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    High points and low points

    August 31, 2005

    My sister always has her kids tell her their “high point” and “low point” of their day. Something about promoting their emotional knowledge at a young age. So here are mine for yesterday. I have several of each.

    High Point
    Getting a Job. YIPPEE for me. I’ll be an overpaid government contractor writing investigative policy for a small quasi-federal agency. It is only a small step on my way to total world domination.

    I’m not quite sure how to write anything without using the word “poop” now. Oh dear.

    Low Point
    To date, the biggest poop bomb ever. After sitting quietly in his car seat during lunch at Mark’s Kitchen, I decided to spring the Boo Boo Kitty from his nest. Except he sprung on me. I had to change his diaper in the trunk of the car. There he was standing in the trunk, buck-naked, with poop which extended up to his ears. After 17 wipes, at least he didn’t smell God-awful, but who was I kidding? He was standing in the trunk and I was wiping with one hand and gripping him under the armpit with my other hand. Realizing that my hold on him was precarious at best, he decided to trot out onto the bumper. There he was walking up and down the bumper of the sedan. I was throwing the wipes on the ground because there was no place to put them at the instant time. Of course, I was in the People’s Republic of Maryland and people were glaring at me like I had just poisoned a tree full of squirrels for fun. I was gonna pick them up when I was done. Geesh. I then tried to lay him down to put on his diaper and he started to knaw on the trunk latch, which is the cleanest part of the car, I’m sure. He was rolling his naked ass around, all over the binders that I am supposed to review for my high paying contract job. I hope he didn’t leave any butt-prints on the Quality Standards for Investigations manual.

    High Point
    I was walking out of the quasi-government building yesterday while talking smack to my husband about how I was going to make money when I felt the eery sense that I was being watched. I looked down but there was no toilet paper sticking out of my pants or stuck under my shoe. I looked up to see two HOTTIES in suits TOTALLY CHECKING ME OUT!!!!!! After 16 months of being totally ignored, I SHRIEKED and got into the car. It was a high point of my adult life. Imagine if I had my jacket off and they saw my rack?? Derek found this very entertaining as I recounted it live.

    Low Point
    Laying down to take a nap and having E rip off one of my favorite necklaces and then eating my cell phone as I pretended to sleep in hopes that he would give up and go to sleep. He proceeded to crawl back and forth over me until 3 minutes before it was time to get up. Then he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

    High Point
    Suprising Mada at the end of her second day of 1st grade by putting E in the bag for the Pack’n’Play so she could unzip it and find the surprise. It wasn’t quite a surprise when E realized that there was a huge hole in the bag for the handle and he got both arms out of the bag and was waving them. What kind of people put an infant in a canvas bag to cheer up a 7 year-old?

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    More conspiracy theories

    August 30, 2005

    I am not emotionally prepared to discuss today’s poop incident as it involved a public parking lot and 17 wipes, so you’ll all have to settle for YESTERDAY’s story.

    I would first like to say that Dan Brown has it all wrong. You know, that whole conspiracy theory about the Catholic Church hiding the evidence that Jesus Christ was actually married to Mary Magdalene and they had kids and now their descendants are driving 1989 Ford Astrovans with New York plates in the left hand lane on the Jersey turnpike, clogging traffic.

    This is not the Catholic Church’s greatest sin. The church’s sin is the conspiracy it is running with CVS and Blue Cross to deny me MY BIRTH CONTROL PILLS.

    My disclaimers up front:
    1) I’m not Catholic, but I know some Catholics and they swear to me that the church thinks it is bad news to be standing in the way of prolific procreation (“I know some Catholics” sounds remotely like what you would hear out of a person’s mouth accused of being racist–“I was friends with an Asian person once”–sorry to all you Catholics out there.
    2) I am not against Dan Brown. I didn’t think the book was as earth-shattering as B said it was, but then again, B is Catholic.
    3) I am against all people clogging the left hand lane, regardless of race, religion, sex, ect. and do not give a rat’s ass about the person driving.

    Back to the story…

    So I called CVS to reorder my prescription of BCP’s. Since I managed to lose 2 months worth a couple of months ago. I ran out 2 days ago so I was already in trouble. I tried to order the generic brand because it is $25 cheaper. And this is how the conversation went with the pharmacist/Satan as I had already explained that I LOST THE PILLS AND NEEDED MORE.

