:00.004-06:00

Yes, it is completely possible to live without a gallbladder.

But I wouldn't recommend it.

Other things I would not recommend:

nerve damage

getting gluten'd

deciding to tear down and rebuild a walkout in less than 48 hours

going outside in the ice. or snow. or rain. or blistering heat.

All in all we're fine. Getting back to normal - at least, finding a new normal. A new normal with lots of pills to counter-balance the loss of a gallbladder.

Today is the day we begin our advent calendars, also known as let's see how crazy the Lego people got this year. We haven't opened them yet, but I'm on pins and needles to do so.

And yes, Emerson has gotten quite artistic around here. His favorite medium is purposely spilled godawfullyexpensive formula.

I'm quite convinced the is the precursor to watercolors.

Lost in a Maze of a Thousand Rainy Days

2011-10-21T14:17:00.000-05:00

I'm pretty certain I've finally washed the remaining hospital adhesive off my arms, legs, abdomen. If not yet, then soon and damn that's taking a long time.

Last Monday, Emery had his stomach scoping. It was scary but he came out of it all well and good and Tuesday morning Aaron hopped on a plane to Chicago 'cause it's Business Trip Season as in, hopefully we'll see him a few days a month between now and the New Year.

Businesses take heed: we'd appreciate if you would budget better and not decide to do all your work during the holiday season

Wednesday early morning I woke with Emery and felt awful but convinced myself it was in my head... a couple of hours later the allergist told me to call 911 (eh, breathing problems were involved) and instead I took a pain pill to deal with it all later in the day.

A few hours later I was in ambulance apologizing for being dramatic while the EMTs freaked out over my low pulse ox readings and ma'am, would you like some morphine? No thanks, I don't want to be dramatic.

Heh.

After a few tests, with my dad fretting in the ER with me (he simply does not do well in hospitals) (and my stepmom was home with all the boys), I was admitted. More tests over. Really, I swear - the pain was going to stop soon.

photo courtesy of miss chris

A visit from a good friend (who pulled my hair back while I was sick, oh how hospitals can be so humbling), and a nuclear test later they were certain - my gallbladder had "died" and needed to come out.

Hand to heaven, that's what the surgeons and nurses said, died.

Aaron's swift return home. Surgery. Recovery. It's all blur.

Truth is, I've felt off for quite awhile - but chalked it all up to having a sleepless toddler (2am is prime Party Time, doncha know), with a variety medical problems we're trying to figure out.

Speaking of which, the pathology reports from Emery's scope came back and he has Eosinophilic Esophagitis, which explains his constant puking-of-real-food-but-only-rarely-his-special-formula.

So. sigh. New medicine starting this weekend. More scoping in a few months. Hoping to work with therapies that he can grow and begin eating like a normal child and not (nearly-worst-case scenario) needing a feeding tube in his belly.

I mean, really. Really. This isn't suppose to be a medical blog.

And You Think You'll Burst Apart

2011-09-30T08:51:00.005-05:00

A few weeks ago I decided I was tired of this shit, "shit" in this case being all of Emery's constant puking and called the GI office at the local children's hospital.

Two days later we were in the office, talking to the doctor - who I will never, ever visit again. Anyone who thinks I'll pay him to treat me like I'm stupid obviously isn't nearly as intelligent as he'd like to believe.

The next day we were at the Occupational Therapist getting Emerson tested for a behavioral problem with vomiting; he was cleared of that diagnosis.

The following day we were in Radiology having the worst x-ray experience of my life, where they fed him barium and ran the machine like a video feed, rotating him in this 18th century torture contraption. They thought he had a mal-rotated intestinal tract, but after another hour (!!!) of testing they deemed him anatomically perfect.

The next week the GI's office called to say they have a diagnosis! He has acid reflux!

My reply? "Um, yeah. I know. That's why I brought him to the office to begin with."

So, here we are - now waiting for a stomach scope. Which they have to do in in-patient surgery due to his food allergies. Where he will be put under with anesthesia. I am not looking forward to that.

A day later, I came down with Strep and here we are, more than a week later and I'm still not made of awesome - I blame the crazy antibiotics. I'm sure you'll agree.

I've had the honor recently to participate in two quilting bees. One, a quilt for Jacquie (oh, how we will miss her from KCMQG!) and a very special quilt of love. Both ladies put into words what I simply cannot.

Today is my and Aaron's 11th wedding anniversary. Three kids and one crazy puppy later, here we are: old, going gray and we still like each other. WIN!

Tonight we celebrate as a family, ordering pizza, family movie night and bakery cupcakes. Monday we'll celebrate as a couple, dinner out and tickets to see Death Cab.

I think this may beat last year's hardy high-five in the kitchen.

In other news, have you seen Emerson?

Emery? Where are you?

Peek-a-boo! There you are!

I'm Just a Million Miles Away

2011-09-16T17:29:00.001-05:00

The week began with cake and ended in multiple new doctors and tests.

Acid Reflux is no damn joke, internets.

So, let's focus on the good: cake

My dad's 60th birthday was last week, we had my parents over for a big birthday celebration which included a gluten-free version of my dad's verymostfavorite, German Chocolate Cake.

Gluten-Free German Chocolate Cake

for the cake:
16 Tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 1/2 cups sugar
4 eggs
4 oz 70% dark chocolate, melted and cooled
1 1/2 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup buttermilk*
1/2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking salt
2 teaspoons xantham gum
2 cups gluten-free flour**

for the filling:
1 cup pecans, chopped
1 3/4 cups sweetened shredded coconut
6 tablespoons cold unsalted butter
1 cup heavy cream
1 cup sugar
3 large egg yolks

for the buttercream:
1/2 pound semisweet chocolate chips, melted and cooled
1/2 cup unsalted butter at room temperature
1 to 2 cups powdered sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
1/8 teaspoon kosher salt

Make the cake:
Preheat oven to 350. Grease two 9" round cake pans, cover bottoms in parchment paper and grease again.

Cream the butter and sugar until fluffy, add in eggs one at a time; drizzle in melted and cooled (for the love of P, it must be cooled) chocolate, scraping every last drip in. Add vanilla and buttermilk and mix well (it's gonna look gross; welcome to gluten-free baking).

Scrape the sides, mix a bit more and sprinkle in salt, baking soda, baking soda and xantham gum. Scrape sides again, mix well some more and then sprinkle flour in 1/2 cup intervals, until all the flour is incorporated. Scrape down the sides again and mix well by hand. Globby gluten-free batter doesn't bake well, ya'll.

Divide batter between the two pans (I took out enough batter to make 4 cupcakes before dividing) and bake for about 45 minutes, until a toothpick comes out clean when testing the center (the four cupcakes baked for 20 minutes).

Remove from the oven, let cool completely before moving on (preferably overnight).

for the filling:
Place chopped pecans and coconut in a large heat-proof bowl. Dice the cold butter and put that on top of the pecans and coconut.

In a medium saucepan over medium-high heat, heat cream, sugar and egg yolks stirring constantly with a wooden spoon, until the mixture thickens and coats the back of a spoon. Pour hot mixture through a five sieve into pecan mixture, stirring until butter melts. Set aside until it cools to room temperature (about an hour).

for the buttercream:
In a mixing bowl, beat butter and one cup powdered sugar until light and fluffy. Add vanilla, salt and cocoa-water mixture. Slowly add melted chocolate chips.

Slowly add more powdered sugar until it's at a consistency and sweetness you like. You can also put the mixture in the fridge and beat occasionally.

(It's not plagiarism is it's copying myself. Ahem.)

Put the dang cake together already, Laura:

Remove cake from pans, slice in half width-wise. Oooh and aaah over how well it slices and stays together. Place one half of the cake on your cake plate, cut side up. Top with about 3/4 cup filling. Add next cake half, more filling; repeat two more times. Frost outside with buttercream.

Don't share.

*make sure your buttermilk is gluten-free. It does no one any good to get the wrong buttermilk. You can always make your own by adding one tablespoon white wine vinegar to one cup milk, let sit for 10 minutes.

**I use King Arthur's gluten-free all purpose flour. Paid outta my own pocket.

A couple of notes: This cake is no.damn.joke. So good. Awesomely good. I'm sorry for not sharing the actual, physical cake but certainly the recipe is enough, right?

The cake is mild and holds up to the super-sweet filling really well. In future endeavors, I'll likely make more filling to have thicker layers. I got lots of whines for wanting to eat extra filling by the spoonful. And over ice cream. And on pancakes.

Most German Chocolate Cakes have beaten egg whites. When egg whites are beaten it changes how the proteins stick to each other - whatever that is called, it makes me sick: hence, no beating of the egg whites in this recipe. If you want to do that, you are certainly welcomed too. Add the egg yolks where I say to add the eggs, beat the egg whites and fold in at the very end after the flour is added. But seriously, the recipe already filled my pans, adding that much air in would overflow so have a third circle pan on hand. Or make cupcakes.

Shake, Shake, Shake it Off

2011-09-02T10:03:00.002-05:00

Random Lady I've Never Met Before: Oh! Your baby is cute!

Me: Thanks!

Random Lady: Does he have... The Cancer?

Me: ... Um... His face? He has some dermatology issues but we're working on it...

Crazy Lady: Oh, that's good. I'd imagine it would be hard to bond to an adopted baby with cancer.

Me: ....

Crazy-Ass Lady: He is adopted, right?

Me: Does it matter?

Fucking Crazy-Ass Lady: Oh! Haha, no? I mean? It's just... he's so white and you're so dark!

Me: ...

Dumb Bitch who Needs to Pull Her Foot Out of Her Mouth: ... Um... I take it he takes after your husband? Your husband must be really white. Why...

Me, walking away.

You Shouldn't Have to Jump for Joy

2011-08-31T11:01:00.005-05:00

My running joke in San Diego was my the tagline of my blog should be, it's not suppose to be a medical blog.

'Cause, woe, that's where we are. A fucking medical blog 'cause all I can talk about is HEALTH.

I wish this wasn't the dead-center of my life. I wish we weren't going through this. I wish I could easily talking about the holiday quilt I'm making for the family, because it's soft and pretty and lovely and almost ready to head to the quilter but that's not the focus of my life right now.

The focus is getting all of Emerson's health-shit figured out. I do not enjoy lotioning him hourly. Or how we can't go anywhere because his ability to catch a secondary infection is so high, we haven't even been to "church" in months 'cause we have to keep his exposure down. Or how about his weight and height are so low, doctors think he's starving and "failing to thrive" (oh, he's thriving just fine, that's what they call it when weight consistently goes down on the curve). Or his itchiness. His goddamn itchiness that interrupts everything, screaming in the night 'cause he's itching in his sleep and causing himself to bleed everywhere and all his cries ask are why? what's happening? why am I hurting? and there's not a damn thing his parents can do other that swipe him with more lotions and shove more medicines down his throat.

This is the center of my world right now. And yeah, I'm barely blogging because I can take making fun of this crap only so far. 'Cause it's most certainly not funny.

We've started another whole new routine; the new theory is his acid reflux is eating away his skin. Yes, you heard that - eating away his skin.

So more acid reflux medicine, putting (of all things) butt paste containing Zinc Oxide on his face. Fuck me backwards, Batman, it's working. Not fully-completely-healed, but helping.

I really looking forward to him starting to outgrow all this hullabaloo. Griffin and Darwin had similar (but not exact) circumstances, but we have a couple of more years until the relief comes.

Years. Oh, how I do hope it's not years.

Walking on a Dream

2011-08-19T16:40:00.003-05:00

My baby is a baby no longer... well, he's still my baby but now he's a big, strapping one-year old boy.

I know, right, Emery? What the fuck, mama? I know, how can it be one year already?

(It feels more like five.) (Sorry, that's the sleepless nights talkin'.)

No longer the little poopin', peein', screamin', eatin' machine we brought from home. No, now you crawl! And do a zombie walk! And maneuver around like a monkey! And talk about your Dadddddeeeeeee!!! And doggies! And refuse to say Momma 'cause your have your father's rotten sense of humor!

You love Bubble Guppies, Oscar the Grouch and Hall & Oates. You get PISSED when a parent travels and gives said parent the cold shoulder a good 24 hours after his or her return. You love your big brothers and stand outside their playroom, shaking the baby gate that divides you and scream AAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH. Thank you for that, it lets me know where you are.

You drink from a sippy (one design, no others mister particular), have your special vanilla-flavored hypoallergenic formula and are kinda-sorta interested in foods and rice milk, but only foods everyone else is eating - none of that jarred baby crap for you. You eat till you puke, thanks to the acid reflux. We're working on it and hope to fatten you out the 6th percentile of body weight for kids your age.

You chase the dog around not because you want to pet her, but because you want to jingle her collar. You like to sit on my hip as I make dinner and whisper "hot" as I cook. You scream at the one measly step from the kitchen to the entry room and throw everything down "to the great abyss" but you know how to climb off the couch (including throwing pillows down to cushion your landing). You love bath time and scream when we take you out of the tub and often lift bath toys along for the ride.

Happy birthday sweet, sweet Emerson. I wouldn't change a thing about you.

(But I'm totally open to more uninterrupted sleep, if you're taking requests.)

Oh the Days Go By So Fast

2011-08-16T10:36:00.004-05:00

Yesterday these two boys started a new school year...

Second Grade and Fourth Grade. Which means I'm officially fucking old.

Speaking of fucking old...

... this little monkey turns one year old this week.

You may knock me over with a feather now.

I'm Goin' Back Home to the West Coast

2011-08-09T14:59:00.012-05:00

The big news around here is I went to BlogHer'11 and neither was hospitalized nor died of while traveling. Big upgrade from BlogHer'09.

Pathetic what passes as big news around here.

I have decided that the West Coast is the place for me. If I could make out with the ocean or carry it home to Kansas I most certainly would have - both if at all possible.

(Smooth Cab my ass.)

Grace!

Drinks and dinner at Nobu. They (appropriately so) requested that I now say restaurants Nobu'd me when they did not gluten me. As apposed to don't you fucking PF Changs me when I inquire about the gluten-free area in the kitchen's set up.

I'm suffering from a horrible conference hangover and I just cannot get back on Kansas time. It was so, so wonderful and awesome (except that part when this lady when five ways to crazy at the gluten-free table when I wouldn't eat non-labeled chips; obviously, she really thought highly of those chips).

I Could Stick Around and Get Along with You

2011-07-19T14:50:00.004-05:00

Summer has managed to pop up and bite me in the ass so viciously that I cannot think straight.

Life is busy. Good busy. And hectic.

Two werken-over-full-time parents can be hard, but we're hitting summer with the best we got, we've visited the Maker Faire, the Great MidWest Balloon Fest, been doin' lots of gardening, sewing and sucking on sweet, sweet air conditioning.

Poetry in Motion

2011-06-27T10:41:00.009-05:00

We have a freshly-minted seven year old in our home.

Bet you can't guess who.

Darwin is now seven. Seven!

I really have no idea how this happened.

Ever my old-soul child, Dar loves being a kid. "And a middle brother!" as he likes to say (despite me doing my best to never, ever call him that). Always up for a change of plans, always up for a new adventure, nothing ever phases him - unless he's happy doing what he's doing and we have other plans.

Loving: Legos, parks, Hex Bugs, board games, picking flowers, making art projects on the fly, comic books

Notsomuch: picking up sticks, early bed times, long car rides, daily journaling

On his birthday he chose "boss of the day," which meant vacation days from work for Momma and Daddy, lots of video games + presents + gluten-free chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast + shopping for DSi games + lunch at Cheeseburger's in Paradise + more shopping at the dinosaur store + family movie night with popcorn + cupcakes and sorbet. Whew.

Happy birthday, Darwin! As you like to say: Awesome! TOTALLY AWESOME, I TELL YA!

[Darwin at 2, Darwin at 3, Darwin at 4, Darwin at 5, Darwin at 6]

And He's Bringing Me a Surprise

2011-06-21T15:06:00.004-05:00

It started with a rash. Then a fever. And listlessness.

Called the doctor. Told to wait. Half-an-hour later, headed to Urgent Care.

Within an hour, the rash nearly doubled.

"Due to his food allergies, we can't give him a shot." Went downtown to the big children's hospital.

Admitted.

"Heh," the doctor said. "No shot would've helped this anyway."

For once, food allergies helped us.

Official (-ish, because he never had an abscess to drain & run tests on) diagnosis: fast growing MRSA cellulitis

Required lots of IV antibiotics

Four days in the hospital is not awesome.

Don't You Know Now Is The Perfect Time

2011-06-08T15:49:00.006-05:00

We're having a bit of growing pains as school is now out of session and we're home with mama and all our brothers all day.

