2 under 2 are kicking my a**

I'm tired. I have so much to say, but that's all I can seem to muster right now. These two little munchkins of mine are taking up all of my brainpower/energy (even though I'm having a great time through it all)...but here are some pics to make this blog seem a little less sad...from a series of attempts to get a cute shot of big sis/little bro. Olivia pretty much has Everett in a headlock for most of these shots, but I am sure he will get her back someday by holding her down and pretending to let spit drop onto her face (if you've had a big brother do this to you before, you know what I am talking about). Other than the occasional headlock, however, Olivia is being a great big sister. Anyway...

More pics to come...

Introducing

Born August 3, at 3:01 a.m., weighing in at 9 pounds, 20 inches, I bring you the cutest little meatball I've ever laid eyes on, Everett Russell:

I have lots more pictures and much more to say, but as usual, it will have to wait. Two kids under 2 = exhausting (yet the BEST!). I have a newfound respect for parents of multiples...

Hope everyone is doing well...

I'm still alive

Dude, I suck, I know. Worst. Blogger. Ever. I have been nonexistent here and some may wonder why I bother to come back at all. It's because I do one day plan to blog more consistently. It's just that right now, I'm in this whole new world of being home, being enormously pregnant, freelancing in my extra spare time and my other extra spare time, I'm just trying to spend as much time with my little girl as possible. Because soon, like really really soon (I'm 34 weeks pregnant today), she's not going to have me to herself anymore. And that thought is one I can not dwell on out of fear of bawling my hormonal eyes out.

So, I'd say don't give up on me, but don't count on me either. At least not for now. And who knows what might happen when we add a newborn to this scenario. But for right now, chances are, I'm probably busy swimming in the pool, making grilled cheese sandwiches, putting a sleepy toddler or tired mama down for a nap or inhaling strawberries from the farm stand down the street. Or cookies. You get the idea.

I seriously am considering calling the editors of the Reading Eagle and thanking them for laying me off. But not so much, since eventually, I will need a new job and this fantasy will all come to an end. Freelancing just doesn't make enough for me to do it full-time and well, money still doesn't grow on trees (but why hasn't someone figured this out yet??).

Hope everyone's having a great summer.

I'll try to at least check in once in a while...promise.

But in the meantime, cut me some slack, because it isn't easy being this gigantic:

Laid off, booted, kicked to the curb

I'll be posting an entry soon -- I'm just trying to adjust to the world of stay-at-home momdom, as I was laid off from my job of 8 years at the Reading Eagle a few weeks ago.
Not sure how often I'll be able to post for a while, but I will be back when I've got things figured out. After eight years of working every day, it has been quite a change.
I'll get to the whole big story and catch up soon.
But right now, my daughter is coloring on the walls, so I have to go...to be continued (probably during a naptime next time)....

Three months to go

It looks like my stomach is going to swallow up my firstborn in this shot. And I still have three more months to go...yikes.

On strange toddler behaviors and sales

This morning, as I was getting ready for work, I noticed Olivia was carrying around her Easter basket throughout the house. Inside were not the plastic eggs from Easter that are now cluttering our house, no. She prefers to carry around a pair of my underwear from the basket filled with (clean yet still unfolded) laundry that is sitting on my living room floor. Sometimes she like to put the underwear on her head.
I also caught her licking the kitchen floor the other day (????). But that's nothing unusual, since she also enjoys eating rocks and dirt when we are playing outside.
I'm hoping this is typical toddler behavior...or maybe she's just being silly like her dad. Yeah, we'll go with that.

In other news, I attended the Just Between Friends consignment sale that started yesterday and is going on through this weekend at the Reading Expo Center last night (you can download a free pass from the Web site). You can get some seriously sweet deals there, and I did, but you have to be ready to wade through the sea of crazy-ass mommies and grabby grandmas to do it. I like to consider myself a friendly person (I even brought the volunteers some extra plastic bags I was storing in my car to take to the grocery store to recycle so they could use them to bag items, hello, I gave them my trash, how nice is that??), but some of these ladies were just downright insane, especially the one woman who quite literally pushed in front of me and grabbed a shirt right out of my hands as I was taking it off the shelf then proceeded to look at me, flash me a fake smile and say "Oh, I'm sorry, I was just looking at this."

Don't mess with these women and discount children's clothing.

But it was worth it, because I got a lot of really nice (gently used) stuff for Olivia and the baby and I also got some nice maternity clothes for work, all for under $50.

