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    You are going to have to fight me for the last of the Bounty, sister…

    August 20, 2006

    On Friday I went over to my sister’s house after my doctor’s appointment to a) retrieve my son and b) see my mother while she was in town for Madeleine’s 8th birthday party last night.  Jen left to run some errands and Mom and I jumped up to clean up while she was gone.  A virtually futile effort considering there were like 5 kids in the house. 

    I went into the bathroom to survey the situation.  I find the bathroom is the easiest room in the house to clean and feel that instant gratification of a job well done. 

    Until I opened the door and got smacked in my supersensory senses by the smell of an elementary school boy’s bathroom.  We were all girls in our house growing up.  We gave my father his own bathroom and never knew what happened in there.

    OH MY GOD!!!!

    I ran back into the kitchen, holding my breath and wishing for Tums (even the banana ones). 

    K:  Carter is only 5 years old.  How can he make the bathroom smell so bad?  I have to give my son away.  Do you think they just do this (sticking out my pelvis and swaying side to side like I imagined boys peeing).  He is either going to have to pee outside or I don’t know what the other option is.  And I don’t even want to tell you what is on the toilet seat. 

    My mother then told a story about how my aunt would just NOT go to the bathroom because she couldn’t stand the smell.  That and she had to clean the bathroom every single day from top to bottom.   She had two boys.

    I grabbed the paper towels. 

    Mom:  HEY, I need them too.
    K:  Oh, no………you don’t.  Because unless you have a power washer, I’m using every single one of these bad boys.
    Mom:  Here’s the 409. 

    I went back in there a couple of hours after I cleaned it–right after Carter had made a trip in there.  It doesn’t take them long to undo all your good work, huh?

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    We aren’t on speaking terms, but damn is he hot

    August 19, 2006

    My husband isn’t really speaking to me.  And this has nothing to do with the fact that I blogged about how he wouldn’t separate out the nasty banana Tums from the regular, civil Tums.

    I put him on a diet.  As if this is not evil enough, said diet includes the “no-alcohol-during-the-week” edict.  It is as if I have taken out a Bowie knife and slit him from ear to ear. 

    I have done this for his own good.  This has nothing to do with the fact that BEFORE I got pregnant and in the midst of our intense negotiations, he may have, in a moment of weakness, promised not to drink during the week if I got pregnant so I wouldn’t be cranky about not having a beer for 9 1/2 months.  A promise that he kept for two whole days and then promptly forgot about as soon as we had one of those horrific 100 degree days.

    I am doing this because the man likes his beer.  And every woman knows that she can cut 1900 calories from her daily diet, run 7 miles a day and be lucky if the scale drops 2 lbs at the end of the week.  A man, however, can cut beer from his diet and lose 20 pounds in 3 weeks.  Or do anything for 3 weeks and lose 20 pounds.  Bastards. 

    So in order to alleviate other issues, the guy has to lose 20 pounds.  I happen to know from personal experience that he once lost 20 pounds in a week by getting a stomach flu.  I guess it’s his choice–undercooked chicken or a little liver cleansing.

    Meanwhile, I have to run.  Gotta polish off the rest of that half gallon of Breyer’s.  You know….I’m eating for two.

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    “Today is the greatest… day I’ve ever known”

    Today is a day I was dreading.  It was the first doctor’s appointment after the end of the first trimester.  A day when you most dread getting on a scale because frankly you have been doing whatever it takes to just get by.  Any of you who have been pregnant before know the dread of getting on the scale.  Because with the scale comes the lecture.  Yet even in this dark hour, I have found a ray of hope. 

    A doctor’s office that has the scale in the bathroom.  Where you take your own weight behind a locked door and you operate on the honor system.  Anyone who has ever been pregnant knows that there is no honor in pregnancy.

    My friend Jennifer, who is  7 1/2 months pregnant, expressed outrage at this. 

    J:  That is just wrong.
    K:  Are you saying that because you think it’s morally reprehensible or are you saying that because you can’t do it? 
    J:  So you don’t have ANYONE making fun of you as you take off your shoes to try to make yourself light as possible?
    K:  You don’t even have to be HONEST.  Who’s gonna know?

    Derek was mortified that I would lie about my pregnancy weight.  Knock yourself out, beeotch.  Because when given an opportunity, a woman will lie about her weight.  And I have only two men in my life right now–Ben and Jerry.   And they love me unconditionally and want me to be happy.  They ask nothing in return and just give, give, give.  So if I had to take creative license with the truth in order to avoid a breakup with B&J, I was gonna do it. 

    On the way to the doctor, I explain this all to my husband, to include the fact that I have not done my “homework” for this appointment, which was to document 48 hours of my eating habits.  I have not done this because I have not had a good 48 hour stretch.

    D:  Wasn’t there those two days when you…
    K:  Nope.
    D:  Didn’t you have salad for dinner?
    K:  One day.  Then I ate a box of Kraft Mac and Cheese for lunch the next day.
    D:  The whole box?
    K:  Didn’t even give the boy a bite.  And I didn’t make the low fat version either.
    D:  How about the day…
    K:  I had ice cream.  And if I could only put down “ice cream” that would be fine.  But I am required to put down how much and frankly, “1/2 gallon” just will not look good on paper.  But I maintain my body needed calcium.
    D:  Babe, you are bad.
    K:  Whatever.  Can you hand me a tums?  

