Alex Figures Out Who Santa Is

In the immortal words of Buddy the Elf:  "SANTA! OH MY GOD! SANTA'S COMING! I KNOW HIM! I KNOW HIM!" ~ Elf (2003)

Idiots

Every day I am reminded that we are surrounded by idiots.  Our lovely neighbors are a prime example and a brief review of just about any article's comment section on the Internet is another example of the stupidity I face on a daily basis.  It bothers me that Americans are required to attend school until we are 17 years old yet nobody seems to actually be learning anything (which is a whole other blog post for another day...that will probably occur around election time when I'm at my wits end with all of the ignorance that abounds...this will eventually lead into a blog post about stupid people breeding).

Anyway, there must be something about the area where we live that attracts the dumbest of the dumb.  While we live in a pretty nice neighborhood I suppose idiocy knows no boundaries.  At 2:30 in the morning Marcus and I were awakened (awoken?) by a young man practicing his skateboarding moves in the parking lot directly across the street from us.  Why, do you ask, was someone skateboarding at 2:30 in the morning in the freezing cold?  Well, I would respond, he is a classic case of a flippin' idiot.  A skateboard-flippin' idiot to be exact.  This normally wouldn't bother me at all except, well, it was 2:30 in the morning.  Maybe part of me is jealous that this young man apparently has no other responsibility except to skateboard in the middle of the night.  Or, maybe I'm just pissed off because he woke me up from a deep slumber.  It's probably the latter because, who am I kidding?  Even without the responsibilities that I have today you would be hard pressed to find me skateboarding at 2:30 in the morning...or any time of day for that matter.

The more I think about it, there must be something with that particular parking lot that attracts idiots.  Again, in the mornings, around 6:00 or so, the construction crews for the university across the street start to show up.  One morning this week they decided it would be fun to have a car horn fight.  Yay.  Please, continue honking your car horn at each other for approximately 5 minutes and think it's funny.  You know what else is funny?  A brick through your windshield.

So, what does this say about me?  Well, for one, I'm clearly not a morning person.  Two, I have zero tolerance for those who exhibit absolutely no common sense or regard for anyone but themselves.  Three, I think it's safe to say that by the time I reach the age of 70 (God willing) I'll probably be living in the mountains with a bunch of goats.

Alex vs. The Plant

Remember the time I said that Alex had done something bad and that, despite her short 9 months of life, knew she had done something bad?  Well, this weekend she did something even worse, though in her defense it was Marcus's and my fault that it happened at all.

This weekend we kicked off our fun, old-fashioned, family Christmas (Christmas Vacation, anybody?!) by driving out into the country and chopping down our own Christmas tree (we remembered the saw in case anyone was worried).  When we got it home Alex was hell bent on not taking a nap so I went ahead and started dragging the Christmas decorations up, from the basement figuring this would be fun for her and me.  At the same time Marcus was busy doing whatever it is Marcus does on a semi-lazy Saturday afternoon and so, between the two of us, we were preoccupied doing really important stuff (Read: maybe neglecting our child).

I have, or should I say "had," a basil plant on a plant stand in the living room in front of a window that gets the most sun.  I can't tell you how many times I've brought this plant back from the brink.  It's at least 3 years old and has maybe 1 more life left in it.  Once Alex started crawling I knew it would have to go elsewhere but that elsewhere is Marcus's office and I don't like to leave the curtains open in that room during the night because of all of the electronics in there.  In addition it's virtually impossible for me to remember to open those particular curtains in the morning, allowing the plant to get sunlight and thus the potential for nearly killing the plant increases.  So, long story short, the plant was in the living room despite the fact I knew that was a bad idea.

Now, Alex is crawling and most recently has mastered the fine art of pulling herself up.  Both of these activities should  have indicated to me that now was the time to move the plant out of the living room but "lazy" is my middle name and I just never got around to moving it.  It would have been in my better interests to listen to my inner voices (this one time, anyway) and move the darn thing because this weekend Alex set out to murder my plant for the last time.

As I was trimming the tree and Marcus was doing Marcus stuff we both watched as Alex crawled to the basil plant.  We even watched as she grabbed the top rung of the plant stand and both thought to ourselves, "That's probably not a good idea," only to turn around and go back to the really important things we were doing.  Within a matter of seconds the inevitable crash of a potted plant and child reverberated through the house.   Marcus and I looked over to see Alex, in a daze under the plant stand (which is very light before anyone gets all CPS on us), and the pot broken into multiple pieces with my beloved, ancient basil plant completely uprooted.

So, you may wonder, what lessons did we take home from this experience?  1.  If Alex looks like she’s about to get in trouble, she is, no question about it.  2.  Basil plants are surprisingly resilient.  3.  Terracotta pots are not resilient.  4.  No matter what, I cannot get mad at this face…at least not yet.

It was an ugly "plant" anyway.  (Seriously, Christmas Vacation, anyone?!  C'mon!)

Diary Entry # 3

Day Too Many To Count:  Miracles of miracles!  I feel the end is nigh.  For nine whole months Alexandra the Great has continued her diminutive supremacy over us.  While her demands have grown louder her grip on us has loosened.  For 7 straight days the Great One has slept through the entire night.   While she has awoken at various odd times we, her servants, have fought over who will meet her needs and in the end she has fallen back asleep with nary a peep.  Is it too early to rejoice in our new found ability to sleep?  That may be, but for now we will take it and so help us God, we will look back on this week of solid sleep with fondness and as a time of great peace in our land.

Update 12/9/2011:  It was a little too early to rejoice.  We got 10 straight days of uninterrupted sleep and now we're back to waking up in the middle of the night.  Oh, well.  It was fun while it lasted.  

The Moment Alex Did Something Bad

The other morning I was busy getting ready to leave for work and left Alex to her own devices, scooting around the kitchen/living room area in her walker.  Every few seconds or so I would glance over to see what she was up to and for the most part she was harassing the cat with her incessant stares and vocalizations.  Then, things got quiet.  Despite my meager 9 months of parenthood, I'm no dummy.  I know when things get quiet children are up to something and surprisingly, even at 9 months, no noise means no good.  So, I walked over to investigate as she was no longer in my line of vision and as I came around the corner I saw both Alex and the cat (partners in crime already) playing with the begonia plant I had brought in from the cold.  "Alex!" I said and immediately her shoulders shot to her ears in a "Oh, crap" move, she dropped the stem and flowers from her hands and turned to look at me, grinning from ear to ear with her one, little dimple making me forget altogether what the problem was in the first place.  This leads me to one, important insight about myself:  I'm a sucker for cute blondes with dimples.

"What?  This plant?  I wasn't touching this plant I was just looking at it."

Happy Out of the Womb Birthday!

Someone pointed out to us the other day that Alex has now offically been out of the womb longer than she was in.  It was an interesting insight that I had never considered before.  So, happy 8.5 months of out of the womb life, Alexandra!  You wanted to be a part of this world sooner than anticipated and I think it's pretty obvious why...you want to take over the world.

And She's Off!

Throughout the entire house we have wood floors which, depending on Alex's mode of transportation at the time, is a good thing or a bad thing. It's a bad thing because crawling on wood floors is a bit harder to do than crawling on carpet, especially when wearing long pants and especially when crawling is a new activity you're just learning. Poor Alex get's so tuckered out after only an inch or two of moving forward that she takes frequent breaks, striking the upward-facing dog pose momentarily before resuming her trek. She also frequently loses all patience (a trait she may or may not have inherited from her mamma) with her slow progression and, after a bit of time has passed and she hasn't reached her goal, the robot-like crawls are accompanied with tears.