After a few very rotten, horrible days we've moved to a new reward system. I think it's working, but today the naughtiness keeps coming even with redirection.

So we're focusing on other things, trips to the neighborhood pool...

... fresh flowers from the farmers market (I really do get the best of the bunch, I think)...

... and workin' on the postage stamp quilt. When I get an opportunity, of course.

Aaron just got home at 2am this morning (duuuuuuuuude) after his four-day-trip turned into an eight-day-trip and he still turned around and got to work on time. That boy deserves a trophy.

And lots of rain this weekend. So he won't have to do yard work (and so Mama can sew).

You Know it Feels Good to be Alive

2011-05-27T09:57:00.004-05:00

photo credit: Scott Cook

The Midwest has been having a week with all this crazy-ass weather. Joplin, Missouri is three hours south of us and our heart breaks for that city, while we're incredibly grateful all our friends there were physically unharmed.

Tornado sirens went off in the Kansas City area on Wednesday. Aaron and his coworkers stood in the bathrooms, in the middle of the building, for an hour. Darwin, who was at school, went to the basement music room and watched two episodes of Reading Rainbow.

Griffin, who was home sick, Emerson, the dog and I went to our basement for over an hour.

At the beginning I ran up and down the stairs preparing while the boys sat. First run, bottled water, two cans of Emery's special formula, two clean sippy cups. Second run, shoes for me and Griffin, laptop (haven't updated the hard-drive in a long time, too many precious photo files to lose), cameras, battery packs, flashlights, dog leash. Third run, canned & boxed goods, can opener, prescription medicines.

Yes, I was a Girl Scout. Why do you ask?

After I was done with the running I closed the door. I keep a radio in my sewing area, blared it loud. Shifted furniture around in the basement so I could close a door in case there was flying glass. Pulled out a rag rug to sit on and watched Griffin freak the fuck out and puke for over half an hour, poor kid. He got that nervous tummy from his mama.

There were reports of a tornado touch-down less than two miles from our home but it turned out to be a false report. Local areas were hit, but nothing super-close to us.

And Buddha bless texting and the internet. Seriously, we were able to tell family and friends over a thousand miles away that yes, we are in the basement, yes we are all safe. So very grateful for that technology.

More storms are headed to the Kansas City area this weekend, high hopes of just rain and no funnel action. But water, formula and sippys are still in the basement - just in case.

Kill the Lights and Shut the DJ Down

2011-05-20T12:51:00.005-05:00

Here you go, a little happy for your weekend: some of our favorite songs.

Which you have activate yourself, YOU'RE WELCOME. Blogs that auto-play music. That shit needs to stop. Please. Think before you auto-play stuff... you don't wanna lose readers 'cause someone's reading blogs at work and YOUR MUSIC BLOWS THEIR COVER, amirite? I am right.

Hap-hap-happy weekend to you!

You the One to Please

2011-05-19T15:54:00.005-05:00

Took Emery to the doctor yesterday for his nine-month well-baby check (dude, he's been out for as long as he was in, weird).

Weight - 7th percentile
Height - 12th percentile
Head Circumference - 70th percentile

Baby got some smarty-smart brain up in there, yo.

We discussed a lot of things (including this horrible head cold we are all battling), even a medical issue we've been in deep, deep denial about. The doctor was convinced things would get better, but she's starting to agree that it's much more serious than previously thought.

Unfortunately, there's no known medical help we can do, which makes it all that much more serious. Yes, some people have been known to live with the condition for a long time, but typically their life is cut short.

Y'all, Emerson is a zombie.

It explains a lot, if you really think about it:

lack of sleep (the better to liquify my brains)

the odd undertone of braaaaiiinnnnnssss when he cries - bbbbBBBBbbrraaaAAAAIIIIiiiiIINNNNNSSSssssssss

his forcefulness to try to shove a spoon in my ear (you know, to eat the brains)

his inability to heal his skin ('cause, you know, HE'S A ZOMBIE and zombies are like dead and stuff and aren't known for their healthy-glow) (unless they are full of brrraaaaiiinnnnsss)

Other going-ons ('cause like I said, DENIAL ABOUT MAH ZOMBIE BAYBEE), Darwin has mastered the monkey bars:

but with MUCH trepidation. And both boys finished up spring soccer...

... which means we can focus on other things, like canning. And preserving my bbbrraaaiiinnnnssss.

And He's Watching His Reflection

2011-05-13T14:32:00.000-05:00

My Succotash Wish

2011-05-04T14:38:00.004-05:00

We need some normal around here.

I don't know what normal is but damn it, I want it.

The past few weeks have been marred with the mastitis (which, at this level is challenging the stupid fucking foot for ridiculousness) making its comeback, trip to the hospital, meeting with a breast surgeon, meeting with an infectious disease doctor, more antibiotics and talks of hospital stays.

To which I say, ohmyhell.

I'm much better now, but in deep, deep denial of "needing" to go back to the breast surgeon and "get somethin' on the books." I feel fine now, really. Okay, I feel better. But better is awesome and I don't wanna go to the hospital.

Now I'm figuring out how life is with three kids (heh, instead of "two kids and a nursing babe") (although, I'm still somewhat in denial that I have three kids) (Emerson is an excellent accessory, he fits nicely on the hip - baby jewelry, I like to think of him), a healthy mama and a daddy who is about to go on his first big business trip since I got sick-slash-weened.

Oh boy.

Youthful Magic Moments

2011-04-13T19:21:00.003-05:00

I never intended to have a medical blog. Or a blog so medically-heavy. But whatever. My blog. My life. My boobs that I seriously contemplated cutting off.

Um, what?

OH YEAH, YOU HEARD ME. Cutting off my boobs seemed (heh, still seems) like a good idea.

'Cause I got Mastitis again. 'Causes someone bit the holy hell out of me and made me bleed, bleed, bleed multiple times despite workin' on weaning.

So, yes. Fever over 104 for two days. Dizziness. Big red streaks across my boob (B is for boobie, which is no longer good enough for E! Oh, boobie, boobie, boobie starts with B) and to gild the lily, non-gluten-free medicine taken for 24 hours.

'Cause you know, the Mastitis alone was simply not good enough.

Six days later and I've been fever-free for less than 24 hours but oh-so-much-better. Aaron went back to work today. I was able to carry the baby without fear of dropping him. Life is good.

In all honestly, I don't remember too much. I've been told that crazy-ass fever will do that to the brain. But my nerd-self can't help but wonder what else am I forgetting? Quantum mechanics? String theory? How to make a damn good gluten-free chocolate chip cookie?

One thing is for certain: Emerson is weaned. No more boobies for you!

I've Got a Tight Grip on Reality

2011-03-30T12:56:00.005-05:00

The Tour de Doctors is never ending. And unlike the Tour de France, there's no trophy or metal at the end.

Hopefully, health.

So back to the doctor we went Monday. This time, the family doctor.

She thought another round of oral steroids would help. Cut back on the prescription allergy medicine a bit, but add a daily dose of Benadryl. Go off the topical steroid (he became immune), and add (after my request) the prescription lotion the big boys take.

Boy howdy we know how to party over here.

We're also trying to wean, but Stubborn McFussyPants has no use for anything in his mouth except the boob. Of course. This morning I fed him a new (fourth!) formula in a sippy that didn't have the stopper. I think he got half of it on him, but even so - that's the most he's had of anything that didn't come out of a boob. So, I say WIN!

The steroids are an interesting, horrible life experiment. Let's take a baby who obviously doesn't feel well, but has a stellar disposition and turn him into MEAN ANGRY HULK BABY CRASH BOOM SMACK. New favorite pastime? Whacking Mama with a very hard rattle. Screaming non-stop. Giving big brothers dirty looks instead of laughing when they dare to make him giggle.

At least he's not turning green and ripping all his clothes off.

One dose in him and he's already better. And he's be even more better if he hadn't mastered the fine art of scratching his face into everything including the couch, carpet, blankets, his own shirt, our shirts and anything he can possibly get his face on.

Oh boy. Such a party.

Postscript: I just got a call from the doctor's office, when they swabbed his cheeks on Monday, the sample grew a Staph infection. Not MRSA, thankfully, but still: fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

When You're Down There's Just One Way to Go

2011-03-16T16:26:00.004-05:00

We're on Spring Break here- no, wait. The boys are on Spring Break. I don't get a Spring Break. 'Cause I'm a Mom. A Responsible Mom. A Responsible Mom who doesn't drink rum in the middle of the day even though she really wants to. Especially when the boys are on Spring Break.

So. The boys are on Spring Break from school. Aaron's still out of town (hello, day 13: you suck).

Because I'm a Responsible Mom, I'm making the boys clean the playroom over Spring Break. Which means, according to them, I'm a rotten, awful mother who will be sent to the grossiest of gross nursing homes as soon as they can falsify my records and make me sound like I'm incapable of making Responsible decisions.

Which means at the rate that Griffin and his lawyer-ness is going, two years?

And I will par-tay.

ANYWAY. The cleaning. Yes. See?

Please note: yes, Emerson has "tiny" legos in his hands, but they are impossible-to-choke-on-legos. And I'm only helping Griffin find me the rottenest of nursing homes, yes?

Emerson's test results came back last week: dog and egg

Which totally stumped me. "What do you mean only dog and egg?" "Isn't that enough?" "Have you not looked at my other boys' files? He's got to be allergic to more than that!"

I got the paper copy of his test results Monday and yes. Turns out he's way more allergic than "just" eggs and dog. But whatever(s) it is, it's not testable yet. His general-allergic-to-the-world IgE was through the roof. Which means, most likely, he's allergic to me. Like Darwin was. Why the children's hospital can't test that is beyond me, but there it is.

And I've tried weaning him onto the Elecare (that wonderful hypoallergenic formula) and he isn't going for it. On Monday, the allergist gave us vanilla-flavored Elecare. And I got a little excited on Facebook and Twitter and posted this with a WIN! and yeah. That WIN! lasted about two minutes.

I'm an overzealous person, internets.

My new plan is to ditch this place and go away this weekend when Aaron gets home, so Aaron could get him to take a damn bottle and I could sleep.

I really think not-getting-two-straight-hours-of-sleep-at-any-time is really screwing with my brain.

But? HA. Like that's really gonna happen. Please. I'm a Responsible Mom, remember?

Internet, meet The Incisors of Death. You realize I'm still nursing, right?

Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right

2011-03-08T17:32:00.001-06:00

In case you don't follow me on Twitter or Facebook, we've had a couple of really awful shitty weeks over here. After the oozy incident, Emerson got tons better on the steroids, new antibiotic and antihistamine.

Three days later, when he took a step down of the steroid, he completely broke out again. A week later we were back at the doctor, crying. Not sleeping. Begging for an answer.

At this point, the infection is secondary. The issue is the inflammation, which is opening the skin to be susceptible to the infection. Their only thought?

Allergies.

At which point I totally did a facepalm because duh, I should have figured that one out on my own.

I spent that whole Friday calling the allergist's offices (who's having her own set of health issues regarding her eye, poor lady - I really like our allergist a lot). I spent the whole Monday calling her offices (she works out of three: the "fancy" one we go to, one at KU Med and a third kids' clinic at a satellite KU Med location) (doctor has credentials, yo) and couldn't get Emerson an appointment until Friday.

Another allergist in her office offered to have us come in on Tuesday to "explain to us how food allergies in babies work, but wouldn't test the baby for allergies." Like there's anything any doctor can throw at us that we haven't already heard, studied and had test results that were against their textbook lectures.

HEAVY SIGH

Aaron pushed back a business trip, I nearly had a nervous breakdown (as in, do I need to go to a mental institution? or just check into a hotel and get some freaking sleep?) and we finally made it to the appointment.

We arrived, and immediately got stuff rolling for Emerson.

This is a good true-to-life photo (little slap-happy filtering on this one - the others? hello funky filters that don't make my baby look quite so miserable), taking his blood pressure.

After going through all our papers, asking us questions and looking him over carefully, we were sent to the hospital for his allergy blood test.

Five vials. They needed five vials of blood to test all of the allergies ordered (and the doctor ordered every single one possible).

The results are in, but OF COURSE we have to wait to tomorrow 'cause today is her day at her kids' clinic and she'll review them tomorrow morning.

In the meantime, we have new body soap and lotion, new antihistamine and two cans of Elecare just in case he is allergic to my breastmilk. And based on the tests we did at home (rubbing some into a quarter-sized spot on his back that was originally clear), he is (his poor back broke out after three applications).

So remember when I said we have tests that go against textbooks? Yes. We do. All of us. (Well, not Aaron. But the rest of us.) Please don't leave any snarky comments saying IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO BE ALLERGIC TO BREASTMILK!!!1!!!!!

Improbable, yes. Impossible, no.

Darwin was. I will not at all be surprised to find out Emerson is too.

And yes, to answer your question: if he's allergic to me and my milk, then why now? Why not when he was born?

Because of two things: One, a baby's immunities is reflective of his mothers when being born. It takes a while for the mother's immunities to flush out and the babe's to turn on. Two, genetics turn on and off multiple times over your life (and each switch is slow, taking a few months or as you age, a year). Once around six months (Emerson's age), another big genetic switch around the age of five (when lots of kids "grow out of allergies"), another during puberty, and genetics can turn on and off anytime the body goes through trauma (broken bones, pregnancy and delivery, hernia surgery, etc).

I can haz nerd cred.

Emerson started breaking out in November - I just thought it was the cold weather. In December I went dairy free (keeping in mind, for myself I'm gluten and soy free), which helped a bit. Then I went egg and nut free. But it's just compounded and compounded and compounded and nothing I do is making him any better.

I may have to start weaning tomorrow, which is a great disappointment. I had planned on nursing him for a few more months.

But.

I will do whatever is necessary to take care of my babies. Emerson's constant screaming and inability to sleep is proof something is going on his little body. Whatever it is needs to be diagnosed and remedied. Period.

You're Original, Cannot Be Replaced

2011-02-22T16:20:00.005-06:00

Yesterday, Griffin turned nine. Nine!

Which means he's old. And I'm freaking old.

It's harder to write about my boys as they get older; it's a respect thing, I get it. And I share what I'm told is okay to share.

Being an SPD kid is not fun, everything is bigger. Disappointment is harder, hurt feelings are more tender and the bests of days is joyously awesome. It's a roller coaster for all of us, and overall it's an amazing ride.

Soccer is still awesome and you're excited to try out a kids' curling class.

You like to be busy (heh, I think you get that from me) and want every moment of every day planned. You also get quite upset if plans fall through (again, from me) and we commiserate together.

We're more alike than you care to admit, being a Daddy's boy now. Beyond the eyebrows (which you ask for me to trim, but tweezing and waxing are not allowed), we both have problems finding our Nerds (it gets easier as you get older, I promise!), we're tenderhearted and heart on our shirt-sleeves kind of people. We're both sarcastic and "love" to use air quotes.

You love art and architecture, and you got a couple of books to inspire and get your creativity going. You create games, characters and stories. You should really write them down more - the oral histories you are coming up with will be lost if you're not a bit more careful.

You're an amazing big brother and love your little brothers so much. Although, you openly hope Emerson will pester Darwin, to give him a taste of how he pesters you. And no, I don't plan on having another baby so Emerson can get a taste of that medicine. Crazy kid.

Happy ninth birthday Griffin! Our family wouldn't be right without you here!

'Cause the Boys in the Hood are Always Hard

2011-02-16T16:27:00.004-06:00

The plan was to write about Valentine's day. Just let the record show, that I had a plan. And it fell through. 'Cause that's what life does: it jumps up and bites me in the ass.

My overly-rosey cheeked babe got a little too rosey last week, his cheeks started to flake on Friday. Got worse on Saturday, which is when Aaron got home. Started to ooze on Sunday and by Monday morning was just... too much. Too, too much.

Called in, got an appointment, took him to the doctor. They started a round of antibiotics.

Not good enough.

The oozing got worse. Thick. Yellow-ish. Beading like an ice-cold drink on a warm summer day.

Trust me, this is not for the faint of heart:

That's not lotion. That's ooze. Think, crusty, stick to everything ooze.

I wanted to call the doctor yesterday, but knew we should ideally have 48 hours of antibiotics in him.

He was even worse this morning. Of course, he spent his night screaming.

Called, got an appointment, took him back today. Swabbed his cheeks for testing (results hopefully Friday). New antibiotic, new steroid, new antihistamine. Aaron worked overtime, is headed to pick them up now. Constant nursing and car rides are the only thing that calm him down. He doesn't like acetaminophen nor ibuprofen and spits them up.

