Here's what you can do with your cookies, Governor.

Yesterday, Governor Pat McCroy took a plate of cookies to a group of women protesting outside of the governor's mansion.

They chanted back at him, "Pat, Pat, Pat was rude. Would you give cookies to a dude?"

His spokesperson responded with this comment:

"Sometimes a plate of cookies is just a plate of cookies."

Wait. His spokeswoman released that statement. 

She's wrong. If I take a plate of cookies to a neighbor, it means something. Maybe they've had a bad week, and it's a plate of cookies that says, 

"I'm sorry it's been rough. This is me caring through cookies."

I might take a plate of cookies to our friend's monthly neighborhood happy hour. That would be a plate of cookies that says,

"Thank you for including us. This is me building community through cookies."

Maybe I send a plate of cookies into school when it's my child's birthday. Those cookies say,

"Let's celebrate together. It's a special day, and I'm sharing my joy with you through cookies." 

His spokeswoman knew better. She knows that a plate of cookies always means something. Nothing goes without meaning. Especially in Southern Politics. 

Here are some things that plate of cookies could have said,

"Sorry I broke a significant campaign promise and signed that bill."

"Sorry I signed a bill that we tried to pull off as being about women's health but really will be closing abortion clinics all across the state. Oh, and sorry we called it a motorcycle safety bill. We thought it was funny at the time, but I see now that it was degrading and hurtful."

"Sorry I took time to step out and play catch while you were asking for my time and attention earlier this summer. I should have known you had things to tell me that weighed heavy on your hearts and minds, and that it was my duty to listen."

"Sorry I've done nothing but mock you with my condescending ways and then called you the ones misinterpreting it because I was just being nice and you are too sensitive. I should own my actions and be more honest."

"Sorry I keep doing things that are ruining our state. I just can't seem to help myself. It's so easy to make all this political stuff about me and my buddies. Here, have some cookies to help you feel better."

They didn't say any of that, of course. What they did say was this,

"Aren't you pathetic, still outside my mansion, protesting the motorcycle safety bill. It's signed. It's done. Have a cookie and go home."

"Have a cookie. If you were at home, you could have made them yourself."

"It's not about your opinion on my policies. It's about COOKIES."

"I didn't have time for you when the Legislature was still in session, but look how kind I am now. I bring you COOKIES."

"Here are some cookies. Just because I'm a swell guy. Now go ahead and point out what they really are, and I'll release a statement dismissing you again, calling you overly sensitive. Making it seem like you really just don't understand how things in the big boys' world work."

I'm discouraged. I'm disillusioned. The state I came to 15 years ago is turning into the state I left behind. I can't count the number of times I've been told, "You are just too sensitive. This is just the way things are." 

I'm not too sensitive. I see things for what they really are. And that plate of cookies, Governor McCroy? Well, it would have been far better received if it had come with a main course of stop-screwing-our-state-over.

This is it. This is the time where we decide if we are going to let North Carolina continue on it's downward spiral, or if we are going to stand up and call out the cookies. I'm calling them out.

You will not trivialize this, Governor McCroy. You will not attempt to position protesters in such a way that you can shrug and say, 

"I took them cookies. I'm a nice guy. What more could they possibly want?"

You know what we want. We want our state back. Cookies aren't fixing anything. 

Monday, Monday

Apparently, I have needed a hiatus. I didn't know I needed a hiatus, but it's been a little over two weeks since I wrote anything, and I haven't opened my Google Reader in over a month.

I'm just a little stabby.

Random things get to me. Things that don't have anything to do with me, and yet I find myself ticked off at them. A friend warned me that it would happen. Life goes on around you, and all of the sudden, you find yourself mad because none of their crap matters. Oh, your car broke? Fine. My daddy died. Oh, your house won't sell? Fine. My daddy died. Oh, your cat has cancer? Fine. So does my mother and my best friend AND MY DAD DIED. So shut up.

See? Totally ridiculous. And yet, I find it bubbling up randomly.

********************************************************************
Colin still isn't walking. He can, he just doesn't. It's fine by me. He'll do it when he is ready. In the meantime, he is busying himself by climbing up and down the stairs faster than Christopher does.

He also climbs up onto their little Ikea table. Giving him a place to stand, raise his imaginary stick and ROAR at the bad guys on Scooby Doo.

And into chairs. Enabling him to reach anything and everything that I have moved out of a less monkey like 14 month old.

And onto riding toys. Flinging himself down the driveway as fast as he possibly can, with a wild eyed grin on his face - one that stares back into my terrified gaze and says, "Get out of the way, Mom."

Colin still isn't talking either. He can, he just doesn't. He likes to point and scream. He also likes to mimic whatever you say so distinctively, it's creepy. Like whole sentences back to you. I've never heard a baby do that before, and it's kind of bizarre.

*********************************************************
Barney has infiltrated our home. It's my own fault. And the fault of Netflix. I regret it already.