For those who are in this area, it's going on all weekend so I recommend it, although you might want to consider body armor.

24 Weeks

Dear Son,


My how you have grown, and your kicks and rolls are proof of that (really, I had no idea little boys liked to kick their mamas in the hooha quite so frequently!). Babycenter has been keeping me updated on your progress, just as it did with your big sister. There's only one problem: It keeps making me picture you as a fruit or vegetable rather than a human child.


For instance, a mere two weeks ago you were my little spaghetti squash, then last week, you were a large mango (delicious!). This week, you are an ear of corn but next week, you're going to turn into a rutabaga! Can you even imagine? I can't, because I honestly don't really even know what a rutabaga looks like! Is it like a turnip? I had no idea. So I looked it up. And quite frankly, I was appalled. If you come out resembling this beast, I might be a little disturbed (although I will still love you just as much):





Is that hair on top?

At any rate, my sweet boy, you don't have to worry, as you have many delicious fruits and vegetables in your future of all shapes, colors and sizes: cucumbers and cauliflower, jicama and pineapple, until finally, in week 37, when you are the size of a watermelon and then, finally, as Babycenter so nonchalantly points out, a PUMPKIN. I know you do not yet know how babies are born, my dear boy, but trust me on this: If you are actually shaped like a pumpkin and not an actual baby (which is hard enough to give birth to), I'm in big big trouble.

Love,
Mommy

I called in sick yesterday...

...because when you are 23 weeks pregnant and too tired to even eat dinner, collapsing on the sofa after putting the baby to bed and not even bothering to so much as open the refrigerator door (let alone watch "Lost"), you know it is a sign that you need to take a break and rest, especially for me, who pretty much lives to eat these days.

And how sweet it was.


Russ took Olivia to Toys R Us, where she ooohh'd and aaahh'd and pointed at everything in sight, prompting him to buy her several of those things (bubble mower? sure! princess bouncy ball? why not? baby doll that crawls and says mamamama and is MOTION DETECTED therefore driving all of us nuts? ABsoLUTEly. Gotta love daddies, they are total suckers for their daughters.) Anyway, I didn't mind his spoiling her one bit because it meant I got to relax and eat strawberries with whipped cream for breakfast while watching all kinds of delicious daytime TV.

Then, after they got home, Olivia ate lunch and we both fell asleep for more than TWO HOURS.
It was beyond heaven. I truly needed that.


And, the #1 thing that made my sick day most worthwhile?

The UPS man delivered this beauty (THANK YOU SO MUCH Girl's Gone Child!!):





This is totally going to be me (except I will probably not be wearing make-up and my hair might not be brushed, but still:


Now that is what I call SEXY.

Thank God I know how to swim

I'm not going to beat around the bush here, the truth is, I'm struggling these days.
It always seems to come in waves -- those times when life just seems so overwhelming and barely manageable -- and the waves almost always knock me down and leave me crawling back to my beach towel, covered in sand and a sour taste of salt water in my mouth. On the upside of this metaphor that got away from me, at least I'm still on the beach, basking in the sunlight.
The truth is, I'd love to really be in my metaphor, preferably with some sort of alcoholic drink in hand, but instead, I'm sitting here at my desk, which I am growing increasingly bitter towards with each passing day.
My office mailbox is more and more frequently containing letters of gloom and doom, informing me of the latest cuts our company is making due to the increasing difficulty the newspaper industry is facing. Then, a ray of hope appeared inside one of those gloom and doom letters a few weeks ago. The letter was searching for people to volunteer to cut back their hours a bit to help "The Company" out with their financial woes and to prevent potential layoffs. I jumped at this opportunity, because cutting back my hours by two days/week would mean I would be able to stay home with Olivia (and baby #2 when he arrives) for two days per week and take her out of day care, where she seems to be picking up more germs than I can personally handle at this point. But I'll get to that in a minute. Currently, Olivia spends part of her week with my awesome mom, who I am eternally indebted to at this point (even more than I was before) and a couple days at day care. The cost of day care for two days for Olivia is just shy of $100 per week. When the new baby enters day care, he will cost a little more than that for two days. That equals $200 per week for just two days in day care and that equals about two days' work for me salary wise. SO, it occurred to me that instead of working to pay day care for two days, if they would give me the option, why not simply stay home and not have to pay day care at all for those two days? I'd break even and I'd be MUCH happier. So, I submitted a proposal. They have yet to approve it and every day they give me no news, I grow more and more agitated.
So there's that.
Then there's my baby girl, who is finally getting over yet another bout of her latest illness: High Feveritis. Really it was some sort of virus that caused her temp to spike up to nearly 105 (104.8 at it's highest check) and stay there for about three days. Meds helped some, lowering it to around 102 or so, but it was scary and miserable and we haven't been getting much sleep as a result of it. Also, when we are awake, we (and by we I mostly mean Olivia) has been whiney, clingy and miserable, not unlike her daddy when he gets sick, which he coincidentally is, as well, since he allows Olivia to give him sloppy baby kisses. I tell him that her saliva is dangerous, but he does not heed my warnings.
And then there's me, pregnant, oh so very pregnant these days, tired, oh so very tired, and just clinging to that ounce of energy I'm mustering up, mostly in the form of my measly cup of coffee in the morning.
I'm slacking on way more than blogging these days, I've got a to-do list 8 miles long.

