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    But if he doesn’t get into the right preschool, he might never get into HARVARD

    January 31, 2007

    Tomorrow is preschool registration day.  Remember back in September when I went into the only preschool in the entire area that would take 18 month olds and it was 3 days before class started and I managed to get The Boy enrolled?  Grant it, it was the afternoon, two day a week program, but by golly, the kid is in school and I have received a bit of a second wind and no longer look for sharp objects to use to take out a major vein or artery.  At least not as much as I used to.

    Having tasted this freedom, I find it is equivalent to possibly a drug addiction.  My only possibilities for next year are two day programs again, but there is one class that goes for 4 hours a day rather than the standard 2 hours and 45 minutes.  And I want in.  I contemplated putting The Boy in the preschool right around the corner for convenience purposes but his father was having no part of that.  Something about how great this school was and it wasn’t like the 15 minute drive was going to kill me and did he already mention how great the school is?  So now I HAVE to, absolutely MUST get The Boy back in there.  I decided to warm up the preschool director a little. 

    K:  So is preschool registration like getting tickets for a U2 concert?
    D:  What do you mean?
    K:  Do I need to camp out here the night before to get a good spot in line?
    D:  (rolling her eyes) You should probably just be here at 9:30 when we open.

    Another mother walks in and pipes up with her “concerns.”

    M: What if, say, I’m in line and I get my registration paper first but then someone fills theirs out before I get finished and they want the spot I want.  Do I lose that spot?
    K:  Can I sell my spot for $20 to someone else?

    The director, whose sense of humor is better than mine, gives me a look that can either be read as “shut the hell up” OR “do you really need to get this woman worked up like this?”  But I can’t stop.  I have pregnancy mouth.  I’m required to say EXACTLY what is on my mind at all times regardless of the consequences.

    K:  Oh, man.  I heard it’s a real cat fight.  People actually climbing over each other like the Black Friday sale at Best Buy on the day after Thanksgiving when there are 20 people vying for the four $180 laptops.

    Now I’m pretty sure the director has changed her look from the “shut the hell up” look to the “shut the &^% up” look. 

    But I’m having fun.

    K:  I heard there is hair pulling. 

    This coming from a woman that packed the hand warmers in her coat pockets for the long cold wait tomorrow morning.  Sometimes you just gotta be a hypocrite.  Had I thought it through, I would have told the woman that the registration didn’t start until Friday.  It’s so wrong, yet oh so right.

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    My baby must be REALLY healthy

    January 30, 2007

    K:  I didn’t even know she was pregnant.  How is she doing?
    SWSRN:  She looks GREAT!!!  She’s due the week before you but she isn’t anywhere near as big as you are.
    K:  I see.
    SWSRN:  (because you can never go too far) I mean, not that you are big but she is just so much smaller.
    K:  Of course.
    SWSRN:  (cause once the train wreck starts, you just can’t seem to turn your eyes away) She doesn’t even look 6 months pregnant.
    K:  That’s great.
    SWSRN:  (as the cars jump the track) It’s just that she is so tall and skinny.  You know those people who just carry so well.
    K:  Definitely.
    SWSRN:  (realizing now, albeit WAY too late, what was happening) But you know, it probably isn’t even healthy for the baby, she is so small.
    K:  Undoubtedly.

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    He turned!

    Before he was making me sweat.  Now he is just making me pee.

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    Is it wrong to just want a couple of cooch hiccups?

    January 27, 2007

    BAAAAHHH—REEECCHHH!  The question:  What is worse than having a baby who is transverse?

    How about a follow up from the mechanic letting you know that it will cost over $3,000 to fix the things wrong with your car?

    Did I mention that Nathan is breech?

    Nathan Clark.  That’s his name.  And there is a whole crowd of people out there that already know that who seemed to be genuinely disturbed by the choice of that name.  Like I named the kid Mortimer or Xavier.  Not bad names in and of themselves.  They just don’t go very well with my husband’s (shall we call it) unusual last name. My friend Mary didn’t even hide her dislike of our choice of the name Nathan. 

    M:  Gosh, that will be really confusing for the kids.  Ethan and Nathan.  WOW!  A lifetime of getting them confused.

    For the record, I am 30-something years old and I can count on ONE HAND (you read that right) the amount of times my father only went through TWO of my sisters names before he got mine right.  We could not have names that are more different from each other.  It’s not like our parents named us Kristen, Karen, Kaitlin and Keiran.  So I maintain that if my father couldn’t even get our very different names right then what’s the big deal with Ethan and Nathan?  That and my husband has been calling him Nathan since my 5 month ultrasound so it seems a little cruel to call him something different.  Even if that bad boy comes out looking like a Mortimer, Nathan it is.

