What’s in a name?

September 10, 2010 at 11:42 am | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), It's OK to be confused... I am | Leave a comment
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Oohhh, that double-edged sword of a name.  Cherished and condemned.  A word that lights up your heart and gets of your nerves.

It starts when you’re pregnant.  Someone calls you Mommy.  It made my cheeks burn red and I always felt like an imposter.  I wasn’t doing any… you know, mothering.  I popped a couple of prenatal vitamins here and there.  I made some prenatal appointments.  I wasn’t like wiping poopy butts or losing sleep or checking temperatures analy or what not. 

Then more awkwardness.  My husband and I, chatting away at a baby that can’t speak and has no idea what we’re saying.  He tries to indicate to the child that he needs to look over at me ’cause I’m acting funny or whatever, trying to get him to laugh.  So he says something along the lines of, “Evan!  Look at… umm… her.  Evan, look at Amber!”  I stop and whisper, “Maybe we should call ourselves Mommy and Daddy or something?”  So: “Evan!  Look at… Mommy.”  It was just so WEIRD.  Calling ourselves Mommy and Daddy.  It might be just me… but that was just bizarre.

Then the coveted First Word.  Wayne and I spent months hovering over Evan. 


No!  DADA.  SAY DADA Evan!  DADA! 

Can you say MAMA? 


dada’s a stupid word Evan, SAY MAMA.  MMMMMmmmmmmm.  Aaaaaahhhhh.


Like this.  Only with more volume and enthusiasm.  Alas.  Dada was to win.  Although I say it was easier to pronounce and he didn’t realize what he was saying.  Because I’m an asshole.

In April/Mayish of this year I was out-of-town and away from Dada and Evan for a few weeks.  I was aching to see my son.  Dada was doing his best at sending me photos and videos and trying to get him to “talk” to me on the phone.  Then there was this one video of Evan running back and forth in the kitchen.  Then he runs to the steps and Wayne walks up to him and says, “Say MOMMY” and then there is this sweet little sound, barely more than a whisper, “mammee”.  Holy crap y’all, if I had a car I would have driven cross-country to get back home.  Like right then.  Like, ‘fuck packing’ right then.  As it was, I cried myself to sleep while watching the video again and again.  The next day I called to “talk” to Evan while he was at daycare.  He said Mommy again. 

I’ve been Mommy from then on. 

He’ll look at me and smile when I try to get him to laugh and say MOMMY with a little smirk at the end like, OH MOMMY YOU ARE SO SILLY BUT THAT’S WHY I LOVE YOU. 

When he wants my attention: MOMMY

When I arrive at daycare to pick him up:  MOMMY!! as he runs at me at full force.

When he wants me to stop:  MOMMY!  NooooooooOO!

When he want me to come get him from another room:  MOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEEE

When I’m driving and he wants me to dangerously look back at him: Mommy.  MOMMY.  MOOOOOOOMMEEEEEEE!  So I look back: MOMMY with a smirk like I TOTALLY KNEW I COULD GET YOU TO LOOK BACK HERE.

When Dada puts him in time out: MOMMY. *sniff pout whimper* MOMMY!  MOOOOMMMMEEE! Mommy.  Mommy.  MOMMY.  MOMMY!  MOMMY!  Mommy and etc…

When he does something he’s proud of: MOMMY!

When he wants me to play with him:  MOMMY? with a car or a ball or a book in his out stretched hand. 

When he’s playing evil child and ROWRS and is all: MOMMY with a raspy, scary, bass voice and a children of the corn stare.  Then I’m supposed to hide and pretend I’m scared of the creepy voice, and Evan giggles and MOMMYs again… but really I am creeped out.  *shivers*

When he falls: MOMMY!

When he wants something, anything: MOMMMMMEEE!  Mommy?

When I have to hold him down to do something unpleasant like taking off a band-aid: MOooooooooMmmmmmmMY!!?

When he decides he no longer wants to be held by this other person or I’m trying to put him in another persons arms: MOMMY!

When he wants up:  whine MOMMY whine UP.

When he’s proud of something I’ve done: MOMMY! YAY!  YAY MOMMY!

When we are all sitting down to eat: MOMMY. UP. whine MOMMY!  UP! UUUUUUUP! MOMMY! AWW DUN! MOMMY!

When I’m watching my stories: MOMMY! DODA N BOOTS!

When he’s telling on Dada: MOMMY!?  Dada.

When he’s looking for something: MOMMY?

When I’m reading: Mommy? MOMMY?  Mommmmmmmeeeeeee?

It’s music to my ears sometimes and cridgeworthy sometimes, but it’s my name. 

Evan, don’t wear it out.


Birthday, Doctor, Roseola and LAS VEGAS!

April 14, 2010 at 12:28 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I shouldn't have even posted this, It's OK to be confused... I am, Love and all that other mushy stuff, Me myself I and me again, The Others | Leave a comment
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Here is your last few week’s summaries of stuff that has been going on because for once things have been going on and I haven’t been here to tell you and I’ll try not to ramble on and on and on.  (Damnit.  I fail.)