On the other hand, wood floors are perfect for a walker. Almost from day one we were able to calm Alex down just by standing her up-right and as a result her legs are strong and she seems to be ready to walk at any moment. Marcus couldn’t wait to buy a walker for her once it became clear she was ready to get going whatever that criteria was…I can’t remember. It’s been a long two months but I digress.

Anyway, after we got the walker and she grew accustomed to it she was only able to motor backwards; the forward motion escaped her. I'll never forget when Norma was visiting and we were sitting on one side of the table looking at family photos. Alex was in her walker on the other side of the table occupying her time by trying to chew on the kitchen table leg (a feat which will undoubtedly one day result in her toppling over, onto the floor). Something we did must have caught her attention and I looked over to my left as a backward moving, blonde head appeared, neck straining to see us from around the corner of the table, with a look on her face that said "Hey. Hey, guys. What's so funny?"

It took Alex about a month to really get the hang of moving around in her walker. Now she can go anywhere and any which way: Forwards, backwards, and sideways. Her little legs move so quickly and despite her bubble being, literally, a foot in diameter she can maneuver around quite skillfully. With this new found freedom she’s discovered numerous things to entertain her around the house: the dishtowel is a favorite object of her desire as is the cat. It’s so much fun to see her inspecting her surroundings and at times attempting to mouth something that’s juusssttt out of reach. Truly, though, and this will sound sadistic, my favorite is when she's really upset and the tears are flowing. As she cries her little legs move faster than ever in a fit of fury and they propel her across the room. The best part is that her eyes are shut tight the whole time so she really has no clue where she’s going (though it’s debatable if she would know with her eyes open).

Most of all though, my favorite part of Alex’s walker skills is seeing her in her walker gummy grin and all, so proud of her ability to move around the kitchen like mommy and daddy. She holds her head up high and lifts those knees up in a very impressive high-step all the while watching us to be sure that we are watching her.

A Night of Tricks and Treats

I’m sure some of you may be wondering how Alex’s first Halloween went. In a nutshell it went fantastically.

Out of a nutshell we were over prepared yet under prepared all at the same time. This year Marcus decided we would be “that” house, the house that hands out full-sized candy bars. Last year we had maybe a dozen kids show up so, with a BJ’s membership, purchasing a dozen or so large candy bars wasn’t too big of an expense. Marcus also thought it would be a good idea to buy a bag of miniature sized candy bars “just in case.” Despite the fact I knew it was overkill I acquiesced because let’s be honest, it’s not every day Marcus willingly buys extraneous items. With that being said I’ll give you two guesses what we have sitting in a giant, orange bowl a week and half later. If you guessed almost an entire bag of miniature candy bars and roughly one dozen, full-sized candy bars you would be correct.

The area we were under prepared for was in the decision to dress-up Alex or not. In the back of my mind I knew I would regret it if we didn't dress her up. However, and here’s where I channeled Marcus, I just could not fathom paying almost $20 for a costume she would wear once and for a grand total of one hour. As my efforts to be cheap persisted the costumes continued to sell until it became clear we were not purchasing a Halloween costume. Finally, three days before the big event, I took my girlfriend up on her offer to let us borrow her eldest daughter’s old Halloween costume (pictured below). I’m not entirely sure if she’s a baby chick or a baby duck. Judging by the beak she’s a chick but judging by the tail (not pictured) she’s a duck. The only thing that’s for certain is she’s absolutely adorable.

On the day of Halloween, Marcus and I rushed home and prepared for the trick-or-treaters. We lit the candle in our pumpkin, put the large bowl of candy near the front door and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. As night began to fall and not one, single trick-or-treater arrived at our doorstep we decided to dress Alex in her costume and bring her over to our neighbors. Here’s a little-known, fun fact about Miss Alex: She hates being dressed. Judging by the tears I would guess getting dressed for her is as much fun as it is for an adult to get a root canal. So, you can only imagine what it was like getting her into a Halloween costume. A mere 15 minutes and shot of vodka (for mommy) later she was finally ready for her first trick-or-treat. We arrived next door just as our neighbor was getting her pumpkins ready. She saw us coming and quickly ran inside to prepare for our grand arrival. We walked up the steps, giddy with anticipation, and loudly proclaimed “Trick-or-treat!” The door flung open to “ohs” and “ahs,” everyone smiling broadly as Alex made her grand entrance. Everyone smiling broadly, that is, except for Alex. She was unimpressed. It would appear that Halloween is a juvenile holiday far beneath her discerning taste for high-brow National Geographic articles and a fine brandy.

After a few minutes of chit-chat, picture taking, and Alex drooling on a wrapped Reese's Peanut Butter Cup we decided to head home and hope for at least one trick-or-treater. Our wish was granted as we walked up the sidewalk followed closely by our first guest of the night. Unfortunately, he was…how shall I put this…not exactly what I had in mind when it comes to traditional trick-or-treaters, i.e. children. While legally he was a child I don’t think technically he should have been trick-or-treating. He was roughly 16 years old, 200 pounds, and wearing no costume to speak of except a hockey mask as he stood at our front door expecting the goods with nary a word spoken. *sigh* Marcus held the bowl of candy out to the “trick-or-treater” only to find himself admonishing the teen for attempting to take two, large candy bars. “Seriously, dude?” were the words that came out of our mouths. He departed without a thank you and we were left feeling dejected that our excitement over Halloween had culminated in a hockey mask-wearing, overweight teenager attempting to rob us of our coveted, full-sized candy bars.

After the hockey masked avenger left, the doorbell rang a few more times and each time we were greeted by a group of teenagers. I guess our idea to be “that” house completely back-fired. Instead of bringing more (heck, any) adorable children who were just beginning to grasp the concept of Halloween to our door, our plan brought less-than-adorable teenagers who questionably should have been trick-or-treating.

The time during which we spent answering the door we also Skyped with Alex’s grandma and grandpa in New Jersey. It was during this time that Alex did a trick of her own; she crawled for the very first time and directly towards the computer screen. The night’s disappointments quickly faded away as did our ability to be lazy parents and sit on a couch while Alex played on the floor, mostly immobile.On the bright side if I haven’t lost that last 5 pregnancy pounds yet I have a feeling I will be very, very soon provided I don’t continue to hit-up the Halloween candy bowl.

Disregard the rotting pumpkin and focus on the cuteness that is the baby chick-duck

Wah, wah, waaaaaahhhhh

I was really, really, really excited the other day. I clicked on the dashboard for Blogger which allows me to edit posts, layout, etc. It also allows me to see how many people read my blog that day and if anyone left a comment. I've only had a handful of comments and every single one was left by a family member or a friend. Yesterday, however, there was a comment from a stranger. Huzzah! Who was this mysterious person who told me they found my blog on Alex's 7.5 month milestones to be full of "informative information," a rather redundant statement but I'll take it. Whoever they were clearly had great taste in reading.

About 24 hours later it hit me. My first, non-solicited-from-a-friend-or-family-member comment was Spam. It had occurred to me at the time I was reading it that the sentence seemed to have been written by a Nigerian prince but I was too excited and dismissed the choppy English as an International reader (which I do get from time to time and to which I would like to say: Hello! Guten tag! Здравствуйте! Hola! Sveiki! G’day! Namaste. привет! merhaba!).

So, to make a long story short, my dreams of becoming an International, best-selling blogger were dashed. I guess I'll get back to my regularly scheduled program of sitting here, staring at the computer screen.

The Old Folk's Home

According to a handwritten (meaning they specifically thought of us) postcard we received it would appear we're ready for either an adult nanny or the old folk's home.  Turning 30 wasn't as traumatic an experience as I thought it would be.  Turning 30.5 and receiving a piece of mail such as this?  That's traumatic.

Now I know where to send Marcus when the time comes.