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If you are local, I would love for you to come see Bill Leslie and Lorica in concert this Saturday night. We'll be at the Performing Arts Center at Johnston County Community College. Tickets are $17 in advance and $20 at the door. You can find out more about it here: Bill Leslie and Lorica concert information.

Grumpy

I'm just grumpy. No fun to be around. Grumpy.

Stupid spring. Stupid trees budding and making my allergies try and kill me. Making me grumpy.

My mind jumps around so quickly that I can't even remember what I was going to write about by the time I open the page. It's frustrating.

Know what annoys me? When you have a friend request out to someone on Facebook, and their privacy settings are such that you can see when they become friends with someone else. But they just leave your friend request outstanding. Dude. Grow a pair and hit "ignore." Whatever. I just click over and rescind the request. It's not a big deal. Just annoying.

Know what else annoyed me? The really stupid flower delivery person who walked into the hospice room next door to my daddy's with a basketball shaped balloon that said on it, "Bounce Back Soon." I was standing in the hallway with Daddy's hospice case worked and tried to get her to stop the delivery person, but she didn't even get why. Um, really? "Bounce Back Soon?" Granted, it turned out that she was just carrying more than one delivery and that particular balloon wasn't for the hospice patient, but still. Couldn't make two trips? Really?

Know what else annoys me? Bras. My belly. My skin.

Also annoying? City of Raleigh home inspectors. Plumbing inspector #1 comes and wants some of the interior pipes changed. Plumber changes pipes. For the re-inspection, plumbing inspector #2 comes and wants the connection under the house changed. Really? You couldn't give us a freaking complete list of what needed to be changed the first time? No. You couldn't. Because Raleigh home inspection is based on the opinion of whatever redneck they happen to send out that day.

See? Grumpy. Snarky.

I could use a donut. But we are trying to give up refined sugar. That. Is also. Annoying.

Know a good joke? I could use a chuckle.

Open letter to my bee-hind

To My Dwindling Posterior:

While I appreciate your willingness to return to pre-baby size and shape, I would like to remind you that you were serving a very important purpose in your inflated state.

Holding up my pants.

For whatever reason, the only weight I have been able to lose after giving birth 8 MONTHS AGO is weight that you delighted in gaining. Finally, there was actually some shamoopie-booty for Kevin to slap as he walked past me in the kitchen. Finally, I didn't have to pull at my waistbands incessantly. Finally, I would not feel left out when the song "Baby Got Back" was played. 

But you just don't care. You can't wait your turn and let the belly take a vacation. Noooooo, you have to go ahead and ditch out all by yourself. You know, you could have taken a little of the back fat with you for company. Even that would have been nice.

Instead, you have vacated the premises, leaving me with a disproportionate figure and a perpetual plumber's crack. Thanks a lot.

Sincerely,

Flatty Bottomous

Katy Perry plays dress up on Sesame Street, forgets to wear clothes.

I talk about boobs a lot. I realize this. Even before I was so passionate about breastfeeding, I talked about boobs. I've gone on and on about bras and whined about carrying around huge boobies. I've rallied behind my friend Susan during her fight with Inflammatory Breast Cancer. I've talked about my momma's fight with breast cancer. I've even delved into a little bit of the sexy boobie talk, but we won't go there today.

Boobies get a lot of air time here at Chez Canape. That's just the way it is.

I'm alright with women looking attractive, even using their breasts as an asset to their appearance. After all, we have to carry them around, right? They might as well look good.

For some reason though, I'm NOT alright with this.



Whatever, Katy Perry. I don't particularly find your music enjoyable, but I CERTAINLY don't need to wondering if you have enough double stick tape in your bustier to make sure that your boobies aren't going to bust out while you are singing and dancing with ELMO on SESAME STREET.

The idea for the song to be used in teaching opposites is cute. It's catchy. But really. REALLY? Couldn't she have actually worn some clothes to play dress up with Elmo?

If I'm turning into my momma, that's a-ok with me. But we'll be skipping this episode of Sesame Street. My boys aren't going to grow up thinking that's an acceptable outfit to wear to a playdate.

Bah.

Medela wants you to pump and "share the magic"

Usually I fall on the side of treating Twitter like an online cocktail party. I breeze in and breeze out at my leisure, joining in conversations where I can and following links when I have time. It's not a place I get into arguments or even champion a cause.

Yesterday, that changed. Someone, a company, rather, made me really angry.

I expect for formula companies to advertise, cajole, twist information, and outright lie to sell more of their product. It's something that they had to create a false market to sell because while is serves a purpose in some cases, it's not a necessity for most families, and it certainly isn't the best choice most of the time.

However, Medela is a company that makes some really great products for breastfeeding mamas. Their hydrogel pads were absolute lifesavers for me with my first child. I spend the extra two dollars on their breast pads because I think they are that much better than the other brand. I even like their lanolin better than the traditional purple tube. It's no Earth Mama Nipple Butter, but it's good stuff nonetheless.