1st – The first of the month is a hectic time at work for me.  It’s delicious.  I have a big fat list of things to punch out and I love playing the work horse.  Also the first was Evan’s daycare Easter party and I had a dozen little eggs ready to go.  I should have known the night before that we were in trouble.  Evan was fussy and started getting feverish and Wayne called at about 8 or 9pm to tell me he got a flat tire on the way home from fishing.  So while my husband was on the side of the highway changing his tire in the dark, I was struggling with bedtime and an ill toddler.  The next morning, Evan’s fever was at about 103 so I had to call in ‘Kid Sick’ to work.  I miss the 1st of the month and Evan misses his party.  I did get a lot done around the house.  Eventually however, Evan was getting ultra-cuddley.  Like, I would be standing on a step stool and he would climb up just to wrap his arms around my leg… or I would be washing the baseboard and he would lay his head in my lap.  Finally I took him to cuddle on the couch and he fell asleep.  I went back to cleaning and when he woke he was ON FIRE!  Well, not literally kinda, but his temp was over 105!  Panic Mommy in me wanted to run him to the ER or something but Level-headed Mommy saw that he was not acting sick… just a little uncomfortable.  All night we were dosing him and making him sip water and trying to cool him off. 

2nd – He woke up fever-less.  I took him to daycare and went into work.  Mid-day, I got a call that he was getting the fever back.  Bummer.  Wayne’s sister got in town that day from West Virginia and we were really excited to see her.  I picked Evan up and we went to Wayne’s Grandmother’s house.  He still had a fever and he was cranky, but OK.  Right before we went to leave, he started looking really unwell.  I picked him up and as we were saying our good-byes, Evan became a fountain of vomit.  3 times.  Right after a bottle.  All over himself, me and Grandma’s kitchen.  Wayne changed Evan, I changed me and Grandma & Sister cleaned up the kitchen.  I felt awful for everyone. 

3rd – My birthday.  I turned [inaudible] on this day.  Evan’s fever was down and Sister was still in town, so we went shopping and out to lunch.  I spent the day fearing that Evan would become a fountain again.  He did not. 

4th – Easter Sunday.  Evan’s fever was gone and when he woke up we sent him downstairs to inspect his Easter basket. 

He had a little rash on his neck.  I figured it was from the fever or something along those uneducated lines.  By the time we got to Grandma’s house the rash was really kicking in.  It covered his belly and back.  He didn’t seem bothered by it.  He was still cranky.  A cute little sourpuss.



5th – Back to daycare, back to work.  Evan still had the rash but Ms Di was OK with him hanging out.  Mid-day she calls and thinks it may be Roseola.  I call the nurse and she says to come in for an appointment.  Sure enough: Roseola.  Too bad it’s one of those ass backwards viruses that are all contagious but completely UNcontagious once any sort of symptom appears. 

6th – The rash is still hanging out.  I’m stressed because we are leaving in 2 days for Vegas.  As in LAS VEGAS but with child.  My bestest fabulous friend Stephanie is getting married on the 9th and we are all flying out to join her.  Packing, or more-to-the-point OVERpacking.

7th – Evan is being a complete asshole  butthead  boogerhead.  A cute asshole  butthead  boogerhead that I adore and love and is my pweashus! wittle! baybee!… but a temper tantrum throwing, inconsolable baybee as well.  Ms Di says the word EAR and I place the word EAR with AIRPLANE THE NEXT DAY and call the nurse AGAIN.  Nurse says EAR and APPOINTMENT and we head to the Doc’s office AGAIN.  Evan’s mood is improving by then and by the time the doctor walks in the room Evan is ready to great him with a full on smile.  “So, what’s up?” Doc says.  (As I’m editing… HAHAHAHHAHAHAAH!!!!1!! ROTFLMAO!!  What’s Up Doc.  I SLAY me)  “I’m here because my kid is super grumpy” I deadpan.  Evan giggles.  My god.  Sure enough his ears might-just-be-looking-a-little-pink so let’s-get-him-on-antibiotics-right-away because of the airplane situation, you know, TOMORROW.  I spend the evening packing up the last of our stuff as my husband is out buying stuff he needs last-minute, which is good because if he didn’t I would wonder what the aliens did with my REAL husband.  Wayne’s last-minute like that. 

8th – I work until noon and head home to load the car and button up the house.  Then I go to daycare to pick up and pajama-clad Evan.  He gets strapped in and we drive the hour and a half to Wayne’s work.  We pick him up and quickly dash to the airport.  And it’s a damn good thing we did because I would hate not to arrive 3 hours before the flight takes off.  SIGH.  Evan runs UP the terminal and BACK to DADA over and over and over. 

The flight goes OK and I have to switch this over to the

9th – because we are landing in Vegas and it’s now the 9th.  Just to sum that up for you.  We get checked in and get up to the hotel room.  And Mandalay Bay has no milk located in the miles and miles of its sin city acreage and I would say that they shouldn’t… they should have vodka and NOT milk because it’s VEGAS and not DISNEYWORLD but you would be SHOCKED at the amount of children I saw there.  Even that late.  Half of them weren’t even drunk.  Wayne ended up walking across the strip to an AM/PM for a gallon of milk and a cooler.  It worked.  We sleep.  We wake. 

We get together with THE BRIDE.  We pool.  Evan hates the pool.  I get ready.  I taxi to THE BRIDE’s hotel.  She get’s ready.

I capture gorgeous bride.

Stranger takes picture of us.