Anywhere-aoke

I love karaoke.  Wherever I go, and there is a karaoke machine, I will sing.  I've belted out some of my greatest hits in NYC, New Orleans, Newport RI, or the pièce de résistance, Chincoteague VA.  These locations don't even begin to scratch the surface on how many homes and restaurants within a 50 mile radius have heard my melodious voice singing along to a synthetic version of "Like A Virgin" (which I was paid a whole dollar for in New Orleans...the jury's still out on whether the payer thought I was cute or wanted me to stop).  The odd thing is if I'm in a meeting and we do the dreaded round-the-room introductions I get all cold and clammy but yet singing in a darkened bar, in front a bunch of strangers, doesn't bother me in the least.  It could be because when at a bar I'm aware of the amount of alcohol flowing and I know that even if they think I stink they won't remember in about an hour.  This is opposed to a work-related meeting where (sadly) alcohol is not flowing and if I mess up my name everyone will definitely remember.

While karaoke is fun in its own right, car-aoke is fun in a lot more ways mostly due to the even greater level of anonymity it provides.  For one, there aren't a bunch of different eyes staring at you.  Provided you time it just right, nobody can see that you're singing.  For me, the worst is when there's an excellent car-aoke song playing on the radio and the traffic light ahead turns red.  I purposefully slow down, hoping to catch the light when it turns green so that I don't have to interrupt my sing-athon.  If I do catch a red light my Mariah Carey level vocal stylings are turned down to lullaby level as my mouth barely moves.  Humming is good too if ever caught at a red light.  However, if the road is wide open, with nary a traffic light in sight, I belt out my favorite tunes, one finger closing an ear so that I can hear myself better and be assured that I do, indeed, sound just like Mariah Carey (with a hint of Christina Aguilera).

A new favorite place for singing, and which has excellent acoustics, is the upstairs hallway in our house.  To be specific the area in front of the laundry room which sits about halfway in between the bedrooms and playroom.  While some other members of the family may not appreciate the talent that is me (*ahem* I'm looking at you, Marcus) there are others who obviously think I'm the cat's pajamas especially when it comes to various renditions of "Wheels on the Bus" and "Hush Little Baby."  I have high hopes that by me singing to Alex she will learn how to sing even better and one day make a lot of money, thus setting mommy and daddy up for an early retirement.  That is what kids are for, right?

7.5 Month Update

Baby Love is 7.5 months now and I can't believe it.  She is the light of my life and no matter what mood she's in she always puts me in a good mood.  I feel like I've worked through the feelings of frustration I felt at times and now meet every challenge with a smile.  Maybe it's a sign of growing more comfortable in my role as a mother?

"Enough about you, more about Alex!" you say?  Who am I to deny the whole one of you that reads this blog?  Without further ado, the goings-on of one, Miss Alexandra:

At Alex's 6 month check-up the pediatrician thought, after a 5 second look, that Alex may be developing a lazy eye.  She gave us a list of pediatric optometrists and told us to schedule an appointment to rule out any problems.  So, we chose a doctor in Charlottesville, VA about an hour and half west of where we live and took a half day off from work to have Alex's eyes examined.  Given my vision is about as acute as a mole, and has been since I was 8 years old, I wasn't too surprised that Alex may have a problem with her eyes.  As it turns out she's completely fine and the doctor said that a lot of times the bridge of an infant's nose can give the optical illusion that a baby's eyes are crossed.  In other words, the pediatrician needs her eyes checked.  I was only a little disappointed at this because it was my understanding that in order to correct a lazy eye the infant must wear an eye patch over the good eye.  This would have solved the Halloween costume problem I'm currently facing because of course she would have been a pirate had that been the case.

Alex has been sitting up on her own for some time now and we've been wondering when she would start crawling.  We aren't quite there yet but as of this past weekend she was getting up on all fours.  Unfortunately for her she hasn't really figured out how to move forward though she's quite adapt at moving backwards.  I'm pretty sure this is by accident and not because she intends to move backwards.  In fact, she gets rather frustrated when she realizes that instead of drawing closer to her target (usually a toy) she's moving father away.  We've found her nearly under the couch before realizing what she's up to.  The times she has moved forward have been out of sheer frustration as she flops down with an exasperated cry thus propelling her tiny body forward.

There are still no teeth to speak of popping through but she can drool with the best of them.  Onesies don't last very long at our house.

Finally, it would appear Marcus and Alex have been practicing for when they run away to join the circus:

The Amazing Tepaskinis!

These are the things that happen when I'm not at home, folks.  This would also explain why Lasagna's fur was singed.  Obviously they were training her to jump through a flaming hula-hoop.

An Early Halloween Story

My earliest memories from childhood all begin at the age of 3.  At that time we lived in Monterrey, CA and my first little sister, Audra, was born.  I can recall little snippets of our life there:  I had my first crush on George Michael (my first crush later turned into my first heartbreak).  I experienced my first earthquake which my three-year-old mind processed as giant bugs shaking the house.  There was that one, fateful day dad allowed for my balloon to be sucked out of the car despite my pleas with him to roll the window up.  I can remember it was a pink balloon if that gives any indication how attached to balloons I was and how traumatic I found the whole episode to be.   Finally, one of the more strange memories I have occurred when I should have been napping but instead took a sneak peek at what mom was watching on TV.  It was one of the more disturbing images of my young life.  I poked my head around the couch to see the screen and I remember seeing a man standing over somebody in a bed and then, as the camera closed-in, the person's legs deflated and rolled up.  That image has stayed with me for the last 27 years and to this day I cannot figure out what the heck it was.  Unfortunately, "deflated legs rolling-up into body" doesn't really get the results I'm looking for in Google.

However, none of those memories have scarred me as much as the one I'm about to tell you.  I don't remember what time of year it was and I don't remember exactly how old I was.  I was definitely between the ages of 3 and 5.  I do remember that Audra was already born because we shared a room and her crib was next to my bed.  Across the room from our beds, against the far wall, was a tall dresser which had a night-light on top of it.  At some point during the night I awoke.  I don't know exactly what woke me up but my guess would be a noise or possibly a dream.  Maybe I was just restless.  Who knows?  Either way, I sat-up in bed and looked across the room towards the dresser.  Moments after I sat up, from behind the dresser a shadowy figure, human-like in form, quickly darted up and just as quickly disappeared back, behind the dresser.  Immediately, I started screaming and my dad ran into the room, scooped me up, and took me into his and mom's room.  I was terrified and clung to him for dear life.  In order to get to my parent's room we had to pass the dresser and I was scared to death I might see the figure again.  To this day I'm not sure if what I experienced was real or a night terror.

According to Papalia & Feldman (2011) in A Child's World night terrors "appear to awaken (the child) abruptly early in the night from a deep sleep in a state of agitation.  The child may scream and sit up in bed, breathing rapidly and staring or thrashing about.  Yet he is not really awake, quiets down quickly and, and the next morning remembers nothing about the episode" (p. 240).  The only part of that definition that doesn't apply to what I experienced is the "remembers nothing" part.  I remember everything.


The story gets even creepier.  Fast forward 25 years and I'm having a conversation with my dad about my earliest childhood memories.  In doing so I recounted the shadowy figure story to him.  His eyes widened and his jaw dropped.  "You remember that night?  I remember that night" he said.  He said he remembered I was so scared that he was scared and that I pointed at the dresser as if something was really there.  Even after he looked behind the dresser to prove that nothing was there I was inconsolable and beside myself with fear.  Eventually, he brought me into my parent's bedroom to calm me down.  The fact that both and he and I remembered what seemed to be an inconspicuous, though clearly memorable, event bowled me over.  For years I had written off the terrifying memory as nothing but a dream but to hear my dad give an exact account of what happened gave me pause and further proved (to me) that what I experienced was real.