Sigh.

Then, this evening Darwin didn't have his glasses on 'cause he's been wearing them so tightly, he's cracked the skin above his nose and it won't heal.

At dinner, he thought it would be "funny" to put the fork up to his one good eye and pretend to be in jail. I calmly moved it and took it away and then gave A VERY LOUD DISCUSSION ON WHY WE DO NOT PUT ANYTHING CLOSE TO OUR EYES.

(Short story: Darwin lost vision in his left eye after an accident when he was 15 months old. Long story here.)

This caused Darwin to cry a lot, but for Griffin to completely lose it.

Between the two boys, and the baby not being held, it was a round robin of crying over here.

'Till the Princess is Annoyed

2011-02-11T17:02:00.007-06:00

What the frack apple jack? Mama's bloggin'? NO WAY!

Yes, way. 'Cause I FINALLY GAVE UP and went to the doctor. Who was all "Giiiiirrrrrlll, you got a sinus infection." And then they swabbed my nose and made me hang around and BAM, I got a great big prescription for antibiotics.

Forty-eight hours later and I'm magically feeling better. IMAGINE THAT.

Other than being sick around here (and let's be honest, very little else has been happening so just amuse me, mkay?), we've been working on getting Emerson to sit. Above, yes. That's how he "sits." Not upright, hunched over like an old man. An old man I surround with pillows.

Also, hello gluten-, dairy-, soy-, nut-free certified organic brown rice cereal! (Say that three times fast.) Baby likes to EAT.

And thanks to the cereal, Mama has rediscovered her mastery of getting poo out of clothes. Hello, blowouts. You can go away now.

Emerson makes Wookiee sounds. This rocks for two reasons:

1. Wookiee sounds. From a baby. Awesome.

and

B. We call my dad "Wookiee." Good to know the Capello genes are alive and well in my light-headed, light-skinned babes that look nothing like their Mama EXCEPT FOR THE EYEBROWS, I KNOW.

In fact, the Wookieeness is so strong, when he watches this he communicates back:

(Fast forward to the two minute mark if you're impatient.) (But if you don't like that song, I don't think we can be friends.)

In other news, I would like to announce that not only did we have a full week of school (no! snow! days!), Griffin and Darwin were also healthy enough to attend school all week. To have both boys at school five days this week is a first since.... December? (I'm ignoring the fact that Tuesday was a half-day.)

On my agenda this weekend?

- make handmade Valentines for my four boys

- continue to feel better

- sleep!

- celebrate Aaron coming home from a business trip tomorrow afternoon

- kick Aaron out of the house if he's still sick

- watch the snow melt!

Our Bodies Going Num-Num-Num-Nu-Nu-Nu-Numb

2011-01-31T10:45:00.003-06:00

Last weekend (yes, as in over a week ago) we celebrated my birthday.

Normally not writing about my birthday would be A Major No-No but this year I have decided, woe, I am old, so screw that.

Also? All my gifts were purchased at the hardware store.

My boys have class.

Oh. And Darwin did get me a highly inappropriate card (Oedipus complex much?) that Aaron didn't even catch on until I sat him down and explained it to him.

Lordy lou.

So, anyway. Yes. My birthday. Then the next day, all hell broke loose.

"All hell" in this instance being some hybrid of the flu and head colds and stomach viruses and acidic drippy noses and AREN'T YOU GLAD I'M NOT WRITING ABOUT MY BIRTHDAY?

Let's do this another way...

Family: sick

Griffin home from school for four days.

Baby ran fever, got snotty and broke out in a rash.

Aaron got sick.

I got sick.

Darwin has a perpetual drippy nose.

Emery and I spent four hours at urgent care yesterday.

Big snow and ice storm coming.

Typical January.

No Principals, No Student Teachers

2011-01-20T16:52:00.005-06:00

The boys are still in jammies. Why? 'Cause we had another snow day today. Two last week. And? We just got a call that our trash service isn't running for the rest of the week, maybe next week.

Kansas? Mother Nature? You can stop now. Please.

In other news. Ever try to take a picture of a happy baby without a flash?

I'm sorry. That's just pure awesome.

And when he gets tired of the clickity-click-click-click?

Emery is not amused. Nor is Kylie. But more because that little human stole a lot of her attention. Bitter much, puppy?

And yes, I did make him that bib. He's such a drool-y, puke-y, gnawing-y baby he has to wear bibs at all times. We average four a day. And guess what? I despise bibs with velcro. Can't stand them, they chew up whatever they are washed with. Which means they get washed alone.

So, yes. I made Emerson a bib with a snap. Because snaps rock!

And yes, snaps do rock! But you know what else? It took me over an hour to make a stinkin' bib. All those carefully (or, ahem, not-carefully-enough) curves take for. ev. er. to mange. And I have a quilt to work on.

I am unofficially (and I mean, very unofficially) participating in the postage-stamp quilt along. Of course, it just added to my pain when I was told by the old biddies at the local quilt shop that a two-inch-square quilt is not a postage stamp quilt. It has to be one-inch or less.

It's hard not to tell old biddies to shove it.

In any case, I have three sets of strips together (after I spent over an hour getting reacquainted with my seam ripper). Fifteen more sets to go.

So maybe, maybe? I'll have this quilt top completed by May. Maybe.

We Gon Light it Up Like it's Dyn-O-Mite

2011-01-11T16:43:00.004-06:00

We're on our second snow day here.

The chatter of three kids is amazing.

They are vocal little buggers.

The two big boys just came in from the snow. The babe is upstairs talking to his mobile. I'm drinking hot tea and eating a brownie. Don't tell.

I did something a wee bit crazy on Sunday. I decided to make a postage stamp quilt. Crazy, I tell you, simply crazy. I expect my fabric in the mail any day and I fully anticipate driving you all crazy with it as well.

You are welcome.

Hard to be Soft, Tough to be Tender

2011-01-06T13:18:00.003-06:00

Confession: none of our Christmas decorations are put away.

It's driving me crazy.

But, Griffin is sick and it's a full-time job just keeping him away from Emerson. And keeping him away requires a lot of dude!'s and honestly, I fully expect to pull my hair out 'cause Griff can't remember anything (including properly English, as he just asked, "Dad where be at all day?") and I'm starting to feel like a valley girl 'cause you know once I add too many dudes! to my vocabulary like and totally are gonna start following it up quickly.

Dear Universe: I would super-appreciate it if everyone in my home was healthy. And if they could please structure their sentences in a proper form, that would be a nice shiny, sparkle-y bonus.

For Auld Lang Syne, My Dear

2011-01-01T19:24:00.014-06:00

I'm the first person to admit I like things shiny and new. New years are no exception.

Usually, I'm happy to see a year go: I like the promise of a fresh start and the (happily) unexpected. But 2010 was a fantastic year to us, and I am a wee bit sad to see it go.

In January, we found out we were having a surprise! baby.

In February, Griffin turned eight.

In March, Aaron (who's from Michigan, 'cause you know no native Kansan is this crazy) and Darwin built the most gigantic snowman.

In April, we spent an obscene amount of money and had two dead trees removed. (Two days later, a huge wind storm would have surely made one of them crash into the house.)

In May, the boys gardened while I was on bedrest. (Notice how I'm not talking about the crazy-awful pregnancy.)

In June, Darwin turned six. Six!

In July, I was tortured by something horrifically frightening in our garage.

In August, I completed my first quilt...

... and days later we welcomed Emerson.

In September a water-main broke, which is located under our driveway.

In October, we visited the pumpkin patch (hands down, my most favorite day of the year).

In November, we celebrated Thanksgiving (and was extremely grateful to have Aaron home since being gone since Halloween).

In December, we went to Michigan and relished our Daddy time as he was hardly home this month.

January is already full of big excitement and plans - Aaron's already booked out for the month (but some of it will be home!), I received a rockin' promotion with my company, Griffin and Darwin continue to stump us with their intelligence and humor, and Emerson squeals. No, I mean, squeals!

Happy new year! May this be the best one yet!

Just Think What Tomorrow Will Do

2010-12-29T16:23:00.004-06:00

Presents were wrapped, cookies were baked and clean laundry was chucked in the playroom to be dealt with on another day.

After the last few months, the holiday was frazzled. But that's what holidays are suppose to be, right? Frazzling?

[Just nod your head in agreement, mkay?]

The last week of December is my favorite, it's finally an opportunity to relax. Time to play with stuff, to hang out as a family and put some damn laundry away.

Seriously. It took me five damn days but now all our clean laundry is put away. Not a single laundry basket is in use.

Just don't ask that situation in a few hours.

So now we're lego'ing, reading, not watching the clock, eating leftover cookies and one person in particular is teething.

Yeouch.

I'll Do Anything That You Want Me To

2010-12-23T18:29:00.003-06:00

Nope. Baby's not any better. Two showers daily is my minimum and I still smell like vomit.

Happy holidays!

Coming home from Michigan, Emerson stopped pooping right. And did you know? That day after we got home Aaron went out of town again. Which means he was home the weekend of Halloween, Thanksgiving weekend, 36-ish hours one week and with the family for his sister's wedding in Michigan. That's it.

So four days after we got home I took Emerson to the doctor 'cause he was pissy. And I mean piss-say. And he's not a pissy baby.

Before we left he had... you know. "Done his business" and his "business" looked like shredded tree bark. The doctor ordered x-rays, said he had some bits of constipation, gas and fluids and should be better in a few days.

A few days later she called and ordered us to the hospital for emergency x-rays (have I mentioned Aaron was out of town?) after a radiologist looked at his first batch. Nothing worse, but nothing too much better. So I volunteered to eat a dairy-free diet to see if that helped.

I've been on this dairy-free diet (which I know I'm doing right 'cause Griffin and Darwin have been diary-free FOREVER) for 10 days and now I'm getting sick (I'll save you the details, but yes! my digestive tract!), Emerson's kinda doing better with his digestive tract but not significantly better (hello, more shredded tree bark lookin' stuff and pissy baby today!) and did you know? Christmas Eve is tomorrow, Aaron just got home Sunday and I have so many godddamn hormones running in my bloodstream, all I want to do is cry BUT I CAN'T CRY 'CAUSE I HAVE TOO MUCH TO DO.

But all my babies are alive. And healthy. (-ish)

So we're having store-bought cupcakes for holiday desserts. I'm only making two types of cookies (which, let's face it, it may get cut down to one), some presents are gonna be grouped together for less wrapping and I'm gonna do my best to stop freaking the fuck out and try to relax until we see the pediatric gastrologist in February.

Won't You Show Some Class

2010-12-13T15:40:00.004-06:00

We have a long-standing tradition to buy Lego Advent Calendars during the holiday season. We started doing them when we were dating and... yeah. It's taken on a life of its own.

One would tend to think that the Debacle of 2005 would be the pinnacle of What the frack is Lego thinking? But, turns out, they've outdone themselves.

Outdone themselves in a very majestic way.

I present: Naked Old Man Lego

Don't look at me. I didn't go there. Lego did. I'm just reporting like a good samaritan.

Because, you know, nothing says Happy Holidays! like an old man with an elf fetish wearing a black thong about to get his groove on.

See? He's even brushing his beard for sexy times.

Now, I would like to give Lego the benefit of the doubt here with the notion that maybe, just possibly the intention was for him to be a member of the Polar Bear Club... but maybe swim trunks? And um... a dolphin? You know, something that doesn't have a parent have to explain NAKED LEGO MAN in the advent calendar.

And the bigger questions in our house: WHAT'S A THONG? and IS HIS PENIS REALLY THAT BIG?

And Sway to the Rhythm of Love

2010-12-08T12:17:00.004-06:00

We snuck out of town.

Well, with a family of five and outrageous food allergies, I'm not quite certain how much sneaking was involved exactly, but we roadtrip'd for two days to Michigan.

It's a long drive. Longer when a nursing babe is involved.

But totally worth it, because we got to attend Aaron's sister's wedding.

We love Mandy ("Hot Mandy" as the boys like to call her, instead of "Aunt Mandy") and Ryan's awesome too. We're so very happy for them.

Next month Mandy leaves for Basic Training and Ryan follows a couple of months later. When these kids decided to jump into life, they jumped high. We're proud. Scared. Worried. Hopeful. And optimistic.

Out gift to them was their guest book, but not any guest book. I ran around with my Instax and took photos of the families who attended. I adhered them to 8x8 pages I had cut to fit and match the album and then had the families sign the paper.

Initially people thought I was crazy. But once I got a few examples (and some booze into the attendants) everyone got involved and excited. It was definitely a fun, hectic process - but so totally worth it.

We're home, safe and sound. And ready to get the holidays (including our Lego advent calendars) underway.

I guess I'll catch my breathe in the new year.

Every Little Thing Gonna Be Alright

2010-11-23T13:52:00.004-06:00

Ohai!

Yes, I do have a blog. I also have a husband who's been out of town for over four weeks (save less than 48 hours when he was home and got sent right back out) and a baby who keeps! going! to! the! doctor!

Not that anything is seriously wrong, of course. Or, rather, not that anything is isn't manageable.

Emerson has acid reflux. I mean, acid reflux. He can out-acid-reflux anyone. Is there a competition for that? 'Cause he'd win. I sure hope there's a trophy.

We started fake-prevacid. My doctor is all, IT'S GENERIC, LAURA, NOT FAKE. And I'm all GENERIC, FAKE, WHATEVER. THE POINT IS THAT IT'S NOT AUTHENTICATED OR SOMETHING.

Because when you have a husband out of town and a baby that can puke further than you can throw a soaking burp cloth, you begin to lose your mind and have high hopes for fancy trophies.

So! Yes! Medicine! Emerson started the fake prevacid and I'll be damned if he didn't immediately break out into a rash.

And that's the thing with off-name-brand medicines: you can rarely tell if the binder/filler/crap-they-put-in-the-medicine-that-isn't-medicine-itself is gluten-free or not. Name brands, hells yes, you can look that up and know if it's gluten-free or not.

In fact, that website is my best friend.

Non-name-brands. Yeah. Not usually. "Starch" is common and you never know if it's wheat or corn. There's been many times I've had to make our pharmacy get a name-brand prescription for me because that's the only way to get it gluten-free.

So Emery got fake medicine. A pill. A pill I had to break in half, crush with a spoon, dissolve in water BUT DOESN'T REALLY DISSOLVE IN WATER, ONLY THE BINDER PART and try to get these tiny snowball things in him, instead of him spitting them out and GO AHEAD AND ASK ME HOW WELL THAT SYSTEM WORKED.

Hint: he was still in running for a four-foot gold-plated trophy.

When he started the medicine his weight at the 30th percentile. And that's just... tiny. For our family, at least. Griffin always ran around the 85th percentile and Darwin around the 65th. Thirtieth percentile? What's wrong with mah baybay?

After two weeks I called the doctor and was all rash! snowballs! spittle! six foot pure platinum trophy!

So she was all GAH. And I was all iknowrite?

I took him in and he had dropped to the 27th percentile. And she was freaked out by his rash. So we switched his fake prevacid to compounded certified gluten-free prevacid (fake prevacid? I don't know) and BAM! Baby cleared up. Baby doesn't puke as much.

Win-win.

I took him back in yesterday, another two weeks later and he's still at the 27th percentile. But, at least he's not at the 26th percentile.

Now, if we can just keep Aaron in town longer than the Thanksgiving holiday, maybe I won't be so bat-shit crazy.

Why are you looking at me like that? I'm not that bat-shit crazy. And where's my diamond-encrusted ten foot trophy?

Best Evah Gluten-Free Chocolate Chip Cookies

2010-11-02T16:18:00.002-05:00

You know with a title of "Best Evah" something's got to be good. And better deliver. And these will. I promise.

(And a post title that's not a song lyric! SHOCKER! But when it's two months from now and you want to make some damn cookies 'cause someone pissed you off is when you'll realize my omnipotence awesomeness and be thankful.)

Now, let me vent that I have, in fact, been in a funk for quite awhile. Not a depression funk per se ('cause, trust me, I had one of those post-pregnancy before and stared at our kitchen knives, this is definitely not that kind of a funk), but a food funk.

A food funk as in my gluten-free flour mix had become a FAIL due to manufacturer's inconsistencies of grinding the flours the same texture from batch-to-batch (hell, within a bag once I had super-fine to crazy-course grind brown flour) and flours being gross (rotten? mildew-y? I have no idea, just gross) at the time of purchase. So for the past year, year-and-a-half I have hardly been baking.