We wait for non-english-speaking limo driver that is lost.  We hop in the limo and head to the LAS VEGAS sign.  Wayne is there with a passed out Evan who is awesomely so cute in a little white shirt and tie.  We push through the masses and I listen and watch as THE BRIDE becomes THE WIFE.  It was beautiful and I know she’s so happy.  Then we are all back in the limo and smushing and drinking champagne (well, except for me cause its icky and Evan because he was asleep.  I’m kidding, he was awake but I didn’t have his sippy cup.  I kidding, I had a sippy cup with me but I was too lazy to take it out, so no champagne for him.  I’m kidding for fuck’s sake.  I’m not lazy.)  We arrive at dinner and are greeted with MEAT on a SWORD.  I casually grab a diaper and some wipes to go change Evan and find no changing table.  Restaurant is attached to hotel/mall – walking everywhere to find restroom with changing table – back in my seat lots of minutes later.  After the noms on a stick, Wayne and I and Evan head out to catch a cab.  Did you know that you can’t catch a cab on the strip unless it’s at a hotel?  We did and yet we started walking anyway.  OMG.  Ouchy-foooty-ouchy.  Hubby crying about shins in his splints or something.  Evan chillin’ in the stroller accepting hooker cards being handed out by non-english-speaking over aggressors.  We walk from the Planet Hollywood hotel to Mandalay Bay.  OMG. 

10th – By today we make it back to our room.  We pass the hell out.  We eat.  We pool.  Evan still does not like the pool.  We meet up with THE WIFE and THE HUSBAND and THE BEST MAN.  We go eat.  (Did I mention that Wayne has a couple in him?)  Wayne is kinda drunk.  We go to a restaurant that has a GINORMOUS BURGER that they will give you for free if you can eat it in 5 minutes and 20 seconds.  Wayne is down for it.  I am mortified.  Evan’s getting cranky.  I leave early to get Evan situated and eating.  Wayne comes back all WHOA BIG BURGER and falls asleep.  I meet THE WIFE for FROYO and wish her a pleasant flight home.  I go to bed at a decent hour.

11th – Our last day in LAS VEGAS.  We eat and do touristy things. 

We head to the airport.  4 hours early this time to shake things up.  Evan falls asleep and

12th – we are mid-flight home.  Wayne is headed right into work so I am on hold EVER HEAVIER baby during flight and don’t let him kick neighbor and baby is only comfy if you are not.  I turn into ZOMBIE.  We land in Metro Detroit and I drive Wayne to work.  I drive Evan to daycare.  I drive my ass home and sleep.  Sleeeeeep.  Opps.  I mean, Bwaaaaaains.  Eh, I’m so confused.

Things are all sorts of normal now.  Getting prepared for the March for Babies walk.  Then 4 days later flying to Arizona and then 4 days after I get home from that flying to Florida.  On Mother’s Day.  Without mah baybee.  Again.  Something to whine about on another day.

Hey there, thanks for reading the whole way through, you one person you!  I have a unicorn for you.

I’ve been bitch slapped a few times in my life

March 19, 2010 at 11:50 am | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), It's OK to be confused... I am | 1 Comment
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When you have your first baby you are completely overwhelmed.  You can try to block it out until you walk into the Big Box Baby Store and you waddle rather quickly out of the store screaming WTFITSJUSTABABYTOOMUCHSTUFFWaaaaa!!  Then you return the next week and register for two of everything.  After you’ve received two of everything, you go out and purchase just ONE MORE of everything JUST IN CASE.  You know, 20 cute newborn excruciating-to-dress-your-newborn-in-but-you-don’t-know-any-better-YET outfits aren’t enough.  One more  – JUST IN CASE.

Suddenly, whether it’s with warning or without, your baby comes screaming out of your body.  Then it spits up on you… it pees on you… it makes you stick a thermometer up its butt… and then it bitch slaps you in the face.  It’s a bitch slap to get you to face reality – to keep you on your toes – to let you know: Why no, you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.  You were all wrong before.  ALLLWROOOONG.  You find yourself in the Big Box Baby Store again, this time to purchase shit you actually need.

Life with baby starts to get easier (HAHAHAHHAHHALOLOLOLROFLLL!!!1!).  The sleep schedule might regulate itself.  The baby holds its own head up.  You both stop being so damn fragile.  You learn what he needs and what to feed him and when to put him to sleep.  It stops being foreign.  You’re a mom.  You’ve been to that war.  You can now share the secret handshake with all the other moms out there.

So I was in the coasting state.  The only thing I know about toddlers is that they become terrible at something when they turn two.  Then I hear it:

… no more bottles …

… NO, not even the morning bottle …

… potty training …

… crib transition …

FORGET the fact that Evan is a runner and even though it’s SO PRETTY outside and LET’S PLAY IN THE FRONT YARD means certain death because ROADS ARE EASIER TO RUN ON.  So let’s go in the back yard, you say?  I say: NO FENCE.  RUNNING TODDLER.  MAMA DOESN’T RUN. 

FORGET the fact that Evan now prefers to sit on the BACK of the couch.  You know, where your head goes. 

Forget that he loooooorves his spoon and fork and how funny it is when mama freaks out when you stick your fork in your eye (The boy has willpower when he hurts himself and you TOLD HIM SO so he pretends it didn’t hurt when you totally know it did but it still doesn’t offer the opportunity to say I TOLD YOU SO like you were told you got to say all the time in your Mommy Contract).

I’ve got the bottle thing DOWN COLD.  Diapers DO NOT FAZE ME.  I can lay Evan gently down in his crib even though I have to get in there a little bit myself in order to do it. 

But it doesn’t matter.  Those things are BABY things.  The potties and sippy cups and toddler beds I ignored in the Big Box Baby Stores are coming back to laugh at me.  I’ve just been bitch slapped.