On the bright side, I won a brand-new, hands-free, top-of-the-line Medela breastpump, their Cadillac of breastpumps that costs about $400 via random drawing. This is sad that a breastpump is what gets me excited these days, I realize this, but what can I say? I never win anything, first of all, and more important, I won't have to lug around my old gigantic pump to work every day anymore, because this one is tiny and fits in the palm of my hand! I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm actually looking forward to pumping breastmilk! Well, maybe I won't go that far. But I am very excited.

While I am completely overwhelmed and tired these days, I'm also so thankful for my daughter and this little guy in my belly (who's seriously working on his dancing moves these days in my uterus) because they are keeping me going.

They are keeping me on that beach, soaking in those warm, wonderful rays, filled with gratitude, even though those waves keep on coming. They are the reason I can keep on swimming and not sink like a rock.

(My beach metaphor just reminded me of this one hilarious beach trip I took in high school with my friends, when I was skinny and able to pull off a teeny bikini, and we were all in the ocean...I dove through a wave in my bikini and stood straight up for all the world to see me, not realizing I'd lost the top of of my suit somewhere in the drink. I finally realized I was topless and managed to find my suit floating nearby, but the damage had been done on that day at that crowded beach in Ocean City, New Jersey.)

I'm glad I ate ice chips for 20+ hours last time

Eating during labor has no ill effects, study says
Wed, Mar 25, 2009 (Reuters Health) — Allowing a pregnant woman to eat during labor does not seem to have any impact on the outcome of the infant or mother, and doesn't increase the risk of vomiting, according to a new study.
The findings come from a study of 2426 pregnant women in labor who were allowed to eat lightly or to have just water during labor.
Researchers failed to see any significant differences between the two groups. Eating lightly during labor had no effect on the length of labor, the need for assisted delivery, such as the use of forceps, or Cesarean section rates.
Forty-four percent of women who ate a light diet during labor had a spontaneous normal vaginal delivery -- a rate identical to the rate seen in their peers who were permitted to have only water, Dr. Andrew Shennan, from King's College London, and colleagues report.
The cesarean delivery rate was 30 percent in each group, and rates of instrument-assisted vaginal delivery were 27 percent in the eating group and 26 percent in the water group.
The average length of labor was slightly but not significantly shorter in the eating group versus the water-only group (597 vs. 612 minutes).
The incidence of vomiting was nearly the same as well, at 35 percent and 34 percent in the two groups. There were no significant differences in any infant outcomes were observed between the groups.
The study appears in the March 24th Online First issue of the British Medical Journal.
In a commentary on the study, Dr. Soo Downe, from the University of Central Lancashire, UK, notes that the results "reinforce what has already been shown in many observational studies" and show that low risk women may eat lightly during labor.-- Reuters

Pink is soo last season.

Olivia: A brother? What do you mean I'm going to have a brother??

That's right folks, it's a boy. A BOY! Imagine that. I was convinced we were having another girl, I'd even dreamed about it. I don't know why, I just figured I was a girl-making machine. I was shocked to see a penis on that ultrasound screen, but it was there, plain as day. We're thrilled.

Oh, and please pass along any name ideas, as we have no clue what we will be calling this little rock star (and while cheese curl, aka "Curly" would certainly be appropriate, seeing as he is made up mostly of them so far, I can't imagine he'd be thrilled with the idea of having the same name as one of the Stooges, but thanks for the idea, Angela :)

A day in the life: A pictorial entry

Here's a typical day in the life of our very energetic one-year-old:

Mid-walk comments (pardon my out-of-shape, out-of-breath heavy breathing):

And when she's finally worn out:

It's bedtime:

The end.