So I've been experimenting, trying new things - and let me tell you, what we can try is quite narrow. Including gluten and soy issues (like me), Griffin and Darwin also have serious dairy, nut and legume allergies. Which means figuring out food is extra fun for me.

Two weeks ago I bit the bullet and tried King Arthur's gluten-free brownie mix (was kinda bitter, not very chocolate-y) and then their all-purpose flour mix. Finally, a consist gluten-free flour mix that we can all have (ingredients are white rice flour, tapioca starch, potato starch and brown rice flour) and I don't have do some voodoo hand mixing.

Now, let's be clear: I didn't receive anything for free, they don't know me from Sam Hill and this stuff is hella expensive. I'm talking locally paying $5.79 plus tax for just over four cups of flour.

Welcome to the Gluten-Free Lifestyle: we hope you have no other interests other than eating 'cause you're not gonna be able to afford them anyway.

And I admit: we sacrifice and pinch and save to keep up with my foodie ways. I like to cook, we all like to eat. And we're lucky that we kinda-sorta make it work.

Now, I'm not saying this mix is so magical that it resolved my funk: I resolved my funk. Or, I'm working to resolve my food funk. I'm a work in progress goddammit.

But I guarantee these are damn good cookies. And to answer your questions: yes, I'm sure you can substitute other gluten-free flours for the King Arthur I use. I was just telling you what I use in case you wanted ideas. And yes, you can make these cookies non-gluten-free too - use the same amount of your wheat-y flour and do not add the xantham gum. Yes, this recipe can be halved - or doubled. And yes, you could make this with less chocolate but just don't tell me 'cause then I don't think we could be friends.

Best Evah Gluten-Free Chocolate Chip Cookies (dairy-free too!)

1 cup shortening*
2 cups brown sugar
2 eggs
1 tablespoon vanilla
1/2 teaspoon salt, preferably kosher
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 1/2 teaspoons xantham gum
3 cups gluten-free flour
2 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips**
1 cup dark chocolate chips**

Preheat over to 350.

In a large bowl cream shortening and brown sugar to fluffy. Add eggs and vanilla and mix until fully incorporated. Add salt, soda and xantham gum, scrap the sides and mix a bit more. Slowly add flour and mix until just incorporated. Add chocolates and stir by hand.

Let dough set at room temperature ten minutes to two hours - this allow it to melt together and I got the idea from Jackques Pépin so you know it's a good idea.

On a lined cookie spoon blobs of dough (whatever size you like) and then bake 7 to 12 minutes, until done. For a "standard" size cookie I prefer eight minutes, which is golden on the outside and still chewy all around.

Recipe makes 4 to 5 dozen cookies depending on size and how much cookie dough you eat.

Not that I know anything about eating cookie dough. Ahem.

*I use organic gluten-free certified palm shortening. Not a dairy-free household? Substitute half the shortening for an equal amount of room temperature butter. Yum.

**I use Ghirardelli semi-sweet chocolate chips and Whole Foods' 365 dark chocolate chunks - both are gluten & dairy free.

They Did the Mash

2010-11-01T18:30:00.001-05:00

"Darth Vader, please stop using the force on me. Phantom of the Night? Could you please move closer to Daddy? Yoda.."

"That's MASTER YODA!"

"Okay, Master Yoda? Smile!"

Halloween 2010

That Ain't Workin'

2010-10-29T13:47:00.004-05:00

Emerson has brought an amazing balance to our family - well, as much balance as one could have with sleepless nights. But still, we have balance.

He's very Zen, our little Buddhist master. Watching everything. Soaking it all in. Somehow managing to calm us down (which is completely weird compared to his colicky, screaming brothers).

Unless, of course, he's puking.

Now, I know spit up. I know it well. Griffin perfected the fine art of spittle. Darwin followed Griff's example and even taught us a thing a two. But Emerson? Emerson causes me to have daily unplanned showers, change my clothes at least three times a day and has had me scrubbing our couch more times than I can keep track of.

Our doctor offered acid reflux medicine at his one-month appointment, but we turned it down. The "projectile spit up" wasn't making him upset. At his two-month appointment I was ready and he was starting to get upset. Aaron was still very we-are-not-medicating-that-zen-baby-hells-to-tha-no.

A few night later we were all miserable. Just miserable. Emerson was crying and vomiting (I mean, let's call a spade a spade, shall we?) and nothing we did would make him feel better. It went on for hours.

His standard vomiting continued but escalated into unexpected ways - throwing up while eating, throwing up while sleeping (holy fucking scary balls, man), throwing up on a boat, throwing up with a goat, YOU GET THE PICTURE.

So on Wednesday I had officially had it. He ate. He threw up. He threw up again. And again. And then we went to the boys' school Halloween parties (yes, on Wednesday, because our school had Parent-Teacher conferences yesterday and today and even Emerson's zen-ness does not combat two older boys at home all day MY HELL) and he threw up. And threw up. And threw up. He threw up on Darwin. He threw up on Griffin. He soaked his costume in projectile-spittle. He got it all over his stroller. The baby just Could Not Stop Vomiting.

When we got home I called the doctor and begged for mercy. A short talk with the doctor and a nurse later, a prescription was called in for Prevacid.

Now, I'm not happy to be medicating him - not at all. But if this will help him feel better (have I mentioned his miserableness?) then I'm willing to give it a try. Hours of explaining all this to Aaron, he was willing to give it a try too.

He's only had two doses (one yesterday morning, one this morning) and I have hopes of at least some relief for him.

But damn if he didn't projectile spit up all over himself (after he had a bath to boot), the vibrating chair and about four feet of carpet this morning.

Sigh.

Good thing kids are damn cute.

Cicus Life Under the Big Top World

2010-10-20T17:20:00.003-05:00

"Mama! Look at my worksheet!"

"Isn't it nice? And did you see the dog?"

"He's POOPING!"

The Only Nasty Thing I Like is a Nasty Groove

2010-10-12T11:20:00.003-05:00

It's kinda amazing how quickly a parent gets re-acclimated with being covered in another person's body fluids.

With the first kid, we were grossed out for months. But by the third? You just don't give a shit.

(Ba-dum-bum-bum.)

Pee? As long as it's below my elbows, we're cool. Easily washable. Thankfully.

The closest I've gotten to being grossed-out this time around was when Emerson angrily pooped on me a few weeks back (when I was still on antibiotics for my mastitis, and boy howdy did those drugs make him an angry pooper) and it was everywhere: my shirt, my pants, my arms, the floor. I think I even got some on my shoulder and in my hair.

Ick.

But I calmly changed him. Stripped down. Strapped him into his vibrating chair and took a shower.

Given how overdue I am for a shower, this situation is sounding rather lovely right now.

And spit up? Last week I dreamed I was on Dancing with the Stars and Mark Ballas was my dancing partner. He didn't like me much, probably because I kept interrupting the dancing to nurse Emery (and because I bitter that I didn't get to dance with Maks). Right before it was stage-time, he got really pissed because I was just covered in spit up. So the makeup artist decided to glitterize me. Because that was the only way to disguise the amount of dried spit up I was sporting.

That would have come in handy this morning, while at the grocery store I realized my left arm looked like a white, powder-y mess. The big, dried wet marks across the shoulders just highlighted my awesomeness.

What's Got You So Jumpy?

2010-09-24T16:16:00.001-05:00

Three words: lack of sleep

Goody gravy. I'm tired. But my stupid Mommy Genes have kicked so do you think I can sleep during daylight? The answer to that would be a great big No, I Cannot.

I shouldn't complain, Emerson is a great baby even tho from three to six a.m I think he's the devil incarnate. But hey! I bet everyone feels (or felt) that way about their babies.

Right? Right!

Truth is, we're alive. And at this point, that's all I expect out of us. Keeping everyone alive. Anything above and beyond that is just gravy.

Like, taking pictures.

I know I need to be taking more pictures (he's already gained two pounds! in just five weeks!) but half the time I don't even know what day it is. I gauge it by whether Aaron goes to work and the boys go to school.

Don't worry. I realize how pathetic that is.

I don't think I ever took one picture of Griffin or Darwin throwing a hissy fit. And goddamn, do I wish I had those blown up and framed in my house. As blackmail material.

And sadly, no - this isn't a real smile and how I captured it is beyond me. But wow, does that big grin ever give me something to look forward too.

Smiles and sleep. That's all I'm asking for.

So Come Dance This Silence Down Through the Morning

2010-09-10T13:48:00.005-05:00

I knew having a newborn would be tough, I remember the days of bringing Griffin home and having him scream around the clock. No feel-good memory loss for me, I remember clearly.

And I knew what to expect, breastfeeding exclusively with boobs that just don't like to produce milk. And I had resigned to the fact that the next year of my life was going to be spent nursing, nursing, nursing, not sleeping and (hopefully) working. You know that working part, so important because you need to buy food so you can make milk and nurse.

But the preparing myself and actual realization are two different things, of course, and last Thursday I really thought the lack of sleep was going to kill me. Not so much the nursing, even though, damn kid could you stay off for a full hour? Please? But the lack of sleep.

I like my sleep.

As I was breastfeeding Emery I was thinking of ways I could kill Aaron, that bastard. That bastard who did this to me and doesn't have to breastfeed. What kind of biological bullshit is that? And what's the best way to revenge those who Sleep Peacefully for More than an Hour at a Time? Because this was heavy on my mind.

But The Gods have a way of putting you in your place. As for my place, that is called Mastitis.

Last Friday I felt weird, but blamed it on lack of sleep. Saturday, though, the shooting pain in my breast began along with a fever of 103 that brought with it chills (complete with unintentional moaning) and sweats. A midwife was nice enough to call me in a prescription over the holiday weekend (after I cried and begged to not send me and a newborn babe to the ER).

And one would tend to think that would help, but no. Four days later and everything was the same, except I had wised-up enough to keep myself filled of Tylenol and Advil to try to keep my fever (and chills and sweats) under control.

Tuesday morning I dragged my ass (and the baby in tow) (Aaron went to work) (that bastard) (while I was still sick!) to the doctor's office and got a new prescription. So we stopped at the pharmacy to pick it up and...

Yeah. No.

The new prescription wasn't gluten-free.

I had to fight with the pharmacy for a few hours to Figure Shit Out and it turned out oh hey, THEY CAN ORDER MEDICATION. Which meant that by the time everything was said and done I started the proper prescription Wednesday night.

Which means, of course, that the story isn't over yet.

Because The Gods? They have a sense of humor. And decided it would SUPER FUNNY if Darwin woke up with the croup Thursday morning.

And seriously, we contemplated if he needed to go to the ER or was his oxygen high enough to make it to the doctor in a few hours. No blue lips, thankfully. So we waited. And Aaron took Dar to the doctor, while I stayed home with Emerson in hopes of me and Emery not catching the croup because THAT'S JUST WHAT WE NEED RIGHT NOW, for a three-week old baby to have breathing problems.

So Darwin's been home for two days, but is suppose to be avoiding me and the baby so we don't get the croup. But Aaron's at work and guess who has to care for the poor sick boy? And I mean besides his DSi.

And then, just for shits and giggles, between the time I sat down and started this post and now, a water main broke right in front of my house, flooding the driveway and garage with muddy water and now there's a nice big hole in my driveway that could easily dispose of a dead body.

Any body have a dead body to dispose of?

If this week had a body I would have already called dibs.

[gratuitous photo of three-week old Emerson, because I know why you all are really visiting]

Welcome to Your Life (There's No Turning Back)

2010-08-28T17:44:00.007-05:00

Emerson Julius Suever (pronounced "see-ver") was born on August 18th.

Seven pounds, four ounces. Eighteen inches long.

Two hours after being born, he was taken to the nursery due to not self-regulating his temperature and having difficulties breathing. He spent four days (FOUR DAYS!!!) in the Progressive Care Nursery (which is ran by, but not as serious as, the NICU) and spent a night and day under the billie lights due to jaundice.

Obviously, he's as ornery as his brothers.

Aaron and I took a full week off from everything and have been camped in the living room. I swear we're getting sleep, but sleep at one-hour-or-less increments doesn't feel like real sleep.

He's a deliciously blond-haired fuzzy little monkey who's a champ at full-filling all his obligations: eating, dirtying diapers and sleeping.

And, occasionally, yawning.

We are so very lucky. And so very in love.

Would it be My Fault if I Could Turn You On?

2010-08-16T15:12:00.005-05:00

I'm still pregnant.

But not for too much longer. My amniotic fluid is low, so I'm being induced Wednesday morning if he doesn't arrive before then.

I'm use to inductions. My other two had to be evicted as well.

And I got the quilt done this weekend - which is good, 'cause I'm having a baby on Wednesday holy crap.

I really-really-really-super-really love how it turned out. It's gorgeous and wrinkly and oh-so-soft (guess I should thank the thin cotton batting for that?) and they boys have given it two thumbs up.

Speaking of boys...

I'm officially a mama of a third-grader and first-grader. How the hell did that happen?

And we're adding another boy to the mix?

We have the crazy.

Hey, Hell, I Pay the Price

2010-08-13T09:41:00.004-05:00

I'm still pregnant.

Today is my fourth? fifth? bazillion-and-twenty-seventh? Bio-Physical sonogram. Sonograms feel like a dime a dozen these days, and they aren't even offering pictures anymore. I need to say something about that today. Especially since we're getting a weight estimate.

My money is on at least seven pounds. We are seriously out of space in this belly of mine.

I had 22 weekly Progesterone shots to stop labor. I haven't had one in two weeks and now we may have to induce in the next week or two. My uterus cannot make up her damn mind.

And despite not having one for two weeks, I still have five golf-ball-sized welts all across my hips from the shots. They feel gross. And still tender.

I was putting my hair up in a pony tail in front of a mirror last week (that whole "in front of a mirror" being important, as I'm too lazy - and have too much gravity in my belly - to get up easily) and discovered that I?

I had grown some freaky neck-beard.

No, not kidding.

Five inches of baby-down fluff neck-beard. It was gross. Aaron laughed. And then I made him shave my neck.

And my face.

Because it was there too.

Gross.

I got my nursing bras in the mail yesterday. And it's becoming alarmingly real. And I'm gonna have to wear them for about a year.

Buying bras for me is super-difficult as-is. Let alone nursing bras. And one of the few companies that make them in my size is called HOT MILK and it's lacy and sparkly and Aaron's very concerned about me flashing such a bra in public.

But he gets to see it too, so what's his complaint?

HOT MILK. Hahahahahaha.

I've been meaning to, for days, to teach Griffin how to clean the bathroom floor. Because I just can't reach it. And yet, MommyGuilt has kicked in and I just can't bring myself to be all "Baby, let's wipe down the bathroom floor."

I should make Aaron wipe it down instead.

My pants and shirts no longer meet. Which means, unless I remember to put on a tank top (and the heat index around here has been over 100 degrees everyday) and tuck it into my pants, I'm walking around exposing my belly button and a three-inch band of belly skin to the world.

This is especially classy when going to the boys' elementary school to drop off Epi-Pens, Benadryl and Motrin for the new school year.

The new principal was rather awe-struck, if I do say so myself.

Griffin has been telling my belly that he's gonna be really! pissed! off! if the baby doesn't come by tonight, at the latest. "I'm tired of being patient. This is ridiculous, Momma."

I think he wants his brother to come before schools starts - on Monday - so his schedule isn't disrupted.

Kid after my own heart.

Don't fuck with our schedules.

Bags are packed, including clothes, blankets, clothes and allergen-free soap for the baby - yes. We can't use hospital soap. Can't chance an allergic reaction.

The baby is opted out of all eye goo, shots and anything that would go in or on him. And he has to be in a latex-free environment. After what happened to Darwin (nine days in the NICU, nearly died, no one knew what was going on - now we know he had anaphylactic shock to something, we just don't know what), we're doing our best to not take any chances with Baby M.

The hospital even ordered Neocate in case they feel he needs some supplementation before my milk comes in.

Which I really hope doesn't happen, but it's best to be prepared.

Cloth diapers are washed and dried (five! times!) and ready to go when he fits and he's healed from losing his umbilical cord.

Because, of course, his brothers were allergic to most disposable diapers. And we spent an arm and a leg, weekly, keeping them in clean britches.

The crib is put together :: cough, cough :: but not completely ready. ::ahem::

The van is cleaned and reorganized, the baby's car seat is aired-out, washed and ready to be installed.

The cord-blood kit is sitting next to the door. And my medical records are right on top.

I have just a wee bit more binding to sew on, then the baby's quilt is ready to be washed. (Sidenote: those binding corners are tricky. And I don't appreciate that.)