So I have a question.  Just how in the name of all that is holy am I supposed to keep my kid in his bed when he’s not in a cage crib?  He can open doors, you see, and drawers!  How does he stay safe?  I can see him getting up in the middle of the night and then me waking up in the morning finding every coat in our closet on the floor with a pile of every sharp, shiny thing in our house on top.  He can also climb is damn changing table.  Speaking of changing tables, do you need one of those when you start using pull-ups?  What about wipes?  Do I pull down the pull-ups and wipe him down as he stands?  I don’t want him to smell all pee-y.  And just what do you do about the poo-poo in the potty when it’s all said in done?  Do you plop in the toilet?  How do you properly sanitize that thing?  Toliet bowl cleaner?  Bucket o’ bleach?  Dishwasher (EWW thought, Shoo!)?  Evan likes to stand in the potty right now.  Do I have poopy footprints in my future?

I was getting comfy in my routine.  I was OK with the little strides Evan would make where Wayne and I would look at him and be all OMG DID YOU SEE THAT OUR KID’S A GENIUS!   

Just how bad are the stares if your kid is sucking down a bottle and wearing a diaper at 10 years old?  I can’t be THAT bad.  I could probably deal with THAT.

Pneumonia, Fails and Puppy Dog Tails.

October 7, 2009 at 11:34 am | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I's for reals, It's OK to be confused... I am, Me myself I and me again, The Others | Leave a comment

Happy Reunion Day!

It’s been so long I feel like a need to throw one.  I’m going to get some punch and balloons.  I’ll be the fat girl in the corner wearing the ill-fitting dress.

So September is over.  Life isn’t shiney… nor is it ever, but I’m not feeling particularly stabby either so that’s good.  Here’s your run down.

The flu wore off and by the weekend I was wanting to get out of the house.  Thinking that some walking would do me good, I took Evan up to the mall.  Half way through I was wheezing.  “Fuck.  I’m REALLY out of shape.” I was thinking.  Monday morning I could scarcely breathe and I left work for bed.  By the time I had to pick Evan up from daycare I was in really bad shape.  I almost called Carrie to ask her if I could drop Evan off with her so I could visit the ER.  However, I didn’t know if I could even do that so I toughed it out.  Later Evan was having a hard time getting to sleep because the mommy-machine wasn’t singing to him.  He’d lay his head down on my chest and then pop it up and give me the WTF face, “Sing Rocking Lady!”  Oh well.  Pneumonia goes away and I hope it never comes back.

This past weekend I took Evan to the Renaissance Festival.  He was too adorable.  His Grandma bought him a Jester’s costume and he got his face painted.  He also discovered that HE LOVES PICKLES.  (Must find more ginormous pickles)

Picture 2744

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Evan’s grandma later springs for a Psychic reading.  I’m afraid I didn’t hear all that she said.  Something about writing a book.  Being more confident (Read here and here about how cold readings are done). 

Then she flipped over a card and looked at Evan.  “Is he your only?”


“You’re going to have one or two more”

“Ah. No.  My husband doesn’t want another and I got sick with him.”

“Oh.  OK.”

Then she flips over another card.  “Are you sure?”


Then she flips over another and another.  “BE VERY VERY CAREFUL!  If you are not planning for another, be careful of an opps baby.  The last 4 cards have been fertility cards.”

I ooze my need for fertility, people.

In related news, the Psychic’s son was named Evan and she got sick with him too.  And Evan’s going to be a doctor.  Obviously, he oozes smart.  I could have told you that.

And the McNamara household would not be the same without some sickness going on.  My 11 year old dog, Angel is sick.  She has a condition called Addison’s Disease and is currently in a Addisonian crisis.  It used to be Cushing’s Syndrome, but the vet overmedicated her for that and she got the opposite, Addison’s.  Every 23 days we have to take her into the vet for a steroid shot and every night she gets a steroid pill.  Last year when I had Evan her shot went by the way side (she was due about the time I had Evan and that info was written on my calendar at work).  She got really sick after about a month without her shot.  She had to stay at the vets overnight for fluids.  This time she was about 2 weeks late (Flu, pneumonia, and a husband working nights).  She also hasn’t been to the groomers and is WAY overdue.  Well, she got sick fast.  She should have some leeway and she got none.  She’s at the vet getting fluids now and she’s still not doing well. 

 [if ((DOG = SICK) and (ME <> FULL PAYCHECK)) then “Extremely Screwed” else “Can pay bills only”]

Our other dog Homee is extremely pissed at the situation and showing it by pissING all up in the house.  This combined with money and poor little sick dog never seeing fair hubby is very stressful.  Throw in the fact that I had to block my Visa because some dumbass stole my number and used it online?  Let’s just say I am well within the right to double the Ativan.  AND I HAVE.

September (part hopefully-the-only-one)

September 18, 2009 at 12:39 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I shouldn't have even posted this, It's OK to be confused... I am, Me myself I and me again, The Others | 1 Comment

I would like to start today’s blog post with a big EFF YOU to September.  You’ve really lived up to expectations, September.  I’m not close to death like last year but YOU STILL HAVE A FEW WEEKS.  Try not to be a douche, September and chill out. 

Anywho.  It’s been a while, I know.  They say with depression you don’t want to do the things that you normally like to do.  So that means I love you Blog!  Except today apparently.

Yes, the depression has rolled in with September as it normally does and I do believe I’m handling it pretty well.  Although it’s hard to tell what with family drama and my son’s first birthday and the flu and Evan being sick and my Grandmother’s cancer diagnosis, it could be justifiable white flag waving – closet hiding – exhausting sadness.  Humm.  Let’s just say it’s probably a combination of both. 