19 weeks...

...and growing strong

Cheese curls make me happy

My last post was informing everyone about how people can once again comment on this blog but I guess it is a little hard to comment when there is nothing to comment on. Oops.

I have plenty of excuses, like I've been sick and Olivia's been sick and I've been trying to be a good employee and work so I don't get fired (which might happen anyway given the state of the newspaper industry these days) and I'm just busy and pregnant and tired and UUUUGGHHGHGHGH I'm so f*&(mailto:$*%5E@#%#ing SICK OF WINTER it isn't even funny and I guess I just didn't think anyone would want to listen to me whine like this. And frankly I'm sick of hearing it myself so I'll try to move on and talk about things that are more exciting.

I'll start with my belly and the little person inside of it. I'm 18 weeks along now. My belly is growing, along with my appetite. The other day, I felt a little tap tap tapping going on in there and I forgot how amazing that feeling is. I took the tapping to be morse code and translated the code as follows: "Mommy, I would like some cheese curls, please."
Now I am not one to deprive my children of the things they need, so I proceded to rush out and purchase some cheese curls. I never buy cheese curls. I don't know if I have ever bought cheese curls before, except for when throwing parties, because doesn't every party require a bowl of bright orange cheesy puffs?
Anyway, I digress. My point is my newest craving is cheese curls. All I can think about right now is cheese curls. I have some on my desk. I can see them from here. They are calling to me. But it is only 10 a.m. and I feel like eating cheese curls before noon is like having a drink before noon. You just shouldn't do it.
But when that clock strikes 12, I'm all over them.
Contrary to what this entry seems to be indicating, I'm actually doing quite well on the weight gain side of things this go-round. I have a feeling that may have something to do with (a) having a stomach flu not long ago and (b) chasing Olivia around the house during every second of our waking hours.
She is getting more and more fun by the day, but also more and more defiant and naughty. I know it is her learning to test limits, judge reactions and just generally be a typical toddler but seriously, that little girl has got a serious stubborn streak. But she's also so unbelievably loveable and silly and fun that I don't mind her occasional tantrums. In fact, they kind of make me laugh because they are just so dramatic. She is a clone of my husband in every respect.
Anyway, in a couple of weeks, I will find out the sex of this little cheese curl in my belly. But for now, I wait. I wait and I wait and I wait. It seems to be the story of my life anymore, waiting. And when I'm not waiting, I'm trying to slow time down. When you want time to fly, it drags. When you want it to drag, it flies.
Is there no normal speed? Why is it all slo-mo or fast-forward? Wtf?
Ok, that's all I've got for now. I can't resist the urge. I'm going for the cheese curls. It is 10:25. But it's not like I'm reaching for a vodka cranberry or anything, it's only a cheese curl. Or 20.

*ed. note: # of times I said "cheese curl" in this entry: 12. That's saying something (it's saying that I'm crazy).

I don't know how but...

I think I fixed my blog so people can comment again. I am not very technologically savvy, but I fiddled around, clicked and unclicked things and think I fixed it.
I also got rid of my old template because I thought maybe that had something to do with it, so I'm back to plain jane. But I'll fix that too, eventually.