To further expound the idea that maybe this was something different from a night terror, my mom recently confessed that she felt there was something odd about the house in Monterrey.  The house itself was located on base and, as military housing typically is, was old.  Mom told me she would often see things out of the corner of her eyes such as shadows darting by.  As she told me this the chills and watery eyes I get when truly scared hit me.  To think that after all of these years being enthralled with all things ghostly I had actually experienced a haunting was too much to handle.  While I love to hear a good ghost story I really don't want to live a good ghost story.

Has anyone else experienced something not-of-this-world?  Or am I the only crazy three-year-old?

Daycare

My baby is in daycare now and I hate it.  I despise it.  I loathe it.  I f-ing can't stand it.  She deserves so much better.  What she deserves is her mom being the one to hold her, and feed her, and teach her new things.

I don't know why dropping her off in the morning seems easier than picking her up.  You would think that after picking her up in the afternoon I feel more cheerful but it's the exact opposite.  I suppose I'm able to block out what I'm doing since I'm always running late for work and have my mind on other things.  But after I've picked her up and we're on our way home I feel like crying.  I become morose and sullen and feel the tears burning in the back of my eyes.

For the most part she seems quite content with her new situation.  On her first day we walked in and she was cooing and oohing at the bright, cheery lights, and flurry of activity.   When I left she barely batted an eyelash as she was quite enthralled with all of the other little people her size.  I made my way to work that morning, choking back tears, and spent the rest of the day trying not to think about where she was.  At the end of the day, though, my thoughts turned to her and it seemed like an eternity between the two of us.  I thought of all the possible routes to take but regardless of which direction I chose it would still take 40 minutes to get to her.  Once there, I found her sitting in a crusty swing with a crusty bib wrapped around her neck.  Her chin was broken-out in a rash which I later discovered was due to her use of a pacifier (unusual considering she never uses a pacifier at home).  I could see the dried tears at the corners of her eyes and my heart dropped, breaking into more pieces than I thought possible.

I knew that when we decided to put her in daycare she would be exposed to new things and people.  I knew that there would only be so many hands to attend to all of the babies and I knew they would do the best they could.  I knew it was going to be harder for me to adjust than it would for her.  I just never knew I would despise this decision with every fiber of my being.

Does Xanax Come In Infant Doses?

Listed below are a few things my infant does that would be considered borderline neurotic if she were an adult:

1.  While eating she plucks at her clothes; she pulls at the fabric over and over again.
2.  Another thing she does while eating is she puts her hand on top of her head and plucks at her, practically non-existent, hair.  In her defense, what hair she does have is super soft and fluffy and feels particularly nice when you snuggle your face into it.
3.  When excited she flails her arms and then drops her head quickly and to the left as if she has a tic.  I'm not entirely sure she doesn't.
4.  Laughs and cries at the same time.  I think she's still working out her emotions.  Or she needs Xanax, I can't be sure.
5.  She has a fetish for paper.  She loves crinkling it and chewing on it which is all fun and games until we realize a chunk of paper is missing.  It's one of the few things she gets upset about if we take it away.
6.  She sucks her lips in over and over again.  This might not look so strange if she had teeth.
7.  She balls her hand into a fist, sticks it in her mouth, then moves it from her mouth to her ear, back and forth frantically.  In the meantime, her face gets drenched in her own saliva. (update:  11/9/2011)

You Know What Would Be Great?

If you follow my blog!  Yes, that's right, ladies and gentleman (I'm assuming there's really only one man reading this) in just four easy steps you can be "in the know" of the comings and goings of the Tepaske Tribe.

1.  Scroll to the very bottom of this screen.
2.  Select the "Join This Site" button underneath the "Followers" header.
3.  Determine the manner in which you'd like to join whether it's with Google, Twitter, or Yahoo...I don't really care which you decide as long as you pick one.
4.  Enter the password for the account you selected.
5.  Ta da!  You will never feel lost again after realizing how many blog posts you've missed since the last time you visited. 

So, you see.  This isn't about me.  It's about you and I want you to feel special.

Yes, Please

Here's the thing.  I've never really been a fan of Maroon 5.  I've generally found their lead singer, Adam Levine, to be annoying and rodent-esque in features.  Their music is a mix of saccharine and sex which, in itself, isn't necessarily a bad combination but for some reason I could just never jump on the Maroon 5 bandwagon.

That was, until this:

This, my friends, is pop perfection.  It's annoying, it's catchy, it's obnoxious, and repetitive.  Everything that makes a good pop song a great pop song.

It's also on constant replay much to the dismay of everyone around me.

4-D Ultrasound = Cute Pictures and Nothing Else

I was driving home yesterday and heard an ad on the radio for 4-D ultrasounds that had me rolling my eyes.  Admittedly, it doesn't take much to get me rolling my eyes.  Call me cynical or call me educated (I prefer the latter) but advertising that a parent can see their child's personality through 4-D imaging just does not sit right with me.

I don't have a problem with 4-D ultrasounds so let me get that point across right away.  Marcus and I chose not to get one mostly because we didn't want to know the sex of the baby and that would have been one more temptation.  Plus, we're old school.  We didn't think it necessary to see a picture of our baby before (s)he was born.

So, getting back to the topic at hand.  The problem I had with the ad is it set about convincing people to spend additional money on the already expensive process of having a baby by claiming they would be able to see their child's personality with a 4-D image.  At the end of the ad a "grandmother" came on saying that she could already tell what kind of personality the baby had because it started sucking its thumb, putting its hand over its face, and stretching.  So, let me get this straight.  Sucking thumbs, covering a face, and stretching are all indicators of personality?  My apologies.  I thought that was called "being a fetus."

If you'll excuse me for a moment I'm about to get Mr. Wizard on your ass.  Or, if you're of a younger generation, Bill Nye the Science Guy.  Same thing.  Anyway, babies are born with almost all of their brain cells all of which are inactive.  After the baby is born stimulation from caregivers, such as love and affection, activate the connections between the cells causing their personality to shine through.  So, while the baby already has a predisposition for one personality or another it's not until after they are born and are stimulated that a personality will be apparent.  Thus, the 4-D ultrasound ad defies logic.

In math terms we can look at it this way:  Baby + Emotional Stimuli = Personality or, Fetus + Non-Existent Emotional Stimuli ≠ Personality

So, with that, I leave you.  Now, go get a 4-D ultrasound and enjoy the beautiful pictures but don't expect to be able to figure out who is in there...unless you're hoping for a thumb-sucking, mama's boy in which case you may have more issues than you think.

Our Black Swan

The other day Marcus and I were talking about how when Alex was born she looked like a little, old man.  Since then, and I know we're biased, she's really grown into her cuteness.  Anyway, this was the conversation as I remember it:

Me:  Alex really did look like a little, old man when she was born.  She's really becoming a cute kid.
Marcus:  Yeah, she's like a black swan.
Me:  Huh?  *pausing a moment to try and figure out what the heck he means*  Do you mean the ugly duckling?
Marcus:  Oh.  Yeah.  That's what I meant.

The ballerina in me couldn't help but be slightly turned-on by his ballet reference.

But...I thought you said I was a Sugar Plum?

Update:  Another conversation took place soon after this was posted in which Marcus righteously informed me that he was not trying to reference the movie when he said "black swan."  This soon turned into another confusing conversation during which I determined that he had no clue the movie, Black Swan, was based on an actual ballet, Swan Lake.  This then led me to think that some of my readers may be as confused as Marcus.  I thought everyone knew Swan Lake was a ballet first, Black Swan the movie, second.  I mean, who didn't know that?  Anyone?  Whatever.