The house is stocked with food and even though I don't feel prepared, I can't imagine we'll be anymore prepared than we are right now.

If it Rains I Don't Care, Don't Make No Difference to Me

2010-08-04T15:48:00.004-05:00

I'm still pregnant.

That's how I answer the phone. Even to Republicans who wanted me to vote for them in the primaries. Which is really a puzzle, considering I'm a registered Democrat.

But I digress. I'm still pregnant.

Not much going on here. Just getting weekly BioPhysical sonograms (and yet, they are not figuring his weight every week - that's such a massive pain in my ass - but he should weigh about six and half pounds right now), getting hooked up to machines and daily staring at my elevated ankles.

We won't talk about my puffy feet.

After being back in hospital last week (contractions three minutes apart and they strapped me to a bed and pumped me with fluids for a few hours which OF COURSE STOPPED IT) I've decided I'm not going back to the hospital until I have a baby. If that means if I go back and they discharge me, I don't care - I'll permanently sit in the hallway. I'm not collecting anymore damn hospital bracelets until I get me a baby.

So, let's see.... today I am 36 weeks and three days pregnant. Talked to my OB last night (who was out of town last week during the hospital fiasco) who was all yeah, you're not gonna be pregnant for much longer and I'm all DUH, BETTER NOT BE. Especially since they still have me on bedrest/restricted activity (due to edema and blood pressure) despite being over 36 weeks. The other two times, I was fully released from any restrictions at 36 weeks. This time? No. Which? Damn it. I'd really like to go float in a swimming pool. Or pretend I have the stamina to clean the house (which I totally don't, I have to take a break when trying to walk 10 feet to make a glass of ice water).

Aaron's being a super-trooper through the whole thing and not at all bitching about my inability to make dinner (or even the dinner plates). And yet, still no car seat in the car and no crib to lie a baby in. Deep breathes, Laura, it will be fine.

Yesterday, the toilet on the main floor broke ("crappy plastic chain!" was Aaron's battle cry) so I had to explain the whole yellow is mellow, brown goes down to the boys. Who looked at me with tears in their eyes. To which I then said OR GO UPSTAIRS. They went upstairs, whereas I manually flushed every time I, ahem, took care of business. Sinking my arm up to my elbow in the back of a 70-year old potty is not my idea of happy fun time.

Aaron went to the hardware store and fixed it around Midnight. Bless him. I guess he does love me after all.

That or he's under the delusion that he'll get the crib put together before the baby comes.

Bed rest is rotting my brain, y'all. Or maybe it's the ice cream.

I've been begging Aaron to go get me Wendy's everyday (don't you judge me, it's on the gluten-free list) and last night I listed the ingredients so he could just get it stuff to make it at home instead. Because as much as love a frosty, you know there's crap in there that you can't pronounce. I'll take the real ice cream almost any other day.

And given he won't even get me the Wendy's everyday, this works out 'cause I can make 'em at home whenever I want. Till I run out of ingredients.

Seriously. I'm talking about ups and downs of trying to send my husband to Wendy's daily. This is what bed rest has done to my life.

It Ain’t No Fantasy

2010-07-21T14:30:00.003-05:00

It started two weeks ago, when my OB jinxed me.

You betcha. I'm blaming her. Totally.

At my 32 week appointment my uterus measured 37 weeks. "Whew," she said. "You're body just really wants to have this baby."

There were other symptoms too - constant contracts (despite the "magical" progesterone shots), horrible backaches, nausea. Blah, blah, blah, I'm pregnant and it sucks. Blah. So I was sent to the hospital for an IV bag then sent home an hour later.

Last week Aaron was out of town, the damn dog wouldn't eat and kept vomiting, I kept carting her to the vet and my backaches and nausea were worse and blah, blah, blah, on Wednesday they had me come in for a checkup.

No one was happy with my my contractions, I had some protein in my urine and so off to the hospital I went for another IV bag and monitoring. And given instructions to capture my urine for 24 hours. "Follow-up on Friday," they said.

Have you ever had to capture your urine for 24 hours? Have you? If you haven't considered yourself lucky. 'Cause that's a whole lotta pee to deal with. Then you have to cart it back to the hospital with two kids in tow to drop it off at the Lab, who will then tell you that your user number has expired and it takes over an hour for the hospital to figure out that yes! Yes, indeed they will take your gallons of pee after all.

Friday I called and an hour later I was back at the doctor, right after the dog threw up AGAIN. After getting my blood pressure done, my doctor ordered a comprehensive Apgar sonogram (so see how well he would be if born) and monitoring.

Of course, me in my infinite wisdom totally left my baby notebook and CD at home. BECAUSE IT WOULD ALL BE FINE, I thought.

After two hours, they told me my blood pressure was crazy high (168/102, where I usually run 115/75), more protein was in urine and with all the other symptoms? Back to the hospital I go.

THIS TIME I was a little more prepared and had places for the boys to go, just in case. My OB gave me the go-ahead to run home, pack a bag, pass the boys off to my parents and the damn dog to a friend's house (which at this point she knew she wasn't sick, after HUNDREDS of dollars of vet bills later; we thought she was either reacting to me and the pregnancy or needed to eat another dog's poop, so it was win-win to ship her off).

SO. Back to the hospital on Friday early evening. And Aaron? He needed to stay another day on his business trip. Lucky, lucky boy.

After a couple of hours of observation I was fully admitted and my OB said I have pre-eclampsia. Which, you have to have two of three symptoms to be considered to have pre-eclampsia: edema, protein in the urine and high blood pressure.

My and my overachiever-ness succeeded in having all damn three.

Late Saturday night I was released on strict bedrest and OHMYHELL, I hate bedrest. Hate. HATE. Haaaaaaaaaaaaatttttttttteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

I have my dad's blood pressure monitor (from when he had heart surgery a couple of years ago) and monitor my blood pressure every few hours (unless its high, then every hour). And I'm drinking lots of water. And I have two prison guards who yell at me if I get up and pee.

Monday I went in for a quick monitoring at the doctor's office, and back tomorrow I go.

As soon as I deliver a healthy baby, I'm scheduling Aaron a goddamn vasectomy. I will club him over the head and drag him there myself, if necessary.

It's as Simple as Something That Nobody Knows

2010-07-13T17:53:00.002-05:00

I miss my toes.

Build Me Up, Buttercup

2010-07-12T11:00:00.002-05:00

How am I suppose to cover a smidge of the awesome quilting with binding?

There Ain't No Rest for the Wicked

2010-07-01T19:39:00.003-05:00

Since the road to hell is paved with good intentions, I'll be doing my best this month play along with Habit. Because the vagina-talk needs to stop somewhere.

All afternoon we heard something scurrying the garage. Daddy came home, saved us and now all I hear is "isn't he adorable" and "can we keep him? please?"

You Don't Need to be Coy, Roy

2010-06-30T16:23:00.004-05:00

I'm quite certain everyone's waiting on pins and needles to hear a status update about my basement reorganization. Because my life is damn exciting and lo! Y'all know this.

So I worked down there for hours on Saturday moving shit (did you know that I had every goddamn notebook from college? SO TRUE) (and all the books? I have so! many! books!) around, condensing, repacking out of disgusting cardboard and into plastic (waterproof!) tubs. Up and down the stairs, on and off throughout the day, putting in a good eight hours of Clearing Shit Out.

You know where the is going, right?

Of course you do. You're smart internet.

Sunday morning we went to "church" where I offered to hang with the teenagers at the last minute where we talked about the plot of "Saved" and how it correlated to "Ghandi" and WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT, I'M A GREAT INFLUENCE ON THOSE KIDS.

Anyway, so all I did was sit and talk. Yes? Yes. That's all. And drink water.

So imagine my surprise when I went to the bathroom before we left and...

Well...

There's no polite way to put this.

It was like my vagina had a raging head cold.

I've never lost my mucus plug before (and isn't 31 weeks a wee bit early to lose it?), apparently they magically disappeared. I bet they meditated and reached nirvana. That would explain their magical disappearance the previous two times.

But this? This isn't wasn't what the internets said it would look like. It was like a bad head cold and it was crying for a big dose of Robitussin. It was yellow and brown and red - so guess who was all OH MY HELL.

When we got home I double-checked (even though I made Aaron check it at "church" - I'm a loving, giving wife like that) and yep. Still head-cold-ish. So I called the doctor on call. Who said, and I quote, "Don't worry about it unless you start having contractions."

Fucking doctor jinxed me.

An hour later we were headed to the hospital and the nurse was all "Giiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrllll, you are having some con'trax'ions." Um, thanks.

And then when she checked downtown? "Boy howdy you are mucus-eeeee down there!"

Alrighty. Good to know I'm not losing my mind.

Four hours, two blown vessels and a fancy-pants plastic cup later I was released.

Everything is fine now. Or, at least, fine-ish. I'm still contracting, but I've been contracting through the whole pregnancy. Tomorrow I get my 89th progesterone shot (or 17th shot - po-tay-toe, poh-tah-toe) to keep baking this ornery baby.

Just a few more weeks. It feels like a battle between the uterus and the mind.

Just Waiting So Long

2010-06-23T10:37:00.006-05:00

Yesterday, you turned six.

Six! Six! Darwin, the years are creeping up a bit too quickly on me. Six!

We had your birthday party at the community center on Saturday, complete with indoor swimming. What happened no more than 20 minutes into the party?

You cracked your head open. Again. To the bone.

Sigh.

So you got your third set of stitches in your head.

You were a trooper through the whole ordeal of leaving the party early and sitting in the hospital for over four hours. But you're very adamant that we do not have another party there again.

I totally agree.

You are still totally ornery. And totally loving.

My always-little-Buddhist, you love to tell me how much you love this life (yes, this life) and how you're gonna stay here forever. Okie dokie, works for me.

You're really looking forward to being a big brother, and love that you're the only family member who's gonna be a little brother and a big brother at the same time.

Six!

This is bittersweet, you getting so big. But you have promised to always be my baby no matter how old and how big you get.

And I'm holding you to that.

Happy birthday Darwin!

One Drink Ain't Enough Jack, You Better Make it Three

2010-06-17T14:33:00.005-05:00

Hey, internet, what's up with you?

Me? Oh, you know. I'm covered in sticky-icky filth from trying to clean the basement. And the three streams we have running through the area isn't as awesome as one would think: it's not at all refreshing. Aren't streams suppose to be refreshing? 'Cause the ones in my basement are not. Also, there's no place to hang a tire swing to jump in. It's a total bum situation.

It has come to my attention that Aaron and I are total lazy-asses and for the past ten years we've just willy-nilly chucked stuff in the basement. Turns out, having it stacked didn't help one damn bit.

But I did unearth about four baby outfits today. Of course, they were mixed with 4T sized clothing so if you have the answer, please do feel free to explain that to me.

Tangent: Griffin and I made strawberry jam a few weeks ago. It has nothing to do with this post, but damn it is yummy and isn't it pretty?

Last weekend I worked on cleaning our bedroom to make space for the crib and changing table. I'm sure you can guess, but do you know what happened? Panic attacks. Full-fledged can't-breathe panic attacks. Do you know how hard it is to shove your face between your knees when you're 29 weeks pregnant and your toes are a distant memory?

At the rate I'm going, we're gonna have a baby in less than ten weeks (ohmyfuckingshittenweeks) and every room is gonna be torn up and not remotely put back together. I just know it.

Aaron, on the other hand, is waxing poetic over the potential happiness of his tomato plants. Do you think he has any clue how badly I want to knock his lights out?

Another panic-inducing situation:

Darwin lost his first tooth. It went from wiggly to out in less than 24 hours, and happened at the pool no less. He dove for it in the pool and caught it. "Because I have to have it for the tooth fairy!"

So, that's about it for me. How about you?

It's Just a Fantasy, It's Not the Real Thing

2010-06-08T14:33:00.002-05:00

Internet, I would like to introduce you to my quilt top and back.

Oh, yes I did. I most certainly did. You bet your pants I finished the baby's quilt top and back before I finished making the baby.

Top:

And the back:

Ever notice my helpers are attention whores?

The quilt is headed to the quilter (the fabulous, amazing Angela is quilting it, squee!) on Thursday when we meet up for the Kansas City Modern Quilt Guild meeting. I realized I said I was gonna quilt it myself, but there are limitations to my awesomeness.

Surprising, I know.

Maybe You're the Same as Me

2010-06-03T14:26:00.003-05:00

I'm a big summer can go fuck itself believer. Or, at least, summer in Kansas.

Summer in other locations, I'm sure, can be perfectly lovely. Perhaps in those location I'd understand the love-fest but honestly? I am so done with summer already.

I get it. I'm probably being harsh. And unfair. But I don't appreciate itch crawly things sucking my blood. Nor do I appreciate having to spend the day inside to avoid a heat stroke. Nor lathing my kids with SPF spiked chemicals (sorry, I don't care what you use, there's stuff in there that you cannot pronounce). I don't appreciate humidity so bad it causes my asthma to flair up (let alone flair up while pregnant) and I don't like displaying my dimpled thighs to the stick-thin teenagers at the local pool. I don't like the summer colds the boys are currently battling, the lack of scheduling due to no school (yes, partially my fault for not keeping the boys on a crazy schedule but still) nor do I appreciate the mid-afternoon naps that result in me yelling at 10pm to GO TO BED ALREADY.

I don't like running the air conditioner so high that I can hear the motor running all over the house, nor do I appreciate the pollen that infests my house anytime I even consider opening a window. I hate how long it takes for the van to cool off while running errands and the sticky-in-the-ass feeling of trying to pull myself out of the driver's seat and onto the hot, hot pavement.

I hate seeing the hazy on the street as I drive through town and the little confidence building talk I have to give myself to even leave the house in the first place. I don't like having to check all the garden beds twice a day and potentially watering them, all because the Kansas heat is zapping the ever living life out of everything.

But, I do like the flowers. The flowers are lovely.

Friday, Never Hesitate

2010-05-21T16:01:00.007-05:00

I don't know if I finally have my head out of my ass or if I'm been bitten with the crazy, but I have been severely attacking the basement this week.

It's do or die: the baby is due at the end of August, but my weekly Progesterone (also known as: STOP MAH LABAH) shots end mid- to late-July. Which means we need to be ready and by ready, I mean motherfuckingready for our little baba ganoush by August 1st.

Aaron agrees.

First step with living with a hoarder (as I've learned over the 12 years we've lived together), is to get said hoarder to agree to timelines. Signed documentation also helps.

Having to be ready by August 1st means we have just over two months to prepare.

Gulp.

Ohmyhell.

So, I've been slowly working on the basement, but then I got the sinus infection from hell, which required the antibiotics from hell which came along with the side effects from hell that nearly hospitalized me. Amen.

I'm just now getting over those side effects and the basement is now my biyatch. As in, this is my theme song for cleaning the basement:

Oh yes, it is.

After Wednesday's recycling fiasco (dude, be glad you didn't hear that conversation, my hell), Aaron and I had a frank discussion about The Basement.

As in, we don't need Paper and Cardboard.

This was, of course, after a found a ten foot tower of empty cardboard boxes. I thought Aaron's cardboard box collection was centralized to the garage. Apparently not.

Included in the collection was a box for a VCR that died seven years ago. And a box for an automated scooping kitty litter box. Which we got rid of over five years ago.

::shaking head::

So we had initially agreed to having a garage sale. Let's face it, there's more than just paper and cardboard in the basement. There's a shit-ton of stuff we don't use and have no intention of using again.

Second rule with living with a hoarder: be brutally honest in the likelihood that something is worth holding on to.

I do my very best to respect Aaron's feelings, and I get it: I also don't want to get rid of stuff just to turn around and spend money on the very same stuff again.

This is why I'm trying to clean the basement in the first place: to figure out what we have for the baby. Like, duh.

So far, stuff I've found we won't use: broken electric beaters, 12 boxes of crayons (like we don't already have five boxes currently in use as-is), acrylic blankets from when I was a kid.

And I'm a reasonable person. The Legos and Light Brite (both circa mid-90s) was brought upstairs and put to use:

The real kicker came when Aaron agreed that he likely will not be able to host a garage sale by July 1st (see? timelines) and that I should donate things as I accrue too much to have reasonable work space.

So today I took 13 bags of stuff to the donation center. I have five more ready for another run on Tuesday.

See? I'm not just gonna go willy-nilly and throw everything away.

Pinkie swear.

Somebody's Gonna Come Undone

2010-05-19T14:29:00.004-05:00

Aaron skipped off to work early this morning, so it became my responsibility to take out the trash and recycling before the sun came up.