Happy *belated* Pukentine's Day

Well, this Valentine's Day was officially a BUST.
It all started last Thursday, when I got a phone call from day care telling me Olivia was getting kicked out because she had two explosions in her diaper in a matter of a couple of hours and it was so nasty that there was no way they were going to change another one (this isn't what they actually said, but it is undoubtedly what they were thinking and if you've ever changed a sick baby's diaper, you know exactly what I mean). Oh, and by the way, if you are prone to queasiness or are uncomfortable hearing about puking or pooping, best not read this entry because it is so NOT about romance and hearts and love and so all about puke and poop, hence the blog title.
Anyway, I left work and rushed to pick up Seniorita StinkyPants and spent the rest of the day at home with her (and her germs). The following day, Russ took a sick day (foreshadowing, perhaps?) and stayed home with her and her germs because she was quarantined from day care for 24 hours.
Then Friday night came. We got take-out because I didn't feel like cooking and I had some cheese fries (healthy pregnancy diet, I know, I was craving them and trust me, I was punished for it). Russ had some fries, too, and also a sandwich of some kind.
That night, all of these things came back to haunt us in what has become the longest, most miserable night that I can remember. I don't know if the food was bad or we got Olivia's virus, but the night was filled with trips to the bathroom, nausea and stomach pain for both of us and a baby who was awake most of that time due to the scary sounds she was hearing coming from mommy and daddy. Feb. 14, 2009 will go down in history as the day we spent lying on the floor/couch feeling like death warmed over while trying to also care for a toddler.
My mother-in-law came over to try to help us with Olivia, but since she decided that it was a good day to start a wicked case of separation from mommy anxiety, she wailed when I moved more than 5 feet out of her sight. This made life difficult when I had to use the bathroom, which was often.
I'm not going to go on and on about what went on in our house while everyone else feasted on champagne and strawberries and heart-shaped chocolates (or at least that is what I envisioned while I felt sorry for myself), but I will say that Cupid owes us big time. I mean, I don't usually expect much for Valentine's Day, I was just excited about a night out with my husband, in a real-life restaurant for once. And I can guarantee you that if that night out actually had happened, I would have definitely not ordered a bowl of chicken soup, crackers and ginger ale (Tums for dessert).
But I suppose it could have been worse -- a friend of mine had a sewage backup in her house on Saturday. There was something in the air at her house, but like at mine, it was definitely NOT love.

A belated birthday letter for my sweet 1-year-old

Dear Olivia,

Let's just start by saying that between your mommy and your daddy, you are doomed when it comes to time management. And with both of us working full time, your daddy actually working two jobs right now being a basketball coach (on a side note, his team won the division title this year, so you must be a good luck charm!), not to mention having a little wild child running around like a maniac (that's you), let's just say your first birthday letter is just now getting itself written. I still have to update your baby book and the journal I have been keeping for you since I became pregnant with you, but every free moment I have, I can't help but spend kissing and hugging and tickling you non-stop. Trust me, if you saw yourself, and how unbearably kissable/huggable/tickleable you are, you would totally understand.

ANYWAY, enough with the excuses and on to the praise and adoration.

You, my dear, have made the last year of our lives by far, hands down, the best year ever.

You are bright, silly, loveable and affectionate and you are also a professional walker these days, even though you fall down more often than anyone I have ever seen, even me, who is as clutzick (that's poorly spelled PA Dutch, I'll teach you about that one day, don't worry) as they come.

We had a huge party at our tiny house for your birthday. People came from far and wide to attend and packed themselves like sardines into our hot house just to watch you, yes YOU, dig into a cake almost as big as you are with your bare hands. You were a little confused about this, wondering (a) why everyone was staring at you and (b) why on God's green earth I was allowing you to eat such a large amount of sugar in one sitting. You finally lost it when daddy had the nerve to dab a bit of frosting on your nose (so cute!) but let's just say you were not happy about it and you burst into tears. When we calmed you down and cleaned you up, you were back to your old happy self and went on to playing with your other baby friends and the 4,000 baby dolls you received as gifts (a popular gift when you are in training to be a big sister).

As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words, so I will finish this birthday letter with a few photos from the big day. But before I go, I just want to say, Happy First Birthday, Livvy-Loo, and even though I know you will one day yell at me for calling you that, that's just too bad because it goes with the song I made up for you which I promise to sing to you up to, including and even after your wedding day. And let's just hope that day doesn't come as quickly as this first birthday did.

I love you, baby girl. I love you through and through. Yesterday, today and tomorrow, too. Thank you for being you.

Kisses,

Mommy

For real labor vs. 90210 labor

In our house, we watch 90210 reruns. A lot.

We watch them on Saturday morning, alternating between that, Blue's Clues, ESPN (yuck) and the Food Network (yum). There are also reruns conveniently on just after I get home from work. Olivia likes to dance to the theme song - a 90210 fan in training. One day, I'll teach her about all the wonders of this spectacular show and we'll watch a marathon of all of the episodes. (Don't even get me started on the "new" 90210, which I will admit to watching, but not enjoying.)

If you've watched the (original) show, you know the story lines aren't always the most realistic and are most frequently downright ridiculous.


Sometimes, the writers strayed away from the usual story lines (Kelly loves Dillon, no she loves Brandon, no she loves Dillon, Steve tries unsuccessfully yet again to get some action with his 80's mullet and too-tight jeans, David tries yet again to take Donna's virginity, etc.).