Advice To New Moms (Or Dads) From A New Mom

I, in no way, am insinuating that I know anything (as evidenced by #1):

1. You will never feel confident that what you are doing is the right thing to do.  Just take a deep breath, close your eyes, and plunge headfirst into the unknowing.
2. Despite what everything you read states, it will take longer than a week to figure out what your baby's cries mean.  6 months later and I'm just now figuring out Alex's hungry cry and even then I sometimes get it wrong.  The only cry I'm 100% sure about is her pain cry.
3. Speaking of the pain cry, you will know it when you hear it.  What you won't know is why the baby is in pain.  Just go through the list as calmly (yeah, right) as possible:  Too warm, too cold, clothes too tight/pinching, teething, belly ache, ear ache, temperature...the list goes on.  Somehow, during all of that, remember they will be OK even if you aren't.  Also, it helps to have a rational person nearby to talk you down, off the ledge.
4. You will do whatever it takes to get just an hour's worth of sleep.  If that means you discover by chance that the baby sleeps best in the bathroom then, by golly, that's where the baby will sleep.  You may find yourself telling friends and family in an almost apologetic voice about how and where the baby sleeps, and they may be judging you, but who cares?
5. Sleeping when the baby sleeps is easier said than done.  Especially if the baby is up every two hours.  Just accept that most often repeated bit of advice and keep doing what you're doing.
6. Pooping is no longer a tabu subject and can be discussed at all hours of the day:  While brushing your teeth, after work, during dinner, in bed, etc.  You will never have a greater interest in someone else's bathroom habits than you do now.
7. There will be times when you sit down to watch TV in lieu of doing the laundry, making dinner, or general straightening up.  You will feel guilty about not taking care of the house because that fleeting moment of laziness will soon come to an end when the baby wakes up from their nap.  You will get over that feeling of guilt quickly.
8. With that being said you will feel guilty if you didn't use the time to take a shower.  Trust me.  You will feel 100% better.
9. However you're feeling, whether you feel like running away or feel like crying at every turn, talk to someone who will just sit and listen.  Sometimes saying the words out loud make the crazy go away.
10. Never be afraid to hand your child over to someone else.  After doing so go into the kitchen, pour a glass of wine, drink it slowly and after that you may be ready to handle whatever comes your way.

Rubber Ducky, You're the One

For the most part bath time has always been a fun time for Alex and me.  That's not to say that in the beginning she was a big fan but, then again, she wasn't really a big fan of anything in those first few weeks.  When we first brought Alex home she still had her umbilical cord stump which prevented us from immersing her in water and she was so skinny, tiny, and non-body-temperature-regulating that it was probably freezing for her as Marcus and I fumbled around trying to wash her as best we could, one of us holding the slippery, squirmy, and screaming baby while the other desperately tried to finish as quickly as possible.  Over time, and after the stump fell off, we graduated to a cloth bather in the bathtub and I would sing and coo and try my best to make her as happy as possible.  For a few days she resisted and bath time was no bueno but over time she grew to sitting there quietly, staring at me with her big, blue eyes with a tiny smirk on her face probably thinking to herself what a nut job the lady singing to her is.  (So, what, I like to act out "The Wheels on the Bus?")

Over time I began to realize my mistake in wanting to use a cloth bather.  After months agonizing over just the right bather (seriously, it was months which tells you one thing:  there are to many damn choices out there) I determined that cloth was the way to go because other, more experienced mothers said that the baby wouldn't be shocked by the cold, hard plastic when giving them a bath.  In retrospect that's one of the more idiotic statements I've heard.  Do they put their naked, screaming baby in the tub first and then fill it with water?  If so I think they're doing it wrong.  I digress.  After months of use the cloth bather eventually grew so saturated with water it started to mold and mildew and no matter what I did to try and clean it I felt dirty using it not to mention how Alex must have felt.  So, eventually the cloth bather was discarded for a plastic tub and I can't believe I didn't do it sooner.

While Alex is starting to sit-up better and better every day the cloth bather didn't give her much support so she'd be reclined most of the time.  Plus, it didn't retain water and she couldn't reach the water around her which I realized only after buying the plastic tub that it denied her one of the more pleasurable moments of a baby's life:  Splashing!  How could I be so thoughtless?!  She actually discovered splashing accidentally when I put a floating toy in her tub.  While trying to grasp her toy, which is like watching an adult bob for apples by the way, she discovered the act of splashing water.  Now she gets a little frustrated with me when I lie her down to wash her belly and strains those little baby abs and tries as hard as she can to sit back up.  I'm surprised she doesn't have a baby 6-pack.  Would that be a 3-pack?  Anyway.

She also discovered the ability to put her feet in her mouth while in the tub which was a little disconcerting mostly because she was practically face-down in the water.  I don't know why she chose that point in time to try out this amazing feat (of feet! ha!) but who am I to question the mind of a 6.5 month old?  I constantly have one hand on her at all times when she's sitting up but I did grow a little concerned when after a while she was still bent over her legs, face dangling inches from the water.  I peered down to see her toes inserted in her mouth while the water lapped around her face.  So, while I wanted to keep her there for a photo opp I decided I'd just be prepared for next time.  Hopefully, I'll be able to add a picture of the little toe eater (something tells me there's a sexual connotation lurking in there somewhere) to this post.

So, that's pretty much it.  Oh, there is one more thing.  What the heck are the words to "Rubber Ducky?"  All I've got are "Rubber ducky, you're the one, you make bath time lots of fun.  Rubber ducky you're the one for meeee!!!" and I'm 99% sure that is totally incorrect.

Yard Sailing. It's A Verb

As I mentioned in a previous post Marcus and I enjoy a lazy Saturday morning spent yard sailing which, in the dictionary of Lauren, is "the physical act of going to another person's home and perusing the shit they over-value."  I'm not sure how this past time came to be other than it probably had something to do with the merger of Marcus's cheapness (as evidenced here) and my fondness of spending money.  It's a win for both of us!  Every Saturday morning Marcus checks his phone for yard sales nearby using an app our friend developed (check it out: Yard Sale Treasure Map) and, assuming Alex is cooperating, we make our way out the door, coffee cups in hand to look for that elusive "good deal."

It's amazing what A. People are trying to sell and, B. At what price they are trying to sell it.

A.  Naturally, we find ourselves drawn to the yard sales that boast baby clothes.  However, they forget to mention the fact they're trying to sell the clothes their kids vomited all over and never bothered to clean.  If they'd be more honest in their wording like "worn-out, dirty baby clothes" then I'd at least be prepared.  Another favorite is how loosely the word "designer" is thrown around.  "Designer" to me means Versace, Gucci, and Chanel.  It does not mean Talbots, Chico's, or Coldwater Creek.  Call me uppity but I'm pretty sure those duds do not a designer brand make.  Designer purses are another item people often boast.  After seeing said "designer purses" I'm always curious whether they thought the street vendor in Times Square was a legitimate, authorized proprietor of Fendi or if they're just hoping someone else will be none the wiser.  No matter, they aren't fooling this fool.

B.  People are insane when it comes to pricing their beloved, it-goes-without-saying-but-I'll-reiterate-it-anyway, used items.  We went to a children's consignment sale a few weekends ago where I picked out a number of winter outfits for Alexandra.  When I met back up with Marcus he looked through them and pointed out that someone had priced an Old Navy dress for $12.  Twelve.  Dollars.  It probably cost them $5 not to mention the fact I was holding a genuine Burberry dress and sweater in my hands priced at $6.  So, what I'm trying to say is yes, I know you paid a certain amount of money to keep your little sweetie looking cute.  Trust me.  I get it.  But over-valuing your stuff isn't impressing anybody unless you're targeting people like me who simply see something they like and buy it, price be damned (this is where Marcus must intervene).