I’m not standing in a gray room longingly staring out a window as my dog expectantly holds a leash in his mouth looking all disappointed with his puppy dog eyes.  Depression’s hard to make pretty for a commercial, y’all.   It’s just things inside.  It’s stress and fatigue.  It’s hopelessness in the face of hope.  It’s jumping half heartedly to reach your optimism before you say, “Fuck it” and sit.  It’s disorginization while you’re trying to think of positive steps and you forget your footing. It’s this paragraph: Depression just doesn’t make sense.

September started with planning a first birthday party for Evan.  Joyful, right?  Noooo, stressful!  Who is invited?  Who’s not speaking to whom?  Who the hell did I invite?  Who did I send an invitation to?  Who was a throwing a birthday party for?  Oh yeah, right.  This little light of mine:





Seeing Evan is like taking a Xanax.  You’re all: WTF was I all worried about?  Everything’s OOooooo Kkaaaaaaaaaeeeeee.  (You should only take Xanax with a prescription which I have.  Or if you really trust your drug dealer.)  Just knowing I’m about to see him lights up the dark.  I’d sell bits of Evan to all the sad people out there but he’s mine and I wuv him and I hear there could be a legal issue if you dismember children and do business without a tax id. 

So then I got a call from my Grandma.  When she was in the hospital she said they thought they saw something in one of her kidneys.  She said they were going to do a scan.  They scanned, they did a biopsy.  She said it was cancer.  She forgets the name.  (This is one of the major suckages about living on the other side of the country).  Then one day I say something about kidney cancer.  She says that her sister had that.  I say, well maybe it’s hereditary.  She says, it’s not in my kidneys.  I’m all, WHA?  Nooooo, it’s in her lungs because of course it’s in her lungs and she told me it was in her lungs and she’s a smoker with COPD and no, she’s still smoking and yes, she can’t breathe and noooo, she’s not going to do this or that because that’s stupid and I need to clean my house and stress out my granddaughter.  I know people die.  I’m OK with that.  She says she’s ready.  What kills me is my need for her to pass with dignity and without any pain.  I hear it doesn’t always work that way.  But that’s my problem and my job is to be strong for her so SHUT UP ME!

Aaaaand then I got the flu.  Swine or Influenza… I don’t know.  He shoved q-tips so far up my nose he could have collected brain and said, “Feel betta, bye now!”  So I went and spent the week watching my one year old while fighting off the flu.  Then of course HE got sick.  Took him to the doctor so he could tell me it WASN’T the flu.  And staying home from work for ANOTHER day to soothe my fevered, sleepy child with Motrin and some good old fashioned naps in the rocking chair.  He had lots and lots of naps.  The good ones where you drool.  Those are the best.

There you have it.  September still has some time to kick my ass a bit more and I’m sure she will.  But October brings fall and apples and pumpkins and leaves and cider.  And hopefully some good times.

Photo Phriday: Drunk Baby and BRAND NEW LAYOUT! W00t!

July 31, 2009 at 11:16 am | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I have unleashed the crazy, It's OK to be confused... I am, Photo Phriday | Leave a comment

Do you see that there?  Look around… different, yes? 

Welcome Ladies and Gentlemen and Whatever-you-are-over-there to my BRAND. NEW. LAYOUT!

*glitter showers* 

*thunderous applause* 

*giant searchlights*


OK then, moving on.


  • Does your baby drink more than 3 bottles a night?
  • Does your baby have an increased tolerance to formula or your boob? 
  • Does your baby try to suck on other people’s boobs when you’re not watching?
  • Has your baby lost interest in that place he shouldn’t be going into or the box his toys came in or your remote?
  • Does your baby forget that you told him “NO” or when nap time should be or does he have other “black outs”?

If you’ve answered YES to 2 or more of the questions above, your baby may have a drinking problem.  It may be time to provide more solid foods such as diced cooked carrots, fresh blueberries or even ketchup if you’re feeling lazy.  If those are not an option, try to refrain from vacuuming your home and your baby will find nutrients on your floors.  DON’T LET THIS HAPPEN TO YOUR BABY!

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TISK.  Kids these days.

But do Bitches really get Stitches?

July 22, 2009 at 9:31 am | Posted in I have unleashed the crazy, I shouldn't have even posted this, It's OK to be confused... I am | Leave a comment

So yesterday I get an email from Mr. Northwestbballkiller via my Flickr account: 

Hi my name is xxxxx first off. Let me kind of explain what I am wanting and what for it is kind of a long story lol. ok I think of crazy things while at work being bored out of my mind and i thought of a funny t-shirt design it will say bitches get stitches but…. i wanted a dog with stitches which is were you come in lol. i got off work and searched and came across this picture www.flickr.com/photos/ambersphoto/447163331i would like to make a t shirt with this image. I won’t be making money off of it or anything just kind of think it as a hilarious idea I wan’t to go through with. I’m sure i could just use the picture and no one would no but im not that kind of person i suppose so all im asking is permission to use the image. I will even send you a shirt when its finished.

Yes, that really just happened.  Try to contain your need to proof that mess glee.

Mr. Northwestbbalkiller, a daydreamer and stuck in a dead-end job that does nothing to stimulate his vast imagination, needs this photo to achieve his goals/aspirations/dreams:


This is a photo of my bitch with some stitches.  Or rather my then nine year old dog, Angel, recovering from a triple mastectomy and a hysterectomy.  She had breast cancer* and got spayed. 

(PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Get your girl dogs spayed people.  Not only does it control the pet population a la Bob Barker, but it also lowers the chance of breast cancer.  Consider your loved one saved.  You’re welcome.)

Back to Mr. Northwestbballkiller.  I’m damn tempted to tell him to DO IT!  ANGEL LURVES ATTENTION!  And bitches = girl dogs… GET IT?  Shit, that’s clever right there. 

Although, I’m not entirely sure that bitches do get stitches.  I’m pretty sure I’m a bitch and I have successfully AVOIDED stitches even counting the 2 surgeries I’ve had.  I have been glued and stapled… Bitches get Glued & Stapled?  Doesn’t really have the same ring.

So what ‘cha think?  Let Mr. Northwestbballkiller use the photo since he so kindly asked?  If so, should I insist on receiving one?  Maybe Angel sized?

Debbie did Dallas and I Just Sorta got Screwed There.

May 19, 2009 at 7:14 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I shouldn't have even posted this, It's OK to be confused... I am, Me myself I and me again | Leave a comment

I know.  I’ve been back from Texas since Friday and I haven’t updated you.  I can tell you’ve been here, awaiting the site to refresh, looking for a new title at the top of the screen… and you’ve been disappointed.  Until now.  Now, my pretties, I give you an update.  The one you’ve been waiting for. 


Ok then.  Moving on.

Thursday morning I woke up excited because the two breakouts that I needed to attend were going to be very informative and NOM! knowledge!  (I so wish I was kidding about my lameness) and then I was flying back home!  I tried to delay, but ended up heading to the airport at around 1:30pm for a 5:05pm takeoff.  I hopped on a shuttle and happily chatted with my fellow passengers.  Then one of those sons of bitches burst my balloon and that was the start of the deflation that was my day. 

“Are you connecting by way of Dallas ?” 

Me: “Why yes.  Yes I am.”

“Bummer… all the flights to Dallas are delayed.”

Wha?  I walk into the awful, unairconditioned, musty little “in construction” side of the airport to see American Airlines signs, kinda sorta… you know, if I stand on my tippy toes to see over the heads of the eleventy thousand people standing in line.  I stand slack-jawed at the monitor to see that my flight is delayed 2 hours.  So very happy I was early.  I then call Wayne to let him know (and for him to find someone to replace him for work the next day) and call Stephanie to loudly proclaim my dismay as other would-be passengers didn’t even try to ignore my conversation but instead nodded their heads in agreement.  At this point I’m in the giddy/stressed stage.  The adrenaline is keeping me stable (you know, in a crazy sort of way).

Lots and lots of tens of minutes later, I get to the counter.  “Help me get to my son!” I joke in all seriousness at the lady.  She “aww”s and tells me she wants $15 to check my baggage (fees to check bags!  and she didn’t even take my bag, I had to deliver it to the evil scanners myself!) and OF COURSE my connecting flight in Dallas will be delayed too so I’ll TOTALLY MAKE THE FLIGHT and DON’T WORRY and oh yeah, here is a number to call if you miss your flight which is THE LAST FLIGHT OUT OF DALLAS FOR THE NIGHT that you will totally make.  I roll my bag over to the scanning machines, think twice, and dig out my wireless card and power cord.  But WiFi in this dump?  I girl can dream.

So I wander over to my gate and I’m about 5 hours early.  I head back to the big hallway that’s lined with business travelers in their suits, sitting on the tile floor next to the coveted power outlets tapping away at their laptops and talking to no one unless you look closely and see that they have something jammed in their ear.  So they are only slightly insane.  I see an open outlet and settle my ass next to it.  I hold my breath and turn on my laptop… double click on Internet Explorer… and SUCCESS!  Terms and conditions!  I scroll the page for fees… NO FEES!  Whoop!  So for a few hours I click through the interweb-super-dirt-road and chat with the other bitching travelers about delays and sore asses.  At this point I’m at the tired/whatever stage.  I’d casually flip off the world if it didn’t take so much effort.

Later, I settled myself in at the gate and read.  (Dooce’s “It Sucked and then I Cried”)  I LOLed IRL.  At the last minute, I opened the laptop to check my connecting flight in Dallas that was totally going to be delayed too and it TOTALLY WAS NOT DELAYED!  As a matter of fact it was taking off 3 minutes after the flight I was about to board.  OMFGWTFFML!!  As I’m walking (OK, standing) in the little rickety thing that connects the airport with the plane the other passengers and I are calmly discussing (OK, bitching and flitting around like birds) our connecting flights in Dallas .  Super Business Woman in front of me takes out her IPhone with a gazillion apps on it and asks me my flight number.  SBW informs me that it’s about to take off for Detroit .  At like any moment.  At this point I’m at peace with my sentence.  I’m in the zen, I know I’m fucked what can you do haha, frame of mind.  La dee da.

That frame of mind continues throughout the 45 minute flight as the plane-wide bitch fest continues its session.  I just read my book and occasionally picked up my head to say, “Yes I am delayed.  Detroit .  Last flight of the night.  I know, right?  What can you do?  Just want to get home to my boy.  8 months.  I’ve been gone for 5 days.  I left him on Mother’s Day.  Not really anything I can do.”  I smiled politely and went back to my book, proud of myself for my zen-like qualities in the face of doom.  Glowed in the envy of my stressed out co-plane-ers.