Do you know what I found in the garage?

Fourteen bags of recycling Aaron has refused to recycle.

Fourteen bags.

Aaron's hoarding is officially out of control. He's holding onto 14 bags of class worksheets Griffin and Darwin have brought home over the past year. And better yet - he's sorted the recycling so that all the worksheets are together so he could keep them.

He has, thankfully, gotten to the point that he will admit it's become a problem but he REFUSES that it's actually an issue and claims he doesn't need any professional help - or any help at all.

He just needs "more free time."

Dude. If you have free time to sort and hide 14 bags of paper, you have free time to actually look at it, recycle it and work on something else.

There's a Calm Before the Storm

2010-05-10T15:38:00.002-05:00

If there's one thing you can count on me to do is to get a simple head cold and have it escalate into threats of hospitalization and crazy-ass side-effects from drugs.

As in, the drugs are making me sicker than the stupid sinus infection. And although I can now keep fluids down and to warrant off dehydration, I've lost over four pounds in as many days and guess what particular OB isn't all that appreciative of weight loss during pregnancy?

So, yeah. I'm coping the best I can but it's not spectacularly well. Between the pregnancy weight gain (which granted is all in my belly and some edema and damn I'm uncomfortable in my body and I know it's only gonna get worse) and all the naps (never in my life did I think I would complain about actually being able to nap) and the weekly progesterone shots and the calcification on the baby's heart that won't go away and the laundry that is never-ending (and why can't I find a plastic hanger that isn't blue or white in stores?) I am just spent.

But I'm coping. Or, trying to cope. I just wish my antibiotic came with a nice magical dose of Make Mommy Happy. Know where I can get some of that?

Think Less But See it Grow

2010-04-27T15:53:00.003-05:00

Sometimes I feel as though I need to bopped upside the head.

Yes, much like Little Bunny Foo Foo. But only without the good fairy.

Unless she cleans houses, of course.

The point is, at some point I need to come to the realization that we're having a baby. Not that I'm in total complete denial or anything, I mean - both my stomach and my ass are growing amazingly fast. And he moves. A lot.

Yes, he. Have I not mentioned that? My apologies.

Apparently I have a magical uterus that clones, right down to insuring that said clone also have a penis. Which I take to be the Universe's way to say "fuck you and your Capello genetics" followed by the ever-present evil laugh of mwahahaha which I hear in my sleep.

Thanks, for that Universe.

So, back to the point: not that I'm in denial, I can't be. He punches me a lot. Like an animal trying to escape his jail.

What? You think my uterus isn't a jail? You're funny.

But my point being, I haven't done jack anything other than increase my calorie intake to prepare for this baby. Well, and go to the doctor appointments and get my shots (which I now have a nice big itchy knot on my hip, thanks) and elevate my feet and sleep a lot and become OBSESSED with food.

Like I'm not already obsessed with food. And the food allergies make it worse, not being able to eat everywhere around town. It has caused me to live vicariously through others even more, like when my friend called one night and was all OH MY GOD, GUESS WHAT HAPPENED TO ME TONIGHT WHILE I WAS AT BIG BOY! and my reply was YOU ORDERED THE CHICKEN TENDERLOIN SANDWICH?

She didn't. Nor did she have a chocolate milkshake or a cherry limeaid. Sigh. My friend doesn't know how to eat properly. And I can still taste the disappointment in my mouth for her not ordering the right food.

But you know what? We're having a baby. And it's kinda like a joke. Like HAHAHAHAHA, YES WE KNOW WE'RE CRAZY, THANKS and watching my stomach grow, but not getting the least bit prepared.

The boys threw a fit to go to a baby store one day while running errands. They wanted to buy him clothes, so I stopped and let them shop for the baby.

Y'all, my kids are more prepared for the baby than I am.

That whole nesting thing is going to kick in eventually, right?

What I Got: Full Stock of Thoughts and Dreams That Scatter

2010-04-21T09:18:00.004-05:00

Three years ago...

"Aaron, we need to have that locust tree in the back cut down. Dead branches are hanging over the house and the tree is dying."

"That tree's not dead! It's fine!"

Two years ago...

"Aaron, the locust tree is dying. We need to get it cut down before it falls on the house."

"Stop being a drama queen! It's fine! It has leaves on more than half the tree! It will recover!"

One year ago...

"Aaron, seriously. That damn locust tree is gonna crash through our house and kill the boys while the are sleeping."

"My god, woman. It's FINE. See! It has leaves! It's not gonna fall on the house."

This year...

"SERIOUSLY, AARON, OH MY GOD, WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE FROM THE LOCUST TREE. It's deader'n'a doornail."

"Yeah, it's in sad shape. Plus! I want to expand my vegetable patch and that damn tree blocks too much light. Let's get some quotes on getting it cut down."

We called seven companies to come out and bid cutting down our big locust tree in the backyard.

Our first bid out wouldn't even bid on the damn thing, citing it being too close to the house, un-climbable and couldn't get a bucket truck to the back yard because it's been dead for three years.

(Aaron's response? "It! Still! Has! Leaves! Granted, five leaves but still! Alive!")

Sigh.

A second company didn't show up.

Three companies came to for a bid, let themselves into the backyard and pushed a half-assed bid under the front door while I was home.

Okay, let's take a moment here, people. We're in a recession. A crap-ass "Great Recession" and I call you out to my home, explain I work from home and we have a puppy in the fenced back yard quite a bit (and! no more rabbits!), and that I would like more than just the dead tree quoted but you don't bother knocking on my door? Seriously? You think I'm gonna hire you and give you my money?

Guess again.

So it came down to two bids: one, a certified arborist who will use a crane and bucket truck (and costs a grand more) and the other, a tree cutter who claimed he'd shimmy up there and low-balled the quote.

Now, we love saving money. I mean, it's hard to afford jack anything in this "Great Recession" so dur, we wanted to hire the lower-costing guy.

But.

Red flags. Everywhere. Not returning calls for days. Said they faxed their insurance information and didn't. I had a bad gut feeling.

Finally they got us the copy of their insurance policy and I called to verify it. And guess what? This dude wants to cut down a big ass dead tree, while he's up in it, half of which hangs over my house and HE DIDN'T HAVE INSURANCE.

I was pre-warned to verify insurance information and I'm so glad I did. Could you imagine? Hiring someone who's actually not covered? That could financially ruin us.

So, we have a date with a crane.

Hahahahhaha.

A crane that has to be parked in my neighbor's driveway.

Hahahhaha Hahahahaha.

And a bucket truck that will be on my and my neighbor's grass.

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

One of ya'll's gonna book me a nice stay at a mental institution, yes?

Caught in a Bad Romance

2010-04-13T13:07:00.005-05:00

I have a love/hate relationship with tulips.

I love them, they are so damn cheery and chipper.

(planted on the front corner last autumn)

I hate them, them are so freaking fickle.

A few years ago I planted a few hundred in a garden bed in the backyard. A mixture of pinks, reds and yellows grew to be a red, purple and stripey bed. And I forgave them, in all of their mis-matched glory I still loved those tulips.

Now, a few years have past and what do we have?

Where'd all my tulips go?

Kansas ate 'em. That's what happened. The state was all nom nom nom, taste-y tulips.

You have a better explanation?

I've officially given up on them this year and told Aaron it was time to do something else with that bed.

The trellis full of honeysuckle will obviously stay (y'all, I had to IM a coworker to be all "what's the word for a metal thing you put in the garden to support climbing plants? 'cause I'm pregnant and can't think straight") as will the hydrangea in front of it. The daylilies desperately need to be divided but will stay in the same area as well.

Past that, the only two plants in there are a miniature rose bush that needs to be dug up and have surgery preformed on it and some dying bushy thing that doesn't get enough sun.

Initially, before finding out was pregnant, my thought was to dig out the daylilies and bushes and roto-till the holy living baloneys out of the bed. Then plant a bunch of flowers.

But now, now I drop something on the ground I spend a few minutes analyzing if it needs to be picked up right away or if can wait for Aaron or the boys to be home, so someone else can pick up for me. Guess what usually happens.

There's a family story from Aaron's childhood, he was about 10 years old and asked his mom if he could dig a hole in the backyard.

"Mom? Could I dig a hole in he backyard?"

"Yeah."

"It's gonna be big."

"Okay, have fun."

"No mom, it's gonna be a big hole."

"That's fine, Aaron. Go have fun."

As the story goes, he spent all day outside digging this hole. By the time he was done, his head was below ground level, plus all the dirt was built up a good two or three feet above the ground 'cause the boy didn't move the dirt and he shoveled. A ladder was required to get him out of the hole.

(And he says I have an imagination.)

When asked why he dug such a crazy, insane hole he seriously replied, "So it would be below the freezing line for my fish."

"Your what?"

"My fish pond. Why else do you think I dug such a big hole?"

I pointed out to Aaron a couple of weeks ago that the one thing our garden was missing (besides a cherry tree, a grape arbor, strawberries, blueberries, blackberries and raspberries) is a fish pond. And guess what we have? FREE LABOR.

Besides, what little boy doesn't want to go dig a great big hole (a great big hole, I might add, that will produce a spectacular amount of soil to use as filler in Aaron's vegetable patch) in the backyard? Mommy just needs to buy some shovels.

And finish getting Daddy on board.

I Go Crazy Wondering What There is to Really See

2010-04-10T09:20:00.003-05:00

The perinatologist appointment went very well. I mean, as well as could be still having calcification on the heart.

The doctor wasn't the least bit worried about it though, all the bone structure measured properly, all the organs look good. Yay!

But due to the calcification and "my age" (yes, he said that and I was all WHACHA TALKIN' 'BOUT WILLIS? ) the odds of the baby having Down's is one in 211 - for once I feel like the odds are stacked in our favor. I go back in four weeks for more scans.

We've been busy enjoying the spring weather, making garden plans and blowing lots of noses.

And taking the baby chicks outside daily for "recess."

A word to the wise: baby chicks in the house makes your home very, very stinky. I'll be sad to see them go but I'll be happy to no longer have my house smell like tinkle.

Money for Nothin' and Your Chicks for Free

2010-04-05T10:23:00.005-05:00

We had another sonogram on Thursday. A no-good, very-bad sonogram, if you ask me.

Yadda, yadda, heart problem, yadda, yadda, possible Down's, yadda, yadda, level II sonogram with a perinatologist obstetrician, yadda, yadda, DON'T PANIC.

Yeah, like I heard that last one very well.

So we go for the fancy-pants level II on Wednesday afternoon, fingers crossed everything will be okay. (Which? Internet research [which we all know is so reliable] points to a 95% chance of the baby being FINE.) (Also: NERD!)

One thing is for certain: YOU LOOK LIKE YOUR FATHER OHMYHELL I SHOULD RENT OUT MY UTERUS FOR CLONING, I'D BE SO RICH!

You also scratch your head just like your daddy. I'm certain you were trying to figure out what was poking you and if you're anything like me, MAKE IT STOP NOW GAWD.

In an effort to divert our attention from the craptastic news on Thursday, we've been overly focused on other adventures.

Run! RUN! Run for your lives! PIRATE CHICKS!

I'm Sippin' On Some Sunshine

2010-03-25T16:26:00.009-05:00

I got my third shot today (sidenote: OUCH) and everything is slowly getting better.

Last week I was officially released from bedrest, but no one told my uterus. Many days have been spent on my back (and not like from the good ole college days) with my feet up. There was a time when, honestly, I thought measuring the circumference of my ankles daily would be a good idea.

For prosperity's sake.

But this week is so much nicer, the bulbs I stowed away last fall are beginning to bud.

And last week spring arrived. And promptly left. Don't believe me?

Oh, Kansas. You can be so damn fickle.

And today is certainly looking up...

My smoothie obsession is alive and kicking. I even bought one of those mixers where you mix everything in single servings but the big upside is all the components are dishwasher safe. This means I'm drinking two smoothies a day and even making gluten and dairy-free ones for the boys (sorbet, frozen fruit, rice milk).

This one is my favorite so far, low-fat greek yogurt, frozen berry mix, hemp seeds and low-fat milk. I actually made "nom nom nom" sounds.

And the garden is beginning to look up as well...

... and I'm starting to feel like me again. Real-me. Not crazy-ass-pregnant-with-preterm-labor-me.

Apparently three is a magic number.

The One That Wins Will Be the One Who Hits the Hardest

2010-03-11T18:00:00.003-06:00

I'm not designed for breeding.

I know. One would tend to think with these hips and these boobs it wouldn't be any sort of issue for me. But it is. Huge, in fact.

I had my fourth month appointment today, and I've been grateful all week that it was coming up. Because, last night especially, I've been considering calling the doctor on call at night because the tightening of my stomach has been insane. And taking my breathe away.

And I? I would put my feet up, drink a glass of water and tell it to shut the fuck up.

Because, you know, that works.

My doctor concluded today that I'm having pre-term contractions at 15 weeks. It's not too terribly surprising, given this all started with that other doctor hullabaloo and has progressed into when I walk, when I cook, when I go up and down the stairs.

And given that I was on modified bed rest my later-half-of-my-second trimester and full third trimester with Griffin, went into full-fledged premature labor at 20-something weeks with Darwin and was hospitalized multiple times, on strict bed rest and should have had a nurse to keep track of all my keep-the-baby-in-there pills this whole scenario shouldn't come at a surprise, but it's damn disappointing.

The upside is the baby is doing fantastically, I just have a bitch of a uterus who's all "Hey! I know what we do with a baby! We evict it!"

My doctor has a new plan with this pregnancy, something that wasn't available with my other two. Starting tomorrow, I'll be getting weekly progesterone shots. The philosophy is that these shots will calm my uterus down with virtually no side effects - and in all previous patients, they have been able to carry to term without hospital visits and other interventions and have resume "normal" activity throughout pregnancy.

Dear Progesterone:

You better fucking work.

Hugs'n'kisses,
Laura

P.S. Please

It Doesn't Matter if it's Good Enough for Someone Else

2010-03-04T13:59:00.002-06:00

I've got it in my crazy-ass pregnancy mind that I'm going to be dusting off my sewing area (and by "sewing area" I mean "that corner of the laundry room that I notched out for myself") and making quilts before the baby comes. Glorious quilts! For my whole family! Nevermind I have a few thousand projects in progress, these nine months will produce quilts! Because I'm not busy doing ANYTHING ELSE RIGHT NOW!

I've been on the hunt for a glorious white cotton for the baby's quilt and have been searching high and low. It has to be the whitest, the softest, the cottoniest fabric ever. Nevermind I have gobs of other white fabrics hanging around, those are simply not good enough.

So I've been ducking my head in this quilt shoppe and that quilt shoppe looking for a glorious white in which to use as my base. I finally stopped in a local store, ran by old biddies who are quite opinionated and I mean that as in quite opinionated in a way of which I don't quite appreciate but they do have some fabrics I never see anywhere else, so in my infinite awesomeness, I put up with their behavior.

Because I'll suffer quite a bit for the ideal fabric. More specifically: ideal fabric that doesn't break the bank.

So I went into the store, took at look at their solids and sighed.

"Can I help you find anything?"

"Yes, I'm looking for a white, soft cotton for the base of my quilt."

"Oh, you mean for the sashing?"

"No, it won't have sashing. For the base."

"But. Quilts don't have a base. They are patch worked."

"Yes, I know. Most do. This won't."

"No. That's not a quilt."

"Yes it is. In anycase, I'm looking for a white, soft cotton."

"Right over here."

"Thank you."

"No, you do realize you need to add some patchwork sashing to make it a quilt, yes?"

"No, I don't."

"But. All quilts have sashing."

Okay, I know she's trying to be helpful. And in my hands I have a glorious white, soft cotton fabric that's double-width and only eight dollars a yard. I know better than to fight or otherwise she's gonna take my fabric away.

"I know most do. But I'm not a traditional quilter. I'm a member of the Kansas City Modern Quilt Guild. Quite a few of us re-work the rules."

"Oh. Okay, then."

Whew.

"So you do realize you need to make your quilt top about two inches longer on all the edges so your Professional Quilter can quilt it for you, yes?"

"Oh, I'm gonna quilt it myself."

"No, you can't quilt it yourself. That's not Professional. No one will like it if you quilt it yourself."

"Um... thanks. But I'm quite certain my baby will like it just fine."

"Fingers crossed."

Ohmyhell, ohmyhell, ohmyhell. I paid and high-tailed it out of there.

