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    Cultural diversity or pee?

    May 26, 2005

    I would really like to blog about my conversation with my BRAND NEW
    FRIEND that I met at Big Ray’s funeral today, but he was a bit stodgy
    about the whole blogging thing and practically made me swear that I
    would not mention him or any likeness of him that may be discovered by
    some random person in some random area of the world that will be
    brought up to him in conversation at a later date. For a person in a
    profession that requires a “look at me, look at me” attitude, I think I
    might even find that remotely refreshing.

    I could also blog
    about the ants in my mother’s house because they are worthy of their
    own story/recognition. Right now I have the minutest ant running up and
    down my arm. I can feel him but he is too fast and I have wasted too
    much energy slapping skin unproductively.

    I could blog about the
    little incident on the playground when an unidentified family member
    was so excited about being on the mile-high slide that he/she failed to
    go to the bathroom and just pooped in his/her pants. And then went down
    the slide, which led to an epic mess. After a long (and might I say
    VERY drawn out saga), the underwear ended up in the trash can. In case
    anyone is wondering, it was not me….

    So I guess I’ll settle for
    last night’s drama. To set the story up properly, the Boo Boo Kitty,
    after a miserable time last week of
    “let’s-learn-to-sleep-in-our-own-bed-because-Mom-is-tired-of-having-you-plastered-to-her,”
    the Boo is living La Vida Loca because he is at Marmie’s house this
    week. Marm doesn’t have a crib and Mom decided she wasn’t going to lug
    one more thing on the plane, like a crib, so now he gets to sleep
    directly against Mom, like a Boo sandwich, all night long, GDI. In
    Mom’s bed from high school. Which sags toward the middle precariously
    for anyone in it since it is like 20 years old.

    All was right with the world.

    Until
    3 am last night. When I awakened soaking wet in a pool of only God
    knows what. Oh my God, did I wet the bed? I don’t think I have wet the
    bed in around 30 years. I think. Anyway, I think Derek could verify
    that I haven’t wet the bed in the last year and a half, at least.

    So
    I am soaked and there is so much damn pee that it had to have been me.
    Except that I have to go to the bathroom really bad. Wouldn’t I feel
    relief if I had already peed? I looked at the baby. He’s only 14 lbs.
    Could he have peed that much? I mean, really. There was so much pee
    that he would have had to, like, pee forever to wet this bed this good.

    This probably wouldn’t have happened if I had just listened to
    my mother and used the bigger diapers she bought instead of being my
    cheap-ass, unemployed self, determined to use up every damn diaper I
    have, since I only have to buy around 6,000 more before this kid stops
    peeing on me.

    If my BRAND NEW FRIEND, whom shall remain
    nameless, has found this blog, I hope he is thinking that our
    conversation today regarding American culture would have been a much
    more appropriate read than this and that he knows that this is all his
    fault.

    OK, not true. I would have written about the pee anyway. It was a life-altering experience.

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    Bodily functions and how someone else’s is grosser than your own

    May 21, 2005

    I’m done with it. I realize that nobody wants to hear it and that I was
    determined to not be one of those mothers that spends a lifetime
    discussing bodily functions, but I don’t think I can do it anymore. The
    pee, the poop and above all others, the spit up. It is so nasty. And
    why does it seem like I’m the only person that is grossed out so
    utterly and completely by my child?

    Today I spent the day with
    my friend Adrian and her family to celebrate her graduation from GMU
    School of Nursing (you go, girl). Her aunt Renee was desperate to hold
    E.

    KH: But he’ll spit up on you.
    R: I don’t care.

    What
    do you mean, you don’t care? How can you not care that there will no
    longer be one inch of dry clothing on your body when you finally hand
    this child back to me?

    Today he spit up Matrix style. As it came
    out of his mouth, I was so stunned I could not move. It made an arc to
    the side and then, wonder of all wonders, angled back and landed right
    in my cleavage. All 2 ounces. He smiled sweetly, but it didn’t matter.

    But
    I think that the best is yet to come. Yesterday I experienced something
    that can possibly be even grosser than E’s neverending spit up.

    Marelle’s 18 month old, Elijah, is getting a couple of molars. With his teething came a cold.

    MA: His snot is not green, it’s yellow. I promise.

    Guess who was looking through rose-colored glasses?

    But
    the color wasn’t what was so fascinating about Elijah’s snot. It was
    the fact that his snot ran from his nose like Angel Falls. Just when
    you thought there could be no more fluid in his little body, the snot
    would run over his lip and down to his chin. In his parent’s defense,
    they were on top of the situation as much as possible. His father Eliot
    followed him for the entire 4 hours he was here, and went through what
    seemed like at least 7 rolls of toilet paper, wiping that poor kid’s
    nose.

    No end in sight. I thought that maybe a wet/dry vac might
    be an option, but it seemed cruel in retrospect and probably could have
    ended a 20 year friendship if I had suggested it.

    I hate vomit, but I’m guessing I’m going to hate boogers more.

    Whose idea was this anyway?

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