    P: This doesn’t come in generic.
    K: (thinking, nice try, B-e-och, I took a damn FDA law course) Ah, are you sure about that?
    P: Oh, yeah it does but your doctor hasn’t authorized you to get generic. You have to call your doctor.
    K: Fine.
    P: You know your insurance won’t pay for this because it’s too soon.
    K: I know. I’m gonna pay.
    P: You aren’t authorized to get more until September 1 because it’s too soon.
    K: Once again, I LOST THE PILLS AND I AM GOING TO PAY FOR THIS MONTH. I would just like to get the generic because they are cheaper.
    P: Your doctor hasn’t authorized generic.

    Jesus, Mary and Joseph. WTF? I’m off to explain to the nurse why I need generic. She agrees to call CVS and authorize the generic.

    I show up at CVS.

    P: You know, this is too soon and your insurance isn’t going to pay for it.
    K: I know, I’m going to pay for it.
    P: The insurance will pay for it if you wait until September 1.

    It cost Blue Cross $8900 for me to give birth. Do they want to F$#&ing pay another $8900 in 40 weeks? I swear they have to both be working for the Catholic Church.

    So I get home and I’m explaining this whole thing to Derek in bed.

    K: You would have thought I was trying to get 8 boxes of Sudafed, and 3 months worth of Zoloft, Paxil and Adderall with prescriptions from 3 different doctors. I was just trying to get BIRTH CONTROL. Let’s be honest. You-know-who has 2 kids, 13 months apart, and she fantasizes about killing herself to get away from them. Right now I am only fantasizing about being like that mother in the Oprah book club book that gets out of her car and leaves her purse and ice cream on the front seat, never to return. And for the entire book, the family is not trying to figure out why the mother left but why she couldn’t have put the ice cream away before she did. Yeah, that’s my fantasy.
    D: I’m sorry, babe. It is a conspiracy. (as he snuggles closer)
    K: WTF are you doing? What are you looking at me for like that? Which part of this story did you miss?
    D: (sheepishly) You said you got your pills, so I thought…
    K: Two days late. GET THE HELL OVER TO YOUR SIDE OF THE BED AND DON’T EVEN LOOK IN MY DIRECTION. And I am SO blogging this tomorrow.

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    Dad, Zinni LOVES it when I eat his ear

    August 29, 2005


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    Things not to be said in public and sanity just in the nick of time

    The third tooth finally came in on Friday night. When we were all out on our date. So what if 3’s a crowd?

    We went to Carlysle Grand on Friday night because I was craving the Jambalaya. Normally a haven for the powerful Shirlington singles crowd, things were quiet and we got a table in the baby corner. At the next table over were three babies.

    This is the way the conversation went with the unidentified father at the next table.

    UF: How old’s your baby?
    D: 6 months.
    UF: Really?
    D: Yeah. How old’s your baby?
    UF: Five months. (as his baby is bouncing non-stop on his lap, like one of those freaky toys that you just end up taking the batteries out of to regain your sanity)
    D: She’s a bouncer, huh? You guys have a Bounceroo?
    UM (jumping into the conversation): We have a Jumperoo.
    D: Yeah, that’s what we have. He likes it so much that he gets blisters between his toes.
    UF: Wow!

    My mortification is now complete. Whispering/hissing, this is how our private conversation went.

    K: What the HELL are you doing, telling people that the baby got blisters from the Jumperoo? And it was only one blister.
    D: I think it’s funny that he jumped so much that he got a blister.
    K: Or, that we are awful parents that leave him in the Jumperoo for hours on end, long enough for him to get a blister. As opposed to the 20 minutes it only took for him to get the blister. Do you want those people to call DHS on us for being neglectful parents?
    D: He just likes to bounce.

    Whatever. Then we went to see Grizzly Man. Instead of just watching a movie about being in Alaska, they wanted us to feel like we were ACTUALLY IN Alaska. It was so cold in the theater that the baby managed to clench his jaws so tight that he sprang a tooth.

    OK, I don’t know how he did it but that’s when we noticed the new tooth. Of course its brother is hovering right behind so it is only partial sanity.

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    Statistics

    August 26, 2005

    What are the odds?