Now, I'm not stupid. And I'm quite certain she was trying to be helpful. But really? Do you really tell your paying customer she's wrong in such a situation? I mean, fighting over facts is thing. But "it must be patchworked" and "it must have sashing" and "it must be professionally quilted" or "otherwise the recipient won't like it" aren't all those really opinions?

In anycase. I have High Hopes to get off my napping butt and begin working on a quilt.

And no, it will not have patchwork. It will not have sashing. It will not be professionally quilted. But I'm quite certain the recipient will like it just fine.

(My friend, Crystal, is forming a quilting bee if anyone is interested! Sashing not required.)

But I'm Here in My Mold, I Am Here in My Mold

2010-03-01T12:11:00.005-06:00

We've been having a few fucking bad weeks over here, between head colds, Aaron traveling and basic life stuff I'm having a hard time finding the happiness. Hell. I'm having a hard time coping.

Even all the goddamn naps are pissing me off. A person who naps as much as I do should not be so fucking bitter. But lo, I am.

The true crux of the situation is really having to take Darwin to the doctor for potential pink eye two weeks ago. We love our doctor. I mean, love our doctor. She has multiple food allergies too, so she totally gets it. It's like speaking an undecipherable-to-the-normal-population, talking to someone else who has insane food allergies. We get each other and know what it's like.

And she's out on maternity leave.

(Which, I couldn't be happier for her and her family.)

And, thus, we had to see another doctor at the practice. The appointment was fine, they did a test on Darwin's eyes. But the issues began when they called with the results and decided to go through our medical records and, well... it's just a mess. With insane accusations of our family not having allergies and magically falsifying reports to prevent immunizations on their behalf. Which? I don't feed my children a gluten-free, dairy-free, egg-free, legume-free, nut-free, soy-free, squash-free, citrus-free diet for fun. And the request of the office manager for me to write up what happened so she could submit it to the practice's review board... which, yes, basically sounds like what happened is going to cause this doctor and his staff to lose their jobs.

The whole situation is just totally nauseating. The way I was treated was horrible. Treating anyone that way would be horrible, let alone a pregnant person with a history of premature labor. It's really fucking awful. And now needing to stare at a computer and needing to regurgitate what happened is causing me to have a panic attack. But if I don't, who's going to insure that this doesn't happen to another patient at that practice again?

Blarg. I'm so sick of Adult Responsibilities.

On another note, the puppy has decided winter gloves are a taste-y nom nom. I have decided to kill her. But not really. Damn dog.

You Can't Fence Time

2010-02-22T16:54:00.004-06:00

After an amazing amount of anticipation, Griffin turned eight this weekend.

Eight years old. My hell. Time flies.

Apparently eight year olds...

Like gluten-free, dairy free chocolate chip pancakes on their birthday, doused in maple syrup.

Backugan, Pokemon and other things their mothers just don't understand are totally awesome. And inspiration for many art projects and homemade games.

Think dads are the best. And a baby in mom's tummy is a close second, only because "the baby makes you so sick, it's awesomely ornery!"

Could eat tacos at every meal. And gets upset if it's not served.

Is favored by the puppy. By a lot. And he doesn't even feed her.

Is counting down the years until he moves out. (And? Really, dude? You're eight? And already talking about being 18 and moving out of here? Ouch.)

Would be happy to have friends over all day, everyday.

But would prefer not to be the center of attention.

Agrees he's still my baby. Forever. No matter what.

Wanna Whole Lotta Love

2010-02-11T14:00:00.004-06:00

When I Get All Steamed Up, Hear Me Shout

2010-02-02T18:22:00.003-06:00

Here's a little groundhog
Furry and brown
He's popping up to look around

If he sees his shadow
Down he'll go
Then six more weeks of winter - OH NO!

The Way You Make-a Me Feel

2010-01-28T15:28:00.002-06:00

nothing helps the nausea

except, maybe, sometimes, Mario on the wii

I'm drinking milk and chocolate milk by the gallon

I don't like milk

usually

mandatory afternoon naps

a scare of bloody spotting

more "resting time"

boys offering to sleep with me "so we can take care of you, Momma"

roasting pounds of chicken at a time

for the boys

so they can eat

since I'm apparently unable too

unless it's toast

can gluten-free toast count as a food group?

toast with grape jelly

toast with honey

toast with strawberry preserves

toast with butter and cinnamon sugar

why does butter taste too buttery?

toast with seedless blackberry jam

garlic toast

oh, yes, garlic toast

handfuls of fiber gummy vitamins

since not eating means "things don't move along"

and the doctor insist that "things get moving along"

a puppy who is obsessed with my belly

children who tell the baby to be nicer to me

and who love the baby more, since it's already being ornery

And So The Conversation Turned

2010-01-20T15:58:00.002-06:00

Darwin, crying: "Daddy is mean!"

"Why are you crying?"

"He called me a name!"

"He did?"

"Yeah! He called me a nerd!"

"Darwin?"

::sniff:: "What?"

"Do you know what a nerd is?"

"It's a name!"

"Do you know what it means?"

::sniff::

"A nerd is a person who is very, very smart and knows lots of things. Daddy's a nerd. I'm a nerd. Griffin's a nerd..."

"And I'm a nerd too?"

"Are you a very, very smart person who knows lots of things?"

"Yeah! I do! HEY DAD, GUESS WHAT! I'M A NERD TOO!"

We're High Above But On The Floor

2010-01-19T17:12:00.004-06:00

You didn't know we were trying? Neither did we.

Yes, this is a huge surprise. But I love surprises and even though I'm still in shock ("we're having a baby? you sure about that?") I'm certain this is the best surprise ever.

Except? Ohmyhell, my belly. Only eight weeks and it has exploded.

"Mama, I'm sharing stickers with the baby. This is the baby's sticker. Not yours. Got it?"

And the funny thing is, everything is going "perfectly" (as long as you don't count the constant nausea). With both boys we had to try-try-try and once pregnant I had to take hormones in order not to miscarry. With this one? Hormones are perfect. With the boys, I just got fat-fat-fat and I never looked pregnant. With this one? "Oh my god! You already have a baby bump!" The differences are just mind-boggling.

I'm thanking the gluten-free gods for the everything-working-out-for-once. Over four years and I'm most definitely at my healthiest.

Except for the nausea. Dear gods, could you take care of that one please? With a cherry on top?

Mmmmm, cherries.

But Just Maybe, Halaka Ukulele, Mama Made a Baby

2010-01-14T09:00:00.002-06:00

Invisible Man Who Can Sing in a Visible Voice

2010-01-08T14:25:00.003-06:00

I thought the worst of my troubles is being snowed in for a third day in a row, with antsy children who need to burn off some energy.

Turns out having a leaky window splashing on your computer is so much worse. And losing a wii bowling game to a five year old doesn't help either.

Shape it Up, Get it Straight

2010-01-05T15:39:00.004-06:00

This year, I have decided, is the year we're gonna get our shit together.

Personally, I blame it on the dishwasher fiasco.

Well, that and years of piling stuff up. And up. And up. And not completely unpacking when we moved into our home nearly nine years ago.

And the fact I'm a pack-rat and Aaron is a hoarder.

(Oh, yes he is. Don't you look at me like that. We even watch the show Hoarders occasionally and he? He sympathizes with the people on the show while I fear what our home will become if we doesn't start making a dent.)

But!

(And let me state I'm not a fan of New Year Resolutions. It just so happened that the dishwasher fiasco - the instigator - randomly happened during the holidays. And I had plenty time of reflection while washing the damn dishes by hand multiple times a day.)

This time, I am trying to lead by example instead of my usual getting-fed-up-and-throwing-an-almighty-hissy-fit tactic. Something tells me this doesn't work.

For starters, I've been slowly easing my way into the FlyLady system (which? oh my god the amount of l-o-v-e they talk about. goodness). Yes, I totally realize I'm joining a bandwagon on this one, but if it works for so many people there's a good chance I can follow it as well.

It's my goal that shining my sink will lead to clearing out and organizing the basement. I hope to store items we're keeping in rubber bins (classy) and line the finished basement "family room" walls with them, instead of the shtuff taking all the space now.

I hope that by doing so, Aaron will make a dent in his cave (which is So Full, the door doesn't even open fully) and have it cleared out before gardening season arrives. This will give me an opportunity to paint the room, rip up the carpet and start living in our space instead of storing crap in our space.

And while we're talkin' pie-in-the-sky hopes (ha), I also hope to maintain my home in a manner that anyone can drop by at anytime and I won't feel humiliated by the state of my home. I'll save the hope for always-on-hand-freshly-baked-gluten-free-cookies-to-offer-our-guests till next year.

See? I'm a totally reasonable person.

Those icicles have been known to KILL people!

Don't You Put Me On the Back Burner

2009-12-30T15:09:00.002-06:00

I've tried not to be overly bitch-y and complain-y because I get it: most people don't want to hear that shit. We want to live in a world with happiness and joy and relaxation with no mentions of Wood Rot Under the Dishwasher and Oh My, My Kitchen is Flooding. Again.

But, you know, when that stuff happens the not-overly-bitchy-and-complainy go straight out the window and lo, here I am.

My dishwasher flooded the kitchen a couple of weeks ago so I was a diligent homeowner. Upon putting on my Big Girl Panties I called the repair center because extended warranties? They rawk.

It took over 48 hours for Sears (hi Sears! you're adding this to my case notes, right?) to send someone out to fix it. Grumble, grumble but okay.

The tech came out, nice as can be, and ran all the diagnostic tests on the dishwasher. Grunts and hmmms escaped from his mouth and I sat here working away, trying to Give The Poor Man Some Space all the while being Miss Nosy Body.

Finally, finally, he figured it out. The dishwasher had a hole it in. A hole.

Not where a knife was, no, it just wore away after the long four years of hard service ::cough, cough:: and everyday use.

He needed to order a new tub (also called a basin also called something else which I can't recall because COME ON I'm not a dishwasher repair fix-it person) and he'd be back in a week to fix it.

In a week when the part would be in and he and another person with him would pull the dishwasher out, tear it down, put in the tub and rebuild the whole thing back together in the course of "two to there hours."

So I put on another pair of Big Girl Panties and set-out to wash my dishes because at that point? After 48 hours? The only dishes that were clean were Aaron's from college packed away in the basement.

Now, this is a good time to interject that we've had this dishwasher for just over four years. In the course of these four years, we've had over $2,000 worth of repairs on it (and was later corrected that that figure was just for the past 18 months) prior to this experience. And the tub alone cost (our warranty) over $500.

So! Yes! Look at me! Being an adult! Washing dishes by hand! Not bitching! Not complaining! Takin' care of my family!

Then, the secondary part for the dishwasher comes that next Monday (day eight of broken dishwasher-ness). But the tub? The tub doesn't come.

So I decided to Act Like An Adult and call Sears to get the tracking number, so if my appointment needs to be rescheduled it can be.

And then Sears tells me my part? Is on back-order at least until December 30th. At least another 10 days away. And they knew this for five days. And I wouldn't have the part on the 30th, they'd just maybe have more information.

And at this point, my dear friends, is where I went internet ghetto.

"This is unacceptable! Mah dishwasher cannot be broken for that long!"

Yes, pronounced and properly spelled: "mah" instead of "my."

That look in your eyes? I hope it is pride.

So I got passed to a "manager" who refused to help me because as the terms of my warranty states, only on the 4th service call within a 12 month period will Sears consider replacing my unit. This was only service call number three in 12 months.

Lisa #79846 at 1-800-4-My-Home told me that no one in the company is above her. She is the manager of everything. And no, she would not transfer me to her boss, she would not transfer me to an associate and no, there was not a damn thing I could about this situation.

Really?

You sure about that?

Not a damn thing?

Not even Twitter?

Because guess what I did.

Oh yes, I totally went all Heather B. Armstrong to Sears on Twitter.

Now, I'll be the first to admit that I was mostly working our my aggressions. Considering it was the week of Festivus and Christmas and I'm not well known on the internets I didn't actually expect a reply.

But a reply I received.

The next day I received a call from the Executive Department and oh hey, they would like to replace my dishwasher. Would that work for me?

Um, yes. Yes, it would.

Granted, it would be another week, but the part is now scheduled to be back-ordered till January 5th, at which point they'd have a new date of back-ordered-ness.

So we arranged the details, Aaron and I danced around the kitchen and for a split second I felt like Someone Important.

(Dude. I twittered a free dishwasher. How kick-ass is that?)

Two days later, though, that part? That was on back-order for more than a week? Arrived on my doorstep. Sears let me choose to fix or replace the until ("replacement would be lovely") and yesterday our new dishwasher was installed.

And that part? On back-order? Is sitting in my garage indefinitely. But it's a small price to pay for the boys to recover from the food allergy contaminations.

In closing, I would like to say YAY for Sears to listening to customers on Twitter and insuring their complaints get addressed.

And a BIG FAT BOO for ever letting this situation escalate to a point where I had to go to Twitter to complain about you.

May Your Days be Merry and Bright

2009-12-26T17:36:00.009-06:00

Now You Know, You Got My Back Against the Wall

2009-12-16T11:47:00.005-06:00

My dishwasher broke.

Again.

An hour after Aaron left on his business trip, it flooded my kitchen. And I mean, it flooded my kitchen.

So I've been doing dishes by hand, which is incredibly difficult considering I eat dairy, the kids are allergic to it, and to eradicate the proteins the water has to be ridiculously hot. Of course, it's never hot enough, so I've crossed my fingers and hope for the best.

Double-hoping the dishwasher repair person gets here soon considering someone should have been here two hours ago.

Sigh.

While we're complaining, my tire is flat and requires constant moderation. The cable box is on the fritz, which wouldn't be a big deal except it causes my boys to whine and I don't handle that well. And I can't seem to be warm in the van - I'm in total denial about potentially needing to have the heater fixed. Goodness.

On the upside, my holiday shopping is nearly complete so now I can focus on wrapping and baking.

Well, baking as soon as the dishwasher is fixed.

Edited to add: Well, nevermind about that holiday baking. They are ordering a new part - a new basin, because ours has a hole in it - and the soonest the dishwasher will be fixed is a week from today. Kenmore hates me.

Additional side note: And the hole isn't anywhere logical, it was a weak part that just wore away. Who else could this possibly happen to other than me? And at a time like this? Geesh.

Me and You, Tell Me What We're Gonna Do

2009-12-08T16:23:00.003-06:00

So, really, it should come as no surprise to anyone that not only have I not posted pictures from the Lego calendars, but we're even behind on opening the Legos. Right? Right.

Because if there's anyone in this world who wishes for time to stay still, who digs her heels deep into the earth and screams stop, it's me. Right? Right.

And yes, we have a tree up - but only thanks to Aaron, who fandangled the whole operation without a massive Airing of the Grievances (small wonders never cease) but any additional completion has been halted by a bickering of Who Hangs Lights Better And I Do Believe It's You.

Which causes me to think, you know what sounds good right now? A cake. I'm going to ignore this whole business and make a cake. And honey? Go buy me a larger size pants while you're out, mkay?

So, yes. Broken record: I am behind. Woe is me. Boo hoo.

But! I am trying. I want my two-sizes-too-small heart to grow. So in the boys' room...

Squee! Wee felted lights! The holidays are migrating beyond the living room!

(And no, sadly, I did not make these myself, I purchased them from Cakies.)

(Because if I don't make something myself, it's better to support other crafty mamas. Right? Right.)

So now I have two boys whom I've promised lights on the tree tonight, pinky swear and I mustn't fail.

Goddamn Those Ideas in Your Head

2009-12-02T16:39:00.004-06:00

This morning I woke up crying. Big snot-filled hiccup-y crying with the need to curl up with Aaron.

Because I had a bad dream. A nightmare, actually.

Aaron and I were talking, he was working on a toilet in a room I didn't recognize. We were laughing and getting along and he was talking about how awesome his new girlfriend is.

And me, with my constant strive to be a Grown Up, stated things sounds like they are going so well, they may do the deed soon.

To which he replied, "Oh, we already did. And it was awesome."

Fuck my life.

Just then, his girlfriend called us downstairs (we were in her house, apparently) because she wanted me to help her and her family come up with their Black Friday shopping game-plan.

I oppose Black Friday. I never shop on Black Friday. Unless it's to get a latte.

So she sat me down and wanted to make a list of what they needed to get. And to correlate it to the store's map.

Then, when I was done with said list, she wanted me to decorate it with glitter glue and stickers. Because it needed to be "pretty" she said.

All day I've been upset at the sheer notion that Aaron and I would somehow be divorced and he would be dating someone else. But the fact that happened in my dream and he was dating a chick who shopped on Black Friday and decorated lists with glitter glue and stickers is just beyond comprehensible.