But one of the most outrageous of them all was when Nat married that old chick, Joanie - his old flame - and her water broke during the ceremony. First of all, she's like 60 (not that 60-year-olds can't have babies, but it doesn't happen often, as far as I know). Second of all, what is WITH the way TV shows portray labor and delivery? Do they not do ANY research at all? Anyone watching knows it rarely happens that way.

These shows, and this one particular 90210 episode was an extreme example, portray it as this huge whirlwind of drama (maybe condensed for the sake of time?) with water breaking followed by immediate intense contractions and breathing and screaming and being rushed through the halls of the hospital on a stretcher to TADA! there's the baby! Perfectly clean and about 3 months old and practically speaking its first words right there, moments after emerging from his mother's womb.

All of us who have been there know it totally doens't happen this way.

Case in point:
My water broke while I was at work, but it didn't completely break, so I wasn't even entirely sure it was even broken. So just in case, I took an early lunch break and went to Wawa to fill up my tank (I needed gas if I was going to the hospital) and grab some lunch (I was NOT about to go into labor on an empty stomach and ice chips were so not going to cut it.)
And it was agood thing I did because I ended up laboring for count them 24 whole hours before Olivia decided to make her grand entrance at 2:04 p.m. the following day.

There was a lot of drama, yes, right around the time when I was about 8 cm. dilated, writhing in pain from the pitocen-induced contractions that were ripping my insides apart every 60 seconds and the f*&(%*#$$^*(@#*&*%(#g anesthesiologist dared be stuck on icy roads on the way to work....but that didn't happen for at least 10+ hours after my water "broke" in the office.

My point is I'd like to seriously write a letter to Hollywood and tell them to do some research because they really have it all wrong.

And by the way, writing this post just brought on a near-anxiety attack at the idea of going through all that again. I can only hope everyone is telling me the truth when they say the second one comes much more quickly than the first.

What's become of me?

At one point in my life, I was a night person. I stayed up late and slept in until noon. But then life happened and I started having actual responsibilities that prevented me from sleeping the day away. When I was 19, I worked in the evenings and the only morning responsibilities I had were college classes, and duh, everyone knows the attendance at morning classes in college are optional.

A few seasons ago, I had an unhealthy addiction to "Lost." I watched that show religiously and I will even admit to looking up details about the episode the following day. I wasn't quite as diehard as some who spend time in Lostie chat rooms and read about every theory on every Lost blog on the Internet (you know who you are) but I was definitely caught up in the island and the numbers and the hatch and everything else and found myself theorizing about the Dharma Initiative and The Others at various moments througout the day. I looked forward to Wednesday nights almost as much as I looked forward to Thursday nights in college. Almost.

And then I gave birth to an adorable, perfect, wonderful little energy-sucker (and watched the season finale of Lost while in labor in the hospital) and my days of being a night-owl were restricted to middle of the night feedings and rocking of said energy sucker. From that moment on, my energy levels have been at their highest in the morning and pretty much not existent by around 9 p.m. And 10 p.m.? Forget about it. Add the first trimester of a pregnancy to the mix and I'm lucky I'm not falling asleep right here at my desk while I type this (actually, I kinda am a little).

Now, after working all day, chasing the energy-sucker around the house all evening, feeding her, giving her a bath and getting her ready for bed/putting her to bed, then making (the adults) dinner and cleaning up, it's a miracle I get my teeth brushed, let alone have the mental capacity to decipher how Ben was able to manipulate the time/space contiuum.

I think it's time for Tivo.

Olivia's first birthday wishlist

The big O-N-E is just around the corner, people, the invitations have been mailed out and all that's left to do is, oh, just about everything including: Clean the house, buy decorations/food, decorate/make food, get baby a party dress, get mommy a party dress that doesn't make her look fat (read: not likely) and did I say clean the house?

Oh, and there's one more important thing that I still need to do: Buy my child a birthday gift.

But what does a parent get for a child on such an important milestone? A special book? Perhaps an expensive toy that makes lots of annoying noises?

I was just not sure. So, I decided to ask the guest of honor what she'd like. She's not feeling too well these days, sporting a 103+ fever (102 with medicine), but that will not stop my little furnace baby from playing and it certainly wouldn't stop her from giving me her birthday wish list. Yes, she gave me her list in non-comprehensible baby babble, but I am her mother, people, I can translate such jibberish.