We land and everyone shmushes for the door.  I take my time, politely let people pass and debark.  There is a chick at the gate letting everyone know about their connections.  I casually strut over to her and say, “I was supposed to be on the 2204 to Detroit .  Gone, right?”  She’s says, “Oh yeah… it’s gone and it was the last flight to… hold on.  No wait… there is one more flight to Detroit and you might be able to make it if you hurry… C17… go, run!”  BABY!  Oh!  BABY tonight!  C17!  Ahhh!  I jiggled my discombobulated ass down the A terminal to the train, across 2 terminals, on said train that didn’t go fast enough, down the C terminal to THE GATE!  There it is!  There are people there!  And a line.  I stand in line like I’m a 9 month pregnant lady waiting to pee.  I think I was mumbling to myself, ‘Baby… go home… I see my baby?  I fly?  Can I?  I’ll sit on the floor… baby… I want my baby’.  Then, eons later, I hear, “Sorry, I only have one stand by seat and… you were first, sir.”  And then some bald dude that looked like he might kill babies for a living steps in front of me like he was the shit when I JUST WANTED TO GET HOME TO MY BABY!  I think people asked me what was going on and if she said there were any more seats or more flights?  And I think I said, ‘Baby… I wanna go home… I have a baby.  Only people that kill babies get on this flight.’  And I might have seen the looks of horror from them if I wasn’t already dragging my feet back towards the A terminal to find my luggage and a place to sleep.  At this point I’m starting to feel a bit depressed.  Chick got my hopes up and the baby killer shot them down.  I’m running/walking/sulking around the Dallas airport with a heavy-ass backpack weighing me down along with my dead hope and my totally not melodramatic thoughts.

Scene 20: Dallas/Fort Worth Airport. Terminal A.  I’m about to cross into the No Return Zone.  The baggage pick up where you can’t go back into the airport and contaminate it with guns and bombs and 4 ounce containers of shampoo.  I stand at the baggage-go-round as I notice that there are about 3 other people in here and two of them are baggage handlers.  The other one’s luggage spits out.  And that’s all.  As in I-look-like-in-idiot-standing-here-waiting-for-my-luggage-because-DUH-I’m-shit-out-of-luck.  I try my best little girl lost routine on the baggage lady.  She says I can try to beg for my bag at the ticket counter, but they are about to close.  She said, “You really got to stay on them.  If you really, really need your bag, you have to beg and pester them until they get it.  If you still don’t get it by 10pm, you’re out of luck.”  As thoughts of unbrushed teeth and dirty underwear sprung to mind, I dragged my sorry ass out into the night.  The hot, humid, assy, Dallas night.  At this point, I’m pretty much done.  I’m holding back the tears but everyone that passes me probably thinks that my puppy just died.  Including my neighbor on the flight to Dallas who stops me and asks me what ended up happening.  As if the lost, homeless, sweaty look on my face didn’t explain it all.

I do a few loops around the outside walkway and back into the baggage pickup and back out again before I found the shuttle to the another terminal that houses one of two hotels on the airport property.  I stare at the floor of the shuttle and do the slow-mo eye blinks and consider whether or not I could stand washing my underwear and letting them dry as I slept commando in a rented hotel room bed.  No, I could not.  Finally, I walk up to the hotel clerk that looks at me like he should swat me with a fly swatter and I beg for a room.  He calmly informs me that the hotel is full.  BULLSHIT!  No!  I think about beginning an argument as my balloon finally gets limp and I hang my head down and cry.  He hands me a slip of paper with the other hotel’s number on it and tells me to try them.  How about a tissue, prick?  Or how about you give me some service and call them for me because it’s a fucking Hyatt as well and where is your SERVICE and COMPASSION and I WANT MY BABY and WTF am I supposed to do now?  I sit in his precious lobby crying on my cell listening to it ring.  And ring.  AND THEN BEEP BECAUSE MY PHONE IS DYING OF COURSE BECAUSE GUESS WHERE MY PHONE CHARGER IS?  That’s right, with my clean underwear.  I go back to drip on the dude and he lets me use a house phone.  It also rings for a while and finally someone answers and says why yes… we have a room for you… I’ll send a shuttle to pick you up.  So then I cry some more.

I go back into the night and realize that I am not at all thinking about personal safety because here I am sitting outside with my only belongings strapped to my back at night for 20 minutes.  Oh well.  I get on YET ANOTHER bumpy shuttle and bounce my way BACK to Terminal C.  I make a bee-line for the front desk like they have crack for me there and say, “A room, you said I could have a room.  I need a room.  Do you have a store with underwear?”  And her smile falters and she says, “A room?  I think we’re booked.”  Thankfully someone told her she talked to me and that she could give me a handicapped room before I leaped over the desk with my last bit of strength and asked her if she wanted to eat her keyboard or feel it rammed up her ass.  Luckily I stayed sweet and calm and out of jail.  I limped to my handicapped room and went back out telling God that he made a funny out of my night and HAHA I can take a joke, but PLEASE let there be some sort of store in here that’s open or you’re going to see one of your sheep lose it’s wool and then there it was: a store.  With it’s door closed… and an OPEN sign.  And I tried the door and it was OPEN!  And it had T-SHIRTS and WATER and TOILETRIES and UNDERWEAR!!!  Fresh, clean, $15 underwear.  I took my $50 purchase back to my room and slept.  I this point I’m feeling UH-GAH-Waa-tuble-okjahlgkjarhbkemroiqrvgned.  Because I don’t think I could have spoke English just then.