So far the only truly good deals we've come across are pieces of furniture or various other household items.  Truthfully, the only reason they've been a steal is because Marcus likes to haggle while I awkwardly stand there wishing he would just pay the man already.  It makes me feel like I'm a teenager again, embarassed by everything and wishing I could crawl in a hole.  Ha!  Alex is in for a real treat when she gets older because at this rate we're going to be prime candidates for embarassing parents.

Where Are My Dentures?

Last night Marcus and I came to the conclusion that we are 32 and 30 (respectively) going on 80 as we played Scrabble and complained about the neighborhood kids.  Our specific complaints are generally about the adolescents in the area who walk on our lawn (gasp!), put things in our mailbox (egad!), or play the music so loud in their mother's minivans that it rattles the windows (whipper snappers!).   The sad thing is, it wasn't that long ago that we were both behaving in the same manner and possibly even worse.  For the sake of our parents, who raised two saints, I'll refrain from detailing how we possibly could have behaved worse so we'll just leave it at that.

We have a huge problem with the kids (a young couple) that live in the apartment behind our house for no reason other than they exist.  Whenever something goes amiss I typically blame them.  A beer can in the front yard?  The neighbor assholes.  The mailbox tampered with?  Those jerks.  A leaf out of place?  Definitely the neighbors.  The baby waking-up?  The f***ing neighbors and now I'm out for blood.

I don't know if they can tell we don't like them.  Other than Marcus asking them three times to stop using our lawn to cut across to their apartment (Hey, you kids! Stop walking on my lawn or I'll get my cane and whip ya's!) we haven't made any contact with them.  On the few occasions I've found myself face to face with the male neighbor I barely nod in his direction.  It wouldn't appear that he and I would have much in common anyway other than the fact I used to smoke and drink shitty beer, too.  In regards to the female who lives there, I don't think I would know her if I saw her but part of me wishes I did because she's dating a total loser and should be told as much (Update 12/9/2011:  They're married!  I think they got married because they weren't allowed to have premarital sex is how I'm going to call it).  Looking back, years from now, she'd probably appreciate what I had to say about her choice of mate because I was there once (as evidenced here).

I guess what it boils down to is that Marcus and I are growing older no matter how hard we try and hold-on to our youth.  While both of us have a hard time accepting that in our own way (Marcus thinks I should still rock Daisy Dukes and I don't for the mere fact that I'm 30 and a mother) we have transitioned into our new lives pretty well.  To us, what now constitutes as "cool" are things like going yard sailing or to the Farmer's Market.  While we may look like a bunch of losers to the younger crowd we're still totally hip and with-it, assuming you ask the older crowd.  Plus, we know the two of us could out-party the neighbors.  Even if it means going back a few years.

*Side note:  Marcus, on trying to decide what we should do this weekend, go to a wine festival or celebrate Oktoberfest in town:  "another event that should be cool, which wont be, which I am not excited about..... I really am getting old I guess"  This came in as I was finishing up this blog and was begging to be shared.

Over the Shoulder Boulder Holder

I now know where the term "over the shoulder boulder holder" comes from and it's not as much fun as it sounds.  The "boulders" I find myself carrying around are causing me neck pain, back pain, and my already horrible posture has gone from bad to worse.  I really can't fathom why women would pay to increase their breast size and endure this for the rest of their lives.  Then again, I'm not the one being paid millions to do so.  I digress. 

Before Alex was even born I knew I wanted to breast feed for at least 6 months.  Now, 6 months later, I've achieved that goal plus I've managed to stock-up over 100 bags in the freezer in the hopes she'll be well supplied into 7 months.  Since my goal has been reached I've slowly been trying to teach my body not to produce any more milk which, as it turns out, is a slow and sometimes painful process.

I have to be honest about one thing, though, which is I don't breast feed in the traditional sense and rather I pump 100% of the time.  When Alex was born she weighed 5 pounds 2 ounces which, considering she was 5 weeks early, was pretty healthy but still small.  Combine her small size with my, how shall I say, gazongas (yes, that's the technical term and, if I may, quoting the hospital lactation consultant, "I have no doubt those puppies will be producing milk soon.") we had problems learning how to work together and properly breast feed.  After a few unsuccessful sessions in the hospital with the lactation consultants we found ourselves at home to figure it out on our own.  Side note: Someone once remarked that they felt violated by these women who come in and grab your breast in one hand and the baby in the other to which I responded "you did give birth, right?"  Anyway, at home we persevered trying to figure it out all while pumping so that Alex could at least get breast milk from the bottle.  Eventually, each attempted breast feeding session would end with a hungry, screaming, particularly pissed-off baby, and an equally frustrated mother.  One thing led to another and I found myself pumping all of the time.  While a small part of me regrets missing out on the bonding that comes with breastfeeding in the end it doesn't bother me too much because I know I gave her exactly what she needed without taking the easy route by giving her formula.

So, here we are, and I really do feel like I'm carrying two, hard boulders strapped to my chest.  I'm completely over having to wear a bra 24/7 and I'm completely over not being able to wear most of my tops (I went from a 34B to a 38E).  And, Lord, when the bra does come off I have to be sure and check to see if Lasagna is underfoot because I don't want to have to explain her untimely demise to PETA:  "I know what you're thinking and I swear it's not what it looks like.  All I did was take my bra off and my boobs fell down and struck the cat on the head killing her immediately."  The press would have a field day with that one:  "Over the Shoulder Boulder Holder Murder!"  "Killer Knockers Kill Kitty!"  "Feline Found Dead, Flopping Breasts to Blame."

With any luck you won't be hearing about me in the paper anytime soon.  Unless Pam Anderson wants to have a boob off.

Solids = Solid Waste = Mommy's Gonna Need More Wine

About 6 weeks ago we started Alex on "solids."  And by "solids" I mean oatmeal cereal mixed with breast milk to the consistency of soup.  The doctor had suggested we start her eating solids at 4 months but we decided to wait until she was 5 months for no other reason than we felt more comfortable with that age.  So, at 5 months we set her in her bouncy chair and set about trying to teach a 5 month old how to eat food.  It was less of a challenge than I expected and by the time we finished her first meal she seemed to have a grasp on what was expected of her.

After about 2 weeks of nothing but oatmeal cereal we decided she was ready to make the next big jump and introduce her to real people food.  We started with carrots.  Our decision was based on reading that babies tend to like root vegetables better because they're naturally inclined to like sweet tasting foods.  So, we set out to the farmer's market, purchased a bunch of carrots and headed home to begin our adventure in making baby food.  (By the way, making baby food takes about as much time as it does to go to a store and purchase it.  In other words, it's totally worth it.)  Right away Alex loved carrots and she ate them with unbridled abandon.  Maybe it was more like reckless abandon but you get my point.  She really, really liked carrots and we were pleased that A) She liked our cooking and, B) She didn't turn her nose up to her first real solid.

That is where the fun ended.  Without going into much detail it turns out breastfed babies who start solids can sometimes have trouble in the digestion department and a week after eating her first carrots we had to do the unthinkable.  Actually, Marcus did the unthinkable while I happily cleaned up the aftermath of the unthinkable.  Now here we are about 3 weeks into Alex's people food adventure and things are starting to look better.  She's had carrots, sweet potatoes, and peas, all of which she's enjoyed, and her digestive tract is starting to get back to normal.

Which leads me to my next thought.  Why can't I just breast feed her until she is potty trained?  I mean, it wouldn't be that weird to breast feed a 3 year old, would it?  Other than it not being socially acceptable in the United States and potentially psychologically devastating I don't really see the issue.  Because, to be honest, for the sake of my nose and gag reflexes I think it's the only right thing to do.

Marcus's New Black Eye

So, we were having a perfectly innocent conversation regarding who was going to pay for the cleaning service today.

Me:  I guess I should write a check for Tomasina.
Marcus (who had already written a check):  Whatever, it doesn't matter. She probably already picked up my check anyway.  But you owe me $120.
Me:  I gave birth.
Marcus:  That was six months ago.