    So, to the person who shall remain nameless, we probably don’t need to have that “Nathan, or if you decide to name him something else, of course you can, I mean you don’t have to name him Nathan so we really don’t even need to call him Nathan yet” for every conversation in the last 3 months, his name is Nathan.  I know we are throwing you off since the last person in the family who had a baby didn’t name him for 2 1/2 weeks after he was born. 

    And while we are discussing it, we did NOT name Ethan after the Ethan Allen Furniture Store.  Please stop telling people that.

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    Ever seen that Dateline special on the germ count on the floors of locker rooms?

    January 25, 2007

    It was only when I got to the Rec Center that I realized I had left the towels by the front door at home.  So it is snowing.  I’m Ginny’s daughter.  I’ll figure this out because BY GOD, I am not take THE POSSESSED ONE home without his burning at least 700 calories in the pool.  I grabbed the Bounty from the trunk of my car (thank you, Derek, for always preparing for the car-trapped-in-the-blizzard/end-of-the-world-scenarios that I mock you about continuously).  30 minutes of splashing coupled with 2 attempts at near drowning and we found ourselves back in the locker room. 

    By golly, Bounty IS the quicker-picker-upper.  I left The Boy standing in the hot shower with the largest stall and I crammed myself into the corner to dry myself off and reclothe.  When I was done, I papertoweled him off and threw most of his clothes on him.  We went around the corner to finish dressing by the lockers and there was a woman there with her 4 year old and her 18 month old.   I just plodded along getting dressed as The Boy went in and out of the perfectly Ethan-sized locker in front of me.  Suddenly the other little girl was doing it too.

    W:  EMILY, I DON’T want you in that locker.
    E:  Why Mommy?
    W:  I just don’t want you in it.
    E:  Why Mommy?  Tell me why.  I want to know why.

    The woman made a furtive glance in my direction.

    W:  I’ll tell you in the car, Emily.  For now you just need to know that Mommy doesn’t want you to do it.

    Maybe it was my “Mommy Wants a Cocktail” t-shirt barely covering my belly.  Maybe it was the 10 pounds of melons encased in the black bra underneath the powder blue shirt.  Maybe it was the oh so fashionable brown cord pants with the huge forgotten pizza stain on my knee.  Maybe it was the thong underwear on a 9 month pregnant woman.  Maybe it was the fact that I was drying my son off with Bounty paper towels.  Maybe it was that locker rooms at gyms are the nastiest places on earth and she was waiting to get to the minivan in order to tell Emily that Mommy doesn’t want Emily to get an STD from climbing in and out of a locker that “may have been infected.” 

    All I know is that while she spent that time trying to telepathetically explain to Emily that she couldn’t tell her WHY she couldn’t get into the locker (“Emily, only bad mothers let their children play in lockers”), I was able to not only get my pants on, but my socks AND shoes on my pretty little non-swollen feet too. 

    K:  Where’s Ethan?
    E:  HERE HE IS!!!!!

    Out he jumped and we were on our way.

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    Luckily we aren’t paying by the pound for the melons

    January 24, 2007

    Last night I trudged up the stairs because there was a commotion regarding my failure to wash the Thomas the Train pajamas from Nana.  I guess you could call it a commotion about the locomotion.  Ta, da, DUM.  (I’ll be here all week, folks).

    As I hit the top of the stairs, I could hear my son still in the shower singing “happy birthday to you” in Toddler-eze.  My husband walked around the corner in his underwear.  I gave his waist the hairy eyeball.

    D:  What are you looking at?
    K:  You.  Gaining your weight back.
    D:  Am not.
    K:  Hold on, I’ll get the scale out.

    K:   AHHHH HAAA!!! you gained 4 pounds. 
    D:  Actually I think it is more like 3.
    K:  Whatever.
    D:  Where do you think YOU are going?  Get on that scale, Cheesecake Girl.

    D:  What are you doing?
    K:  I’m taking all my clothes off.  You are wearing your underwear so I’m going to wear mine.
    D:  No offense but I think your underwear are A LOT lighter than mine.
    K:  WHATEVER.  

    I got on the scale and screamed because I had only gained 2 pounds in the last 2 weeks.  And I ate a whole cheesecake.  “It’s your birthday…it’s your birthday…who’s your daddy?  Who’s your daddy?”

    D:  Well…..
    K:  I rock.
    D:  (leaning over my shoulder as we stood staring down at the scale–me with my ass pushed to the side so I could actually read the scale) Let me help you with that.
    K:  Huh?

    With that he grabbed both of sad, weary yet ample breasts and lifted them up.  We both leaned over to look at the scale and realized that suddenly I was 10 pounds lighter. 

    D:  Holy SHIT!  I’ve got 10 pounds of pure lovin’ in these hands.

    And all this time I was thinking it was my socks that were making me too heavy…

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