Olivia's Wish List:

1.) Tupperware containers.

2.) Fuzzies, old cheerios and/or dried-up peas from the corner of the kitchen floor that she can eat as a snack.

3.) Anything breakable, such as drinking glasses (full of liquid would be even better, because I like to grab those and pour them all over myself when no one's looking).

4.) Remote controls.

5.) Coasters.

6.) Any/all food that you are currently eating.

7.) Mommy's bras.

8.) A cell phone (they apparently learn to want these early on).

9.) An electrical outlet (without childproof covers).

10.) Anything sharp, jagged or otherwise dangerous for a baby.

Of course, upon receiving her list, I made no promises, and told her that we already have all of these things, most of which she isn't allowed to play with, so why would she want more of these things?

She responded in the way she does when I take something away from her she isn't supposed to have, with a high-pitched screech that sounds like a pterodactyl in heat, to which I responded: "Keep it up young lady and you'll get nothing for your birthday!"

Ahh, yes. Let the toddler years begin.

Nonsensical rant, brought to you by trimester #1

I am officially a giant ball of hormones right now. I cry, scream and whine at just about everything. People (especially rude people) are usually the cause of my annoyance, which quickly escalates into all-out rage with very little instigation, but inanimate objects can do the trick just as well. Case in point: I was carrying a used coffee filter full of soggy coffee grounds to the trash can in the kitchen the other night when the filter ripped and the grounds fell to the floor. If anything like this has ever happened to you, you know that coffee grounds make a mess. And it was in the evening when I am at my most tired (I was prepping our coffeemaker for the next morning -- yes, I am still drinking coffee, I DARE you to lecture me). Anyway, I freaked. I totally, needlessly, dramatically, threw a hissy-fit in the middle of the kitchen floor. My husband got mad at me for overreacting, which only made me fume even more. "Don't even go there, man who got me into this mess to begin with," is what I was thinking.

Combine my volatility towards human beings and inanimate objects alike with the nausea and extreme fatigue I've been feeling, not to mention having no clothes to wear because you are too fat for regular clothes and still too small for maternity clothes and you have one messed up pregnant chick on your hands.

This, my friends, is the emotional rollercoaster brought to you by the first trimester of pregnancy. It is worse this time around and I don't know exactly why, except that I think maybe that I am twice as tired and mixing fatigue with raging pregnancy hormones are a deadly combination. Deadly. They should totally bottle this stuff and use it as a chemical weapon.

There are sappy sweet parts of my emotional rollercoaster, as well. It's sort of like the waiting in line for the rollercoaster in 95 degree weather at an amusement park and no one around you is wearing deodorant and the guy behind you keeps stepping on your foot and pushing you, followed by the adrenaline rush of going down the hill, wind flowing through your hair, butterflies in your stomach, immediately followed by the abrupt end of the ride that takes place seconds later leading you to wonder why the f*&$ you just wasted 45 minutes in a line filled with sweaty, stinky, annoying people for that one little thrill.

I lost the metaphor in there somewhere (even telling a fictional story about waiting in line at an amusement parks agitates me), but the point is I am not always a total bitch (I think that's the point).

Sometimes my hormones cause me to be sweet and sentimental and cry tears of joy (sort of like how I am when I've had too much wine....which I miss terribly). This is almost exclusively reserved to moments when I am with my daughter -- hanging out with her happens to be the one and only way to cheer me up and calm me down when I'm out of control. (You know there's something wrong when not even a milkshake can help me.)

For instance, when Olivia walks across the room, with her little legs and her little pink mary janes and her tiny little butt and her little hands flapping in the air, I just stare at her in awe and it makes me cry. She is just so proud of herself (and I have to say I am too). Or when she comes up to me, rests her adorable little head on my shoulder, gives me a hug, pats me on the back and tells me some little story in her own little language, then I cry some more. But they are good, wonderful, joyous tears.

So yeah, to say I'm emotional right now would be an understatement.

I cry at everything. I yell at everything. I would smack several of my co-workers if I could (if you're reading this, co-worker, of course I don't mean you), I would even smack complete strangers if I could and I would run every slow-ass driver off the road with my car if it weren't completely illegal and totally unsafe.*

I hate feeling like this, but it is really and truly out of my control. And I can not WAIT until it is all over and the breezy second trimester begins when it is all cute little baby bumps, fluttering in the tummy and eating ice cream for dinner.