I had no idea that the fact I gave birth, and he didn't, had an expiration date.

Mr. Fashionista

I love my husband. I really, really do. But (there’s always a “but”) sometimes I just have to shake my head at his actions. Before I get started I have to give him credit because while I go to work 5 days a week, kicking and screaming, he stays home with the kiddo 3 days a week. Add that to my inability to wake-up on time and he is the sole dresser of the babe in the mornings (not to mention we have a serious case of daddy’s girl on our hands). Now, we all know most* men have little to no sense of fashion, especially when it comes to little girls, so it is my belief that baby clothing is designed in just such a way that it’s hard to mess up, i.e. everything generally matches unless you throw in the odd salmon or lavender color. In short, Alex is typically matching if nothing else. Where Marcus gets it wrong is in the sizing.

Now, we all know where Marcus falls on the cheapness scale, (where your husband is cheap mine is infinitely more cheap) and I know that having to purchase new clothes for a baby every 3 months wears on the wallet, but stuffing a  bratwurst into a Vienna sausage casing simply does not work. In case you missed the imagery there what I’m trying to say is, putting a 6 month old baby in a 3 month size onesie isn't happening. Luckily, I was home during the most recent episode of “Alex stuffing” and was able to prevent her suffering from chaffed thighs and nip slips and quickly got her into a more appropriately sized outfit. When I asked Marcus why he dressed her in such an obviously small outfit his reply was that since it’s in the drawer it’s still wearable regardless of size. A few rolls of the eyes (mine) later I promptly set about putting away her 0-3 month clothing so as to avoid any more Janet Jackson-esque exposures. Reflecting back what I find most ironic is that in roughly 15 years (God, please let her stay an innocent, beautiful child for at least 15 more years) he’ll be begging her to put on less form fitting clothing as he goes about cleaning the shotgun.

*I say most because I do realize some of the gents are very nice dressers and they do it all by themselves wearing their big boy pants.

A Girl With Many Names

Alexandra’s nicknames. None of them make sense. All of them are obnoxious. Most of them rhyme.

1. Stinker

2. Stinker binker

3. Stink-a-link

4. Stink-a-bink

5. Stinky butt

6. Stinky pants

7. Fussy pants

8. Cranky pants

9. Silly goose

10. Silly goose-a-loose

11. Baby love

12. Tiny baby love

13. Beautiful baby love

14. Beauty

15. Baby boo

16. My precious

17. Kiddo

18.  The Kid

I’m beginning to suspect she won’t know her own name for some time. Similar to what Marcus went through in grade school (when he discovered that his first name is actually "Derrick") she will insist that her name is "Cranky Pants" only to have her teacher bet her that her name is actually "Alexandra."  Later, upon arriving home, she will discover that her name is, indeed, "Alexandra" and she will be burdened for the rest of her life over the decision to go by "Cranky Pants" or "Alexandra."

In short, I think we've already messed her up for life.

Alexandra's White Whale

Call me Alexandra*. For days I have hunted the mysterious goldfish and for days she has eluded me. She is a foe for the ages as she tempts me, quietly bobbing to and fro, to and fro. Her tail is the size of an infant’s mouth, her eyes as big as buttons, and her body tangerine in both color and stature. She smiles an unwavering smile which mocks me with every glance. My gums ache as a reminder of our last, fateful encounter and a lack of teeth is the bitter reminder I carry. Or maybe it’s the gum ointment mommy uses. Whichever! My days are living nightmares as each passes without the realization of my unattainable goal: to own and destroy the goldfish.

*My deepest, heartfelt apologies to Mr. H. Melville.  I took quite a few liberties with your iconic, American novel and I meant no harm.

I feel her presence.  She is close.

"... to the last I grapple with thee..."

If You Live On The East Coast You Can Probably Guess What This Post Is About

We survived the 5.8 earthquake of 2011, Washington D.C.

Trust me when I say I’m being facetious in writing that.

Yesterday began just like any other day. I got to work late (though if you ask my officemate I’m the most punctual person he knows since I arrive every day right at 8:30. Too bad my start time is 8:00), I took a quick trip to the new Wal-Mart across the street (it’s all the rage right now in this little town), ate lunch, and oh, yeah, did some stuff for which I’m paid. Then, at around 1:50 pm, the earth began to shake. There is a hotel being built next door so my first instincts were that a piece of construction equipment had fired up. When it didn’t stop I immediately knew we were experiencing an earthquake. Thankfully, my officemate was gone for the day because if he had turned around he would have seen a rather panicked Lauren half out of her chair, half under her desk wildly looking around at the ceiling, the desk, the lamp posts outside, and the skeleton of a three story hotel waiting for any one of them to come crashing down. Luckily, none of that happened and the quake was over in a matter of seconds though my nerves were shot for the rest of the day.

When I was a little girl my family lived in Monterrey, Ca and some of my earliest memories are from that time. One that sticks out in my head is how my three year old mind processed earthquakes. In my mind earthquakes were actually a giant ant shaking our house. Clearly, nobody thought to inform the three year old what was going on at the time. With that being said there are many differences between being 3 and experiencing an earthquake and being 30 and experiencing an earthquake one of which is the adult knowledge that earthquakes cause death and destruction. On the other hand there are similarities between being 3 and experiencing an earthquake and being 30 and experiencing an earthquake one of which is pooping in your pants.

Speaking of pooping pants there was one family member who seriously needed a 50s-housewife-style tonic to calm her nerves down hours after the quake struck. Poor, Lasagna. She was so unnerved by the earthquake we found her collar in the baby’s room and eventually found her in the farthest room of the house, cowering in a corner. It took a lot of treats and coaxing to get her to come out and even as of this morning she was on edge when anything sounded out of the ordinary (which apparently includes her food being poured into her bowl…which might make one wonder if I feed her often enough and I promise, I do). I can just picture her as a person, small and nervous and constantly wringing her hands with anxious eyes shifting around, waiting for the next thing to set her off as she reaches into her purse to get one of her special remedies for her “headache.”

Finally, and hopefully the only person in the family who really poops her pants, there’s Alex. According to Marcus, who was home with her at the time, she was completely oblivious to the 5.8 magnitude earthquake. I know she’s aware of her surroundings more and more each day but she is apparently not so in tune with the earth beneath her feet…or in this case the earth beneath her toy. Marcus sent me the picture below not long after the quake shook and I like to think she’s laughing in the face of danger. It’s either that or she went all Dr. Evil on our asses and plotted the whole thing herself because she certainly has a devilish look on that pretty face of hers.

 I demand the sum... OF 1 MILLION DOLLARS.

Life Keeps Going Whether I Blog Or Not

I apologize for not writing in over a week two weeks. As it is I was finishing up a statistics course (this was only accomplished with a lot of whining and complaining so thanks to all who had to listen to my constant bitching over the last 8 weeks), Alexandra was continuing to grow and do amazing baby things and I felt like taking part in life rather than watching it from the sidelines, and there’s the added stress of trying to convince Marcus not to purchase something because it’s a “good deal.”

So, let’s see what has been going on? Well, first I suppose I should talk a little about Alex as this blog was started because of her impending arrival. She was baptized a few weekends ago into the Episcopal church and we couldn’t be happier. She wore my old christening gown from 30 years ago which was huge on her but perfect nonetheless. Marcus’s family came into town as did my family and we had everyone for lunch and cake after church. That wasn’t as stressful as I was anticipating aside from the fact that our stove has one, I repeat, one working burner and the oven is a consistent 125 degrees cooler. So, I’m just going to go ahead and put it out there that Thanksgiving will not be held at our house this year. Anyway. While family was here Alex was trying her damndest to roll over from her back to tummy (one of the more trying feats a baby must accomplish in their lives) to no avail. A week later though she did it! I had put her on the floor and turned around to get a toy and when I turned back around she was on her tummy. “She rolled over!” I cried out to Marcus to which he replied, “Yeah, she did it twice earlier,” to which I then replied, with arms thrown in the air for emphasis, “Why didn’t you tell me?!” This wouldn’t have been such a big deal except for the time she rolled over from her tummy to her back I didn’t find out about it for days. DAYS.