I mean, what the fuck was he thinking? Dating a girl who shops on Black Friday and decorates lists with glitter glue. He must be out of his goddamn mind.

Didn't I Blow Your Mind This Time, Didn't I?

2009-11-30T15:48:00.007-06:00

Thanksgiving was fabulous.

gluten-free cheesecake with chocolate glaze & sour raspberry sauce
and the best gluten-free pumpkin pie ever

Kylie waiting for the family walk

family games

I'm certainly having problems accepting it's nearly December. What do you mean I should put my tree up? I've been chastising neighbors and friends for hanging lights and decorating and now I'm expected to participate in that behavior?

Screw that.

Oh wait, I have small kids. Nevermind.

Dammit.

At least there's one thing I'm totally looking forward to (and if you're extremely crafty, please overt your eyes), our Lego Advent Calendar.

Squee!

But wait! There's more!

Because I'm fanatical (and batshit crazy), I found another set (like last year) that's not available in the States. Unfortunately, calling Lego and promising someone a blow job didn't get me the set (don't you look at me like that, I said I was fanatical) so I made multiple calls and begged and pleaded and then we received a package from our friend in Germany.

Oh, yes he did. He sent us the Pirate Advent Calendar.

Score!

I'm hoping to enlist Griffin's and Darwin's imaginations in the story telling this year. So please do brush up on your Star Wars, Pokemon, Bionicle and Bakugan references. You're gonna need 'em.

You Must Use the Force

2009-11-24T17:17:00.004-06:00

Ohai. I can haz blog, yes?

Despite my silence, or rather - because of it, I'm mentally prepared for Thanksgiving.

Please note I said mentally prepared not physically prepared. Walk into my home right now and you'd trip over eight loads of laundry. But damn, I am ready to eat me some turkey.

Every year I prepare all the holiday meals. Thanks food allergies! I get to OCD the hell out of the what we eat!

All kidding aside, I do love me some cooking so it's actually a treat for me to cook this much. I know, either I should share these drugs or the prescriptions not quite right - correct?

In any case, my parents are bringing cranberry stuff. Yes, cranberry stuff. Just cranberry stuff.

Whereas I am making veggies with dip, the turkey, gluten-free dairy-free dressing, mashed potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, spinach salad and corn. My dad would through a hissy fit without the corn.

For dessert, gluten-free (ha! oh please, IT'S ALL GLUTEN-FREE) pumpkin pie, cheese cake and chocolate chip cookes.

So, yes. I've mapped it out. I've completed two rounds of grocery shopping (hopefully only one more to go!) (don't look at me like that, I said "hopefully") (are you trying to tell me you don't have to go to three different stores to get your food?) and start tonight. Yes, tonight.

So, if any of you want to come over and vacuum and mop and put my laundry away I'd greatly appreciate it.

Alternate post title: Kiss a Wookie, Kick a Droid, Fly the Fuck On Through an Asteroid

Guess how many of my family members have this song memorized?

Stop, it's too Late, I'm Feeling Frustrated

2009-11-16T16:55:00.003-06:00

This weekend Darwin asked me what super power I wanted.

I want to freeze time.

You want to freeze time?

Yes, I want to freeze time. I want to pause everything and clean the house. Or scrapbook. Or nap.

Where'd you get an idea like that, Mom?

From an '80's sitcom. Duh.

Doncha wanna be ElastiGirl instead Mom?

Well, although I appreciate her awesomeness, I'd rather stop time.

And it's true, time is just flyin' by. I know people say this all time, but it's true. And I'm struggling to keep up. I want to keep up, but I'm not.

I want lots and lots of things. Clean house. And organized house. Handmade things. A finished quilt (cough, cough, nudge, nudge). Time to play family games.

And it's a tired, broken record. And I'm trying - really I am. I'm not nearly as down as I'm certain the post sounds. But it would be damn nice for my fingers to realize it's November and stop typing October all over the place.

And if I could give Aaron a superpower it would be to grow an un-scratchy beard. And not having hoarding issues. And get shit done lightening fast.

Yes, in that order.

I Like to Take Each Step One-by-One

2009-11-10T16:24:00.005-06:00

The trees have decided to be massive bitches and release all their leaves.

Yes, trees are female. Or, at least, mine are. Because "bitches" sounds better than "bastards," that why.

We're making the most of autumn, but we have our air conditioner running (the hell, right?) and the sun has been shining so it feels more like Summer v2.1 than autumn -- I'm certain we'll get an ice storm soon, so Kansas can show us who's boss and all that jazz.

But for now, we're chasing bunnies and rolling in leaves.

If You'll be My BodyGuard, I Can be Your Long Lost Pal

2009-11-04T16:21:00.002-06:00

A quick stop to the thrift store looking for a replacement lid to my favorite casserole dish (broke months ago and I still cannot find a replacement, sniff) turned into rummaging through the children's books.

Which resulted in a huge bag of books for five dollars - way less than one book at the book store would have cost.

And look! Quiet children! 'Tis a miracle!

Cherry Ice Cream Smile

2009-11-03T16:38:00.005-06:00

It's too early for me to be PMS'ing but there you go - I'm pissy. Pissy mckpisserson and I'm not quite sure why but I am.

I'm feeling a bit like this...

And a good bit like this...

With some of this kicked in for extra flavor:

And Different People Have Different Needs

2009-10-27T16:21:00.002-05:00

Last week I came down with this amazing crap, because really, it was some amazing crap of flu ickiness that resulted in an eight-day fever.

So the only thing I can really remember over the past eight days is making fun of Kylie's latest stuff toy.

A beaver.

Of course I had to buy her a beaver. I mean, really, wouldn't you be disappointed in me if I didn't?

So I'm sure you can think of a slew of comments to add, but we keep telling Kylie not to get too excited by the beaver. She's really showing that beaver who's boss. Look how far she can get her tongue in that beaver.

And my personal favorite, best be careful to love the beaver, Kylie. It may just magically disappear if you do not.

Oh, and I bought her a sweater.

See? I told you all I've been running a fever for eight days.

Oh No, You Boys'll Never Care, No, You Boys Never Care How the Girl Feels

2009-10-15T13:43:00.003-05:00

The other day I picked the boys up from school and noticed something about Griffin across the parkway (wish I could call it a quad, can I call it a quad? calling it a big ass sidewalk seems dumb).

Half his face was missing.

Now, okay, I get it: I'm a drama queen. Duly noted. But! Half of his face was missing. Which resulted me in yelling, in front of 500 bazillion young, impressionable minds, "Griffin! WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?"

"Happened to WHAT, Mom?"

"YOUR FACE."

"Oh, I fell."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Stop freaking out."

"Oh, I'm not freaking out."

"Yes, you are. Quit it."

"BUT! YOUR FACE!"

"I just got it dirty."

"No, you didn't. Did you see the nurse?"

"Yeah, she washed me up."

So, after a call to the doctor's office, a call to the school nurse, a call with the doctor and consulting a shoe salesman (much prettier than Al Bundy, I might add). I decided to take him to the ER for a possible concussion.

Dude, after what happened to Darwin I have become this overprotective mother hen who's all hyper-sensitive to head accidents. I know, I know, that was horrible, awful, unfortunate accident but it create some kind of crazed monster in me of protecting my baby's heads at all costs.

So, yes. I full intended to take Griffin to the ER because! He could have a hematoma! It could pinch off some special nerve and damage him! HE COULD DIE!

And I called Aaron. After all, he needs to know our son is going to die, right? Right.

Well, okay. So Aaron talked me off that ledge. Aaron's idea? Motrin. And a mirror. So Griffin could see I'm not a crazy lady. Then a grown-up drink for me to calm my shit down.

After all...

... he only scratched it on pavement.

So if You're Feeling Low Turn Up Your Radio

2009-10-08T16:40:00.004-05:00

A couple of weeks ago I got a call to participate in a survey. Normally I take full of advantage of having an advertising degree and work in advertising and be all yeah, no, I work in advertising ::click:: whenever I get such a call.

But this time, this time, they mentioned it was about music before I even had an opportunity to be bitchy.

"Music?"

"Yes, music. We're doing a survey for radio stations..."

"I LOVE MUSIC!"

"Um, great. So I have a few questions..."

"OKAY, DID I MENTION I LOVE MUSIC?"

"Yes, ma'am, you did. Does anyone in your household work in the advertising field?"

Gawdamnitdamnitdamnit. Sigh. "Yes, I do - but! It's on the internet! With blogs!"

"It what?"

"Is on the internet. With blogs. Totally unrelated to the music field." Squee!

"Um... hold, please." ::pause:: "Could I ask you a few questions?"

So after I answered the questions and she decided I could totally participate, I was told to expect a call in the next few weeks.

Last night, the call arrived.

"Okay, ma'am. We're going to play a part of a song for you and you need to decide how to rate it. One is unfamiliar, two is hate; three is don't like, four is tired of it; five is neutral, six is like and seven is favorite."

And then it went like this....

easy, favorite

easy again, favorite

duh, favorite

FAVORITE (and where's my goddamn "omg, this kicks ass!" button?)

like (whew, I bet they were starting to think I wasn't paying any damn attention)

FAVORITE (but kinda old. seriously? shouldn't you be asking me about new stuff?)

"Hey Griffin! They're playing Franz Ferdinand!" "Favorite it, Mom! FAVORITE IT!"

Favorite. Like, duh. Totally.

My poor seven button is gonna break at this point.

And then they played Creed. And honestly, I was going to embed it. But then I couldn't do that to my wonderous blog. Creed? Seriously? I punched that two button about a million damn times.

I Wanted to be with You Alone and Talk About the Weather

2009-09-29T10:00:00.009-05:00

Autumn is here and in full swing.

I'm wearing socks, that's how I can tell.

I have lots to do outside, but I'm enjoying the process of just watching. There's plenty of time to do stuff. I just want to watch for now.

We're busy with soccer, homework, making lots and lots of soups and someone traveling his ass off. And a new obsession of baking gluten-free chocolate snack cakes. Nom nom.

I'd Get a Thousand Hugs From Ten Thousand Lightening Bugs as They Tried to Teach Me How to Dance

2009-09-23T11:14:00.005-05:00

On Sunday, after "church" (yes, I know, quotation marks, been going for two years and will forever likely put quotation marks around it, SHUT UP) I went to a friend's house to learn how to can.

Oh yes, you heard me right. I am now prepared for armageddon. Between canning and learning all my mad skillz on FarmVille I'm ready for anything.

So I got together with some friends and made a bazillion pounds of salsa.

I got a wonderful lesson in saving every last drop of juice (the look on my friend's face when I wasted about five drops was astonishing), slicing hot peppers with gloves on don't do shit in regards to making your fingers not burn and that when squeezing a tomato that shit is gonna go everywhere.

My OCD nervous tick came out with rage when I begged to stop for a moment to wipe things down. "But we're not done yet, we'll wipe when we're done." Good Lord, these people tortured me.

We ended up "processing" (look at me! canning terminology!) slightly over 100 pounds of tomatoes into salsa and leftover juice.

And my goddamn fingernails are still stained. Pretty, pretty princess is not happy about that.

Takes Me to My Limits

2009-09-16T16:25:00.002-05:00

The other night I was taking the Kylie on our evening walk and she kept jerking ahead. Someone needs to teach that damn dog how to heel.

After about five minutes of her shit and being tired of it, I decided to run for a bit.

Now's about as good a time as any to mention I don't run. Like, at all. I jiggle enough as-is, running is like Santa's wiggly laugh on steroids and bringing new meaning to "I don't think you're ready for this jelly."

So I decide, just 20 steps. I'll run for 20 steps. That will be enough to make the dog mind.

On step 18 I decided, hey! This is fun! Let's go for another 20!

On step 37 I decided, easy peasy! Let's go some more!

On step 60 I decided, okay, we're good here. Let's walk.

The puppy? She didn't mind. She enjoyed the running. Of course she did, damn dog.

After walking a minute or two, I decided to run another 60 steps. After two more minutes, I did it again. Then rinse, repeat, and do again for 30 minutes.

By then, I was dragging that damn dog.

The next day I was amazingly euphoric. My chest, legs, hips and arms (arms? WTF?) fucking huuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrttttt.

I'm Walking in the Spiderwebs

2009-09-14T15:51:00.004-05:00

Last Friday I was emailing with Michelle and she was telling me about the projects she was working on and what have I been working on lately?

Um.... breathing?

Maybe?

To which she replied maybe I'd feel better (not that I'm depressed, I just feel like I'm under 20 feet of water trying to thread to who-know's-where) if I worked on a little somethin' somethin'.

Little did she know I spent three hours (duuuuuuuuuuuuude) the previous weekend just uncovering my goddamn sewing machine.

After eradicating 500 spiders (how I wish I was embellishing that ), I sat down and fixed a pillowcase.

DON'T YOU LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT, SMALL STEPS PEOPLE.

And then after that, I tore up another pillowcase (with hole! because I have boys! and a dog! and they're rough on things!) (Get it? GET IT? ROUGH ON THINGS! Like ruff? Like a dog barking? Oh, nevermind) and made it bigger and fixed up the torn back.

Yes, I know. You've seen it before. But hot damn, I sewed something.

And, of course, the whole damn house knew I was sewing because I left the basement door open because Aaron was mowing and the boys were watching cartoons and I was screaming at my machine "WHO'S YOUR DADDY NOW?!" and, um, other things when all of the sudden I look up and there's Darwin.

"Mommy?"

"Yeah, Dar?"

"Do you like sewing?"

"Yes, I do. I really do."

"Then why did you call it a dirty little bitch?"

::crickets::

"May I have an apple?"

"ABSOLUTELY."

Now I have all sorts of grandiose ideas like working on my quilt and making a new bag and not feeling like I'm drowning in my life.

Everytime I Think of You I Always Catch My Breath

2009-09-11T16:44:00.004-05:00

Autumn is here. More than a month early. It's really fucking with my brain. A lot.

The trees are turning colors, pinecones are everywhere, I'm sipping hot cocoa and it's early September. In Kansas. This is so very, very wrong. And yet, so totally kick-ass.

I'm listening to Journey, hoping the music will drown out the boys' bickering. C'mon guys, autumn is here!

Would You Always, Maybe Sometimes, Make it Easy

2009-09-02T17:15:00.002-05:00

The weather is beautiful here, gorgeous actually, and I've been walking the dog to get the boys from school daily.

Oh, did you forget we have a dog? We do. I struggle not to kill her every damn day.

Today she pooped in her crate, rolled in it then dug four - FOUR - motherfucking holes in the backyard while she waited for a bath.

I'm gonna plant crocuses in those holes.

Or her body.

I'll let you guess which I choose.

Anyway, so Kylie The Damn Dog loves walking to get the boys from school because she gets a shitload of attention. Everyone wants to pet her. When it's time to go she whimpers, no, wait, that person over there hasn't pet me yet! The little slut.

Today we got down to the school and Darwin's class was already out - normally they're a good five, ten, 86 minutes late after the bell so this was a pleasant surprise.

Until Darwin burst into a glob of sob-y gooey tears.

"You" choke, choke, sob "FORGOT MEeeeeeeeee!" choke, choke, sob, rinse, repeat.

"No, I didn't sweetie."

"YES YOU DIDddddddddddddd." Insert wiping snotty nose down the sleeve of his hoodie.

His teacher (who's so goddamn perfect and chipper you can't decide if you want to punch her or put her in your pocket and carry her around for the rest of your life for personal affirmations) tried to explain to him that they were early but he wasn't having any of that. So he proceeded to have a full complete meltdown in the front of the school, with the goddamn principal watching a few feet away.

I'm pretty good with the boys when they lose their shit, and there's good reason for that: they are stellar shit losers. I don't know where they get that from.

So I talked to him, I picked him up (he's getting fucking heavy), carried him around, tried to calm him down. And then decided to tell him a story.

"Did I ever tell you about that time, I was probably eight or so, when my step-monster (insert her name here), she's not in our lives now, forgot me? She REALLY forgot me."

::shakes his head no::

"Well, I was at the skating rink for a school party. She was suppose to come pick me up after the party. An hour later, after they were already closed, the manager had me come in and call her. So I called her. She said she was on her way. She didn't come for another two hours."

"Two hours?"

"Yes. It was three hours total. And then I got yelled at. Darwin, I know what it feels like to be forgotten, and I promise I will never, ever forget you, Griffin or Daddy. I promise."

::sob, sob:: "Okay. But Mommy?"

"Yes, Darwin?"

"This was way worse than that."

Sigh.