    But then a miracle occurred.  I didn’t have to lie about my weight because despite eating MY WEIGHT in Chubby Hubby, I only gained 3 pounds in 4 weeks.  And when I explained my dietary homework problem to the midwife, she said, and I quote….

    “You have to do what it takes to get you through this.  So if you need to eat a 1/2 gallon of ice cream, you can.”

    I refrained from kissing her on the lips.  I picked my husband off the floor where he had collapsed and danced out of the office feeling better than I had in weeks.  

    I’m sure I’m just faking this for the ice cream.  And to get out of sex. 


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    You think after 2 marriages, the guy would know when to keep his mouth shut

    August 17, 2006

    But he doesn’t. 

    A couple of nights ago I was complaining about feeling like I was going to throw up.  It hovers right in my throat.  Frankly,  I haven’t brushed my teeth in almost 4 months and I don’t care.  Apparently he doesn’t care because he gave me “The Look” the other night, right after I had gone on my daily tirade of “when am I going to feel better and I thought I would be beyond this by now.”

    K:  Excuse me?  I don’t think so.
    D:  I know, baby.  I’m not saying anything.  I know that this time you really mean it when you say you feel bad.


    K:  I’m sorry.  What do you mean, “this time?”
    D:  Well…I know that sometimes you say you are going to throw up to get out of having sex with me.  It’s OK, because I know you mean it this time.

    K:  (desperately trying to remember the code to the gun locker safe) You think I LIE TO YOU ABOUT BEING SICK?  THAT I JUST DO IT TO GET OUT OF DOING IT WITH YOU????  THAT I HAVE MADE UP MORNING/ALLDAY SICKNESS BECAUSE I CAN’T SAY NO TO YOU??? 
    D:  Uh…………..(not knowing when to quit) yeah?
    K:  Maybe my error has been refraining from vomiting on you.  If I vomited directly on you, would you take my fake illness claims serious?
    D:  Please don’t.
    K:  Well I think you should have thought about that BEFORE you accused me of lying.

    I then asked him to hand me some Tums to combat my fake morning/allday/sickness/avoiding/sex/with/my/husband.  Tums are my friend.  I love Tums.  Tums are the only thing standing between me and American Standard (that reference is for you, Rachel).  And the man hands me a handful of Tums that include banana Tums.  Ever had a banana Tums?  With that lovely artificial banana flavor.  Banana is the one flavor that cannot and should not be reproduced in fake form.  It is vile. 

    K:  You gotta take the banana Tums out of the container.  I can’t even look at them without getting sick.

    He started to laugh.  Like I was being unreasonable.  He complained that he couldn’t tell the difference.   What with them being YELLOW and all.   He brought me two handfuls that he had sorted out.  One with an assortment and one handful of yellow.  I think he is trying to kill me.

    I think he blew his brains on overeducation and just threw common sense out the window.  And now he gets to share the couch with the dog (and the banana Tums).

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    Oh my GOD the child is getting even more teeth

    August 16, 2006

    It’s not possible, I know.  But the kid has had his hand in his mouth for 2 weeks.  His entire hand.  I can only imagine how comfortable it is to go around with your entire hand in your mouth.

    And then the drooling started.  He would just stand over me when I was lying on the couch, drooling, drooling, drooling.  There is nothing that an ill pregnant woman likes better than to have a mouthful of toddler drool running down the front of her shirt.  The shirt that she has been wearing for two days because she just didn’t have the energy to change it.  Despite the fact that said toddler has learned the new skill of blowing his nose and just blows, blows, blows until mom’s shirt is covered in little boogers.  That shirt that hasn’t been changed since yesterday.

    I just couldn’t believe he was getting more teeth.  I called him over and demanded he open his mouth so I could take inventory.  16.  That’s too many.  How many teeth does a kid need really?  Then I counted my own.  I think there were 24.  Maybe.  Not good considering I had my wisdom teeth removed.  I decided to get all clever and look it up online.

    He is getting his 2 year old molars.  Of course he is.  What with him being 18 months and all.  I reached into his mouth to search for the telltale “ridges.”  And very nearly had my fingers severed from my hand.  I don’t know what is going on in the back of that mouth and frankly I don’t care anymore.  I’m not sticking my hand in there again.  I’m not a trained professional. 

    He woke up a little while ago wailing.  His father asked for the Tylenol but it was only later that I realized he meant for The Boy.  I’m thinking whiskey might have been a little quicker but it is frowned upon these days.  I found some orajel sticks for adults, but I’m thinking if you just rub the gums really quickly, it’s like the baby version.  I can’t wait to get on the plane to LA next week.  A gatorade-less, orajel-less, tylenol-less, food-less, frozen chew toy-less 5 hour flight with a teething toddler.  And an alcohol-less trip for mom.  Woohoo-less.

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    Because I have already mastered the art of shoveling crap,

    August 14, 2006

    I have decided that the carnival skill that would be most beneficial for me to learn now is knife throwing.  Think about it.  At any given moment, when faced with the right situation, one quick flick of the wrist and Derek’s boxers could be nailed to the wall.  Just his boxers, nothing else.  Although nailing The Boy’s shorts to the wall sound attractive every once in a while….

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