Speaking of Marcus and his shenanigans he recently purchased another non-family vehicle. The first was purchased shortly after Alex was born and it is a 1988 Jeep Wrangler. When I was asked my thoughts on the matter I gave a long, deep sigh and gave my opinion which was it isn’t an appropriate vehicle to have the baby in and what we really need is a reliable family car. This opinion was noted and filed away under “I hear you but I’m not really listening.” The most recent purchase, to which I was also asked my opinion and to which I gave and which was also filed away under the aforementioned file, is a 2004 Jeep Grand Cherokee (I’m sensing a theme here) with over 120,000 miles on it, a nice big scratch on the passenger side, and the smell of a thousand cigarettes which makes me nauseous in no time flat. So, we now have 4 vehicles one of which the baby cannot ride in and three of which are all more than 7 years old with over 115,000 miles each. Good times.

Anyway, I just wanted to get a quick update out there to get some of what has been going on down on “paper” before I forget.

Daddy bought what?!

I'm No Saint But Neither Are You

I have a rather lovely commute both to and from work. It’s a beautiful stretch of road through the Virginia countryside that I share with fellow employees of Dahlgren and locals making their way out of or into “town.” In short, my commute doesn’t even come close to the miserable commute others in my area deal with on a daily basis which could be the reason why I take such offense to obnoxious drivers. The route I take is a 2 lane highway with a large, grassy median dividing the east and west bound traffic. It’s mostly farmland with a few neighborhoods scattered here and there. It’s an idyllic drive and the worst “traffic” I run into might be a slow driver in the left lane holding up everyone else’s progress*.

Now, I’ll be the first to tell you, I’m no saint when it comes to driving. I learned how to drive in the Northern Virginia/DC area which recently was given the distinction as having the worst drivers in the country (http://www.washingtonpost.com/local/impatient-self-absorbed-dc-drivers-are-worst-in-the-nation-again/2011/05/28/AG5vbZDH_story.html). Thus, it should come as no surprise that I tend to be a fast, and at times, aggressive driver. I like to think of it more as survival of the fittest and it’s only necessary to be an aggressive driver when dealing with all of the other aggressive drivers out there. I would also like to mention that in all of my years driving I’ve had one speeding ticket and never (knock on wood) been in an accident.

Nonetheless I tend to get annoyed rather quickly with what I perceive to be another person behaving stupidly and a large part of me always wants justice. Since it’s rare that a cop is ever around to witness such behavior (why is that?!) I believe it’s my duty to let those people know they are being jerks. In a nutshell, if I see you driving like a maniac and I have the chance to fuck with you, I will.

Case in point: I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been cruising down the road and a car pulls out directly in front of me. Instead of speeding up with the traffic they putt along, slowly building momentum. Since I’m cruising along at a brisk 65 MPH it’s not long before I’m practically on top of them and having to navigate around them assuming that’s even possible and no other traffic is around. What bothers me the most about this scenario are two things: 1. There is rarely so much traffic on the road that it necessitates the need for pulling out in front of someone, and 2. I drive a bright, red sedan which is a car that doesn’t exactly blend in with its surroundings. So, I can only surmise a few things here. The other driver is so engrossed in themselves that they don’t care about anyone or anything else on the road or, they’re blind, in which case they really ought to reconsider driving altogether. I’ve been cut-off or had cars pull out in front of me so many times it’s become a source of bemusement rather than anger and because of this I’ve resorted to a new way of letting the person know that they aren’t the only drivers on the road:  I wave at them. As I cruise on by I smile brightly and wave wondering if sarcasm can be conveyed through non-verbal communication. Some people notice and others don’t they’re so oblivious to their surroundings. If they do notice I like to think I at least gave them pause to consider what they might have done to receive such a response and it’s a bit classier than giving them the bird.

With that being said, I will give you the bird if you are being a complete ass-hat. For example if I see you charging up behind me, weaving in and out of traffic to finally come upon my little, red bumper and tailgate me to the point where I can see what color your eyes are I will flip you off, I will not speed up, and more than likely I will box you in with the car beside me**. Now, I realize playing games such as this is dangerous because the person behind the wheel could very well be a raving lunatic with a gun (we love our guns in Va.) and I sometimes look back at my own behavior with a degree of disgust because my behavior is no better than their's.  At the same time part of me gloats in the knowledge that I slowed down their progress.

This exact scenario happened to me yesterday as I made my way home from work. The only difference between what happened yesterday and any other time is that I had Alex with me. There is nothing as intense a feeling as the one you get when it comes to protecting your child and I now fully comprehend the term “fiercely protective.” This particular ass-hat was driving an SUV which was jacked-up and which easily afforded a view into my backseat where Alex was buckled in (it also easily afforded the view of my middle finger, I’m sure). He was so close there’s no way he didn’t see a baby buckled into her car seat. Hell, he could probably see her eye color. I digress. Now, please don’t misunderstand me. I don’t expect the presence of my child to stop anyone from behaving badly but, God Almighty, give me the strength not to slam on my brakes, tear him from his seat, rip his balls off, shove them down his throat, and spit in his face. In that order. I was hot. The evil, physically harmful things I wanted to do to this man raced through my mind as I inched forward to pass the car beside me and eventually get out of his way (though I didn’t acquiesce too quickly which I’m sure didn’t help the situation). Once he passed, being sure to swerve ever so slightly into my lane so as to show me who was boss, my heart stopped racing and I reflected on my behavior. It goes without saying I should probably tone it down a bit especially once Alex starts talking because I really don't need her first word to be of the f-bomb variety.

I don’t have a clue where people are going when they’re driving so fast. Part of me hopes that they have an injured friend in the back seat and they’re desperately trying to get to the hospital. The other part of me knows better and I know they’re simply on their way to McDonald’s. While I do speed I rarely go over 10 MPH and just because some guy behind me wants to push 90 MPH is not a good enough reason for me to drive any faster to get out of his way. This doesn’t always sit well with the tailgater behind me but at least it won’t be me getting the ticket and I take some comfort in that knowledge.

Finally, I just want to add how much enjoyment I get out of watching other vigilante drivers. The other morning on the way into work a Maryland driver (they are the WORST!) appeared out of nowhere like they usually do (seriously, they drive so damn fast before you know it what was once wide, open road behind you is now a scene from The Fast and the Furious). I watched as he blew by me and attempted to cut off a truck leading the way into a merge. The truck proceeded to prevent Maryland from merging in front of him, pretended to make a left turn twice only to change his mind twice, and finally drive at the exact speed limit posted before he decided to let the Maryland driver out of his clutches. It was like watching a cat play with its prey before eating it and I was gleeful for the rest of the morning just thinking about it.

I suppose I’ve vented enough about horrible drivers though this doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface. Not to mention I’m pretty sure I’ve made it on someone else’s list of horrible drivers they’ve encountered over the years and as they say it’s best not to throw rocks if you live in a glass house. Even if it is fun.

*I don’t know about where you live but where I live the left lane is reserved for people who want to chance getting a ticket. Therefore if you happen to glance in your rearview mirror and see a line of cars about a mile long you might want to consider moving over.

**Another fun thing to do is turn your windshield wiper fluid on for approximately 30 seconds and watch as they quickly fall behind. My coworker swears by it.