    You have been struck with the “Suzy F. Homemaker” bug (or struck by lightning, you aren’t sure which), when you decide to make your husband waffles for breakfast. Homemade. You are holding the baby when he suddenly projectile vomits and hits the entire northeast corner of the kitchen. For those unaware of the landscape in said kitchen, that would be the oven, microwave and half of the pots and pans.

    You run to the door, dropping a waffle on the way, to let the dog in. You drop the baby into the Jumperoo, or as we are affectionately referring to it these days, the “Neglect-aroo.” He begins his loud protestations but to no avail. You go back into the kitchen to find the dog has eaten the waffle and has moved on to the bathroom, where HE is now projectile vomiting the contents of HIS stomach. The waffle maker begins to “beep, BEEP, BEEEEPPPP” but you are now forced to pick up vomit that smells mysteriously like poop, while having to listen to the baby’s wails from the next room. You now smell the waffle and wonder when the smoke alarm is going to smell it as well. Oh, that’s right. You disconnected the smoke alarm on this floor because it rings more than it is silent.

    You yell apologies to the baby, who is now sounding like he might bring this up at Thanksgiving 25 years from now, but apologies are just not going to cut it. You go back and save the waffle maker from the waffle that looks like it might combust at any moment.

    And what do you hear? “Why are you crying, buddy?” From his perch 2 feet away from the baby on the couch, as he peruses the daily results of his Fantasy Baseball pool on the laptop. A pool in which he finds himself 7 out of 8 at any given time. A pool that goes approximately 137 games longer than it should. A pool that will not change between now and 9 o’clock when he gets to his government job and he proceeds to surf the web on all “breaks.”

    Two vomits (one smelling like poop) and burnt waffles.

    What are the odds? One in One.

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    Back alive, doctor’s office visits and on-demand feeding

    August 25, 2005


    I lied. When I said that the most inopportune time to have a poop bomb was 3 minutes before takeoff on a flight, I lied. Because having a poop bomb 10 minutes before leaving for the airport, the poop bomb that covers 70 percent of the baby’s body and 30 percent of the baby’s car seat, is the worst. Hands down.

    We got home, but the baby was still doing his “eh, eh, eh-ing.” Even I couldn’t console him. So this was the conversation between me and the nurse yesterday.

    N: Maybe he got an ear infection from all the pressurization issues on the plane. You should bring him in.
    K: But he doesn’t have a fever.
    N: Ah, my kids NEVER got a fever with their ear infections.
    K: I swear to God, I told my husband that if it is NOT an ear infection, I’m giving this kid up for adoption because he is driving me nuts.
    N: (insert muted tee-hee-hee) Just bring him in.

    So we get to the doctor and apparently we are the talk of the office. Old friends by now with the nurse who has seen E a hundred times, she comments that everyone in the office is very amused by my statement. Failing to see the amusement, I just nodded. She then proceeded to to say that, and I quote, “Kristen, his ears are PERFECT. He’s just teething.”

    I got back out to the car and called Derek.

    K: Should I leave him in the office with the nurses or just out front with all the office girls smoking?
    D: I’ll be there in 10 minutes to get him.
    K: You can’t get here in 10 minutes. You don’t have a car.
    D: I’ll take a taxi.
    K: It’s rush hour. I guess I’ll just take him home.

    I stopped by Buy Buy Baby and bought 37 of those frozen thingees for baby gums and the amped up Baby Ambesol.

    Fastforward 2 hours later.

    K: Aren’t you going to give him the ambesol?
    D: It’s bedtime Ambesol. I’m waiting for bedtime.
    K: It’s f-ing bedtime somewhere.

    And he went to sleep at 8:00 p.m. Ah, it’s the little blessings in life that keep us going…

    Until 2 a.m. Anyone know how the kid got on Greenwich Mean Time? He played for an hour in bed and was talking, yet again, in his OUTSIDE VOICE to the animals on his bumper. I finally gave in at 3 and got him. I fed him for a while but I was too tired so I rolled over and tried to go to sleep. He commenced a long-ass conversation with my bra strap about the injustices of mothers and, I can only imagine, the injustices of the bra that stood in his way. Did I mention he was using his outside voice? It is 8 a.m. and I haven’t slept for the last 6 hours.

    Anybody want this baby?

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