Friday morning and I’m in a shuttle to the airport.  I get through security and, Look! A Starbucks!  I get a Tall Caramel Latte with Whipped Cream and go to my gate.  I board the plane and it’s not even full.  There’s a seat between me and the lady in the aisle seat.  Don’t you just love it when there’s a seat there?  Then the moment of truth.  The baggage carousel.  GOD ONLY KNOWS where my luggage is.  And of course, because DUH!  It’s not spitting out.  I look at the American Airlines woman with desperation that could weigh down a camel and she invites me back to look for it.  And… THERE IT IS!  IT’S THERE!  THE PLACE WHERE I’M AT NOW.  THE PLACE THAT WHICH I AM IN!  RIGHT THERE!  I do a leap hug at the lady and run to my car.  As I’m paying for the parking that was basically about the same cost as my flight, Stephanie calls and asks if I’m alive or on the planet and I say, “BABY!  IN THE STATE!  THE STATE THAT HAS MY BABY!  Baby!  BABY!” I don’t really remember the drive home, just alternating thoughts between, “BABY!” and “Should I try to go 95 MPH?”  Before I know it, I’m squealing into the driveway, barely remembering my keys before having my husband and BABY meet me at the door.  At this point I am complete.


Away from my Son. Day 4: Desperation setting in.

May 13, 2009 at 10:05 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), I have unleashed the crazy, I shouldn't have even posted this, It's OK to be confused... I am, Me myself I and me again | Leave a comment

So here I am in Texas looking out the 22 floor of some hotel in San Antonio.  I cried after I left little Evan.  He turned around for one last glace as I pulled out of the driveway.  The flights were uneventful and on time.  The hotel is like a place I would love to live in in the life before my son.  (BTW: The only time I forced Evan out of my head was during sessions… otherwise he’s always right there, evaning me.)  Evanyway, I wish I had this thrilling story to share with you but I am increadibly boring.  I don’t drink.  I go to sleep early.  Sunday, I went to see Star Trek and there were 2 babies in the theater.  So I was trying to see them as much as I was trying to see the movie.  Otherwise I went on the Riverwalk twice and neither were to shoot photographs with the camera I lugged to Texas with me.  I’m such a loser.  A  boring loser.

Anyway, I’ll be on an airevane tomorrow starting at 5pm.  TX time.  I should land in Michigan a few minutes before midnight.  Then clear the damn roads!  I will be flyin’ home to my sleepy baby.  He’ll be sleeping on his Mommy’s chest in the glider all night long.  I cannot wait!

Anywho… this is nothing but a bed-time, Ambien-riddled post.  Sorry about that.  I hope your bwain is OK.

Corrupting and Ditching the Baby Weight. All in One Week. Ask me how.

May 5, 2009 at 2:22 pm | Posted in Baby Weight (Evan), It's OK to be confused... I am, Love and all that other mushy stuff, Me myself I and me again | 4 Comments

(Also, Hugh Jackman’s ass.  But more on that later.)

I’ve been corrupting my poor son.  I dress him up; I take him shopping.  I show him off like he’s a doll.  Hubby lets him gnaw on a XBOX controller.  Secretly, I think he like shopping more.

Evan and I packed up and headed northwards to a Mom 2 Mom sale.  He spent the time hanging off of me in a “crotch dangler” (that’s what moms who don’t like Baby Bjorn’s call them) and making very successful attempts at grabbing other people’s hair / clothes on the tables / other babies in Baby Bjorn’s.  After we were done walking around I took him for a quick change in the back of the car and a bit of bottle in the front seat.  Then we did more shopping.  He was all for it.  I swear.


The next day I snuck off and went to see a movie.  I’m a going-to-the-movies freak.  There was I time when I went to a movie almost every Saturday morning, by myself, and sitting my butt down in the middle of the third row.  This Sunday I saw Wolverine.  It was awesome because here is my inner monologue:

Ohhh… ‘sploshuns!  Awesome.

Ha ha ha.  Ryan’s so funny.  Awesome.

Bang bang!  Slice slice!  Awesome.

Hugh Jackman’s ass!  Awesome.

Is that…? Ohh!  I LOVE him!  Awesome.

Yup, it was a big ball of awesome for me, ’cause I like me some ‘sploshuns and one-liners and impossible fight scenes.  After the awesomeness I went and bought Evan’s convertible car seat.  “sniff”  He’s getting so big!  And damn that car seat’s huge too ’cause it’s box is taking up my entire living room right now.

So, I wish I could say that I when I say, ‘ditching the Baby Weight’, I was talking about seeing a movie Sunday.  I was not.  I’m leaving my pwehshus wittle boy Sunday.  For 5 ENTIRE days.  I leave ON MOTHER’S DAY.  MY FIRST MOTHER’S DAY.  AND YOU KNOW THIS IS IMPORTANT BECAUSE I’M USING ALL CAPS!  I’ll be in Texas, learning my brain off, with tissues in my pocket and pictures of Evan taped to my binder.  I’m a terrible mother for leaving my infant for 5 days.  I know it and now you know it.  Don’t you worry, I’m leaving ketchup formula and the remote a cold teether for him… he should be fine.  (Oh!  And his daddy.  His daddy will be around too.)

(And cold teether reference?  Because he’s officially teething… 2 on the bottom.  EEEK!!!)

This thing’s gonna be 23 by the time I get back.  This is gonna be hard.  (Oh!  And his daddy.  I’m going to miss his daddy too.)


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