But the dreaded first trimester won't be over for a while, and before it is, I will have to get through my baby's first birthday without sobbing openly and dripping snot all over her first-ever birthday cake. That will be a real feat and I can't promise I'll be able to do it. In fact, I have a good feeling there will be tears and quite possibly snot. I'll just try not to get it on the cake. That would be gross.

But really, do you blame me?? My firstborn beautiful baby girl is turning ONE YEAR OLD. I know this happens to everyone's children, that all parents go through it and only when it is happening to your own child does it seem so monumental, so dramatic, so unbelievably important. It's like the cliche goes: You don't understand it until it happens to you.
Well, it's happening. My baby is growing up before my eyes.
Everyone warned me that it would happen soon, quickly, that I will blink and she'll be a year old. And they were all right.















See, just posting this picture made me get teary-eyed.

*Disclaimer: I know I'm beyond blessed. I've got this beautiful little girl, I've got another one on the way (an active little swimmer, according to the doctor who chased the little bean around my stomach trying to listen to his/her heartbeat yesterday), but if you have been hormonal, you know this: There is no rhyme or reason. There is no justification. You aren't able to see through the cloud of progesterone and estrogen to count your blessings. You can only see whatever emotion is blinding you at that particular moment.
And yes, I am most definitely whining, complaining, bitching, call it what you like. A good friend of mine whose opinion I respect immensely told me that I should be more open and candid in this blog, since I am no longer under the iron fist of my employer. And it is true. It will take some getting used to, after writing with a filter for so long, but now I can finally let it all out. (And if you're still reading this, you see that I clearly need some sort of release). So fair warning: I may not always be G-rated. I might talk about my boobs and other body parts in detail. I might even swear if I'm feeling really wild and out of control (so don't let your kids read this and if you have me linked somewhere where there are well-mannered grandmas and such reading, you might want to remove this particular blog, just to avoid any awkwardness). I do have my very tame, safe for grandmas family/friends blog where I post all the pictures of Olivia with little captions and it is beyond G-rated, but this blog is officially going to be my place to cut loose from now on. I'm not saying I'm going to post anything obscene, of course, but I'm just saying this is going to be a place for me to vent (i.e. complain, whine, moan). That's sort of the purpose of blogs, at least personal ones like this one. So listen, all I'm saying is if you don't like what you see here then don't read it. If you do, then I love and appreciate that you're reading and I hope you will stick around and share the next exciting months with me. They will get better, I promise. Right now, however, I go from wanting to stick a pencil in my eyeball to wanting to lay down on the floor and cry to wanting to eat a cupcake, all in a matter of minutes. It is hormone-induced multiple personality disorder. Could make for some fun reading, if you're into that sort of thing...

Have a great weekend. I'll try my hardest to do the same.

Letter to my devoted friend, the saltine

Dear Saltine cracker,

I know, I know, all my life, I've never paid too much attention to you. I've crumbled you into chicken soup or stashed you in the back of my desk drawer for an emergency snack. I've really been an awful snob.
And now here I am, all of a sudden, singing your praises and acting like we're the best of friends.
But I would like to apologize for all those years of neglect, because you, my friend (I hope you don't mind if I call you my friend?), have truly rescued me from the deep, dark depths of the toilet over these last few weeks. I'm not used to this whole nausea thing, as with my first pregnancy, I could have eaten anything I laid eyes on (and usually did). But this time, if I don't have something in my stomach at all times, I instantly feel like puking my guts out. This is where you come in.
I take you with me everywhere I go and I believe the two of us have formed a bit of a bond.
In the morning, when the thought of oatmeal or eggs make my stomach turn, there you are to calm the sour empty pit that has become my stomach.
In the afternoon, just before lunch, when I feel like barfing all over my keyboard because I've allowed my stomach to become empty, you call to me from my desk drawer.
And in the evening, when I can't wait for dinner but an unable to cook it due to the queasiness that makes me have to lay down, you get me through. I take you with me in the car, I carry you in my purse.
I suppose there will come a day when I will no longer need you; when I may even (don't hate me for this) grow sick of the sight of you, but as of right now, being 10 weeks pregnant and always on the verge of getting sick (but haven't yet thanks to you), I have come to realize that you are my true and loyal friend.
If there's anything I can do for you to return the favor (maybe spread some peanut butter and jelly on you?), you just say the word. It's the least I can do.

All my love,
Amelia