I own two Medela pumps, a double something or another and a Swing pump. I even rented the Symphony for the first two months of breastfeeding when I had supply issues after following some terrible advice from our former pediatrician.

Last night, when I logged into Twitter for a quick peek, imagine my surprise when I saw this:



I had to read it three times before I could believe it. It was followed shortly by another tweet that they claimed to be a "correction."



The correction was the addition of the word "breastmilk" to their statement. Nevermind the complete absurdity of the rest of the statement.

Pumping breastmilk is freaking hard work. It takes a ridiculous amount of extra time and effort. Working mamas who pump in order to keep breastfeeding their babies after returning to the work force are among the women I admire most in life. Breast pumps are a fabulous invention that allow women to keep giving their babies the best nourishment they can, even when they can or choose not to be there themselves.

But the fact is, that while breastmilk is best for babies, the breast is the best and most normal way to give it to them. Mamas who have the privilege to exclusively breastfeed (and yes, in our society, it is most certainly a privilege), should NEVER be encouraged to pump out their milk, thereby screwing with the balance of their supply, just to allow "others to share in the magic" of baby feeding.

Aren't mamas doing enough work in this world? After making the decision to breastfeed her child, committing to the process, fighting the learning curve, dodging the booby traps, and creating a successful breastfeeding relationship with her nursling, THEN they are supposed to feel guilty about not "sharing the magic" of feeding her baby with the rest of the world?

Is there any choice that mamas make for their babies that someone isn't going to infuse with guilt?

Medela isn't alone in offering this craptastic piece of advice. At Colin's four month visit to the pediatrician, the hand out I received on development and what not also said that I should begin pumping to allow others to bond with the baby through feeding him. I had a PA student working with us that day, and she got an earful about how to support breastfeeding mamas and how this was NOT a good way to do that.

Any piece of advice that takes a baby away from the mama's breast is NOT advice that is supportive of breastfeeding.

Could we all say that together, please?

ANY piece of advice that takes a baby away from the mama's breast is NOT advice that is supportive of breastfeeding.

What makes me so angry about Medela's actions here is that I expected so much more from them. Their advice, if followed, leads to the purchase of more of their products. Their advice doesn't support breastfeeding, it supports the market of breastfeeding accessories.

When will I learn that companies, no matter what they preach and what their mission says, are always out to make a profit?

I am so disappointed, but sadly, not really that surprised.

***************************************************
Medela did send this out to Twitter:



And while I'm glad they felt led to apologize, it always makes me raise an eyebrow when someone apologizes for a "miscommunication" because when I do it, what I really mean is, "I'm sorry you didn't agree with what I said," not "I'm sorry I said something stupid."

They also sent me a direct message with an apology and asked if they could do anything. I don't know. I have been known to hold a stiff grudge and usually am pretty black and white about stuff like this.

That's not the plan this time. I think that overall, Medela is still a good company with good products. Maybe it was let-the-intern-tweet day or something like that.

I just hope that in the future, when they are considering marketing strategies, they rely more on the good reputation and quality of their products instead of dishing out reasons to buy them thinly veiled in horrible advice.

Glass houses and logs in your eyes

Last week, the boys and I headed to North Hills to get our stroller fixed and buy me some new sunglasses so I could be guaranteed to find my old ones (which I did the very next day). It was lunch time, so we headed over to Chik-fil-a, but stopped by the commons to play for a minute first.

There is always something going on there in the mornings for kiddos. That day, they had tents set up for shade and play mats out for tumbling. Christopher took his shoes off and started to play.

Another mom was standing near me. She had twin girls that looked to be about two. Maybe a little younger. The girls were busy busy, getting water in cups from the cooler that Starbucks provided and dumping it out onto the mats. Every time the mom would wrangle one of the girls and get her to stop, the other one had started doing it. She was trying her best, but they were playing her.

I had my hands full with my two boys, but tried to give her an understanding smile as she ran circles trying to corral the twins. A third mom sat on the ground, watching her phone mostly. She looked at the twins' mother and said, "Can you clean that up please? Someone is going to slip."

She had a point. Water on the mats was kind of dangerous, but rather than just telling her, couldn't she have helped her?

I blew it off because it didn't seem to bother the twins' mom. She went into Starbucks (having to leave the twins to get more water while she wasn't watching) and got some napkins to pacify the bossy mom.

Meanwhile, an older boy had started chasing Christopher. Even though they were the same height, it was obvious that the boy was a good two years older than Christopher. As soon as he would catch up to Christopher, he would spit on him.

Mama wasn't happy.

I watched for a second to see what my little boy would do. He turned to the older boy and said, "Please stop."

Just like that. Please stop, politely. Of course, when the older boy didn't stop and just pursued him more aggressively, the polite voice that Christopher had turned into screaming pretty quickly.

I headed over to get him away from the older boy and finally figured out which one was his mom. She had turned to see who was screaming at her son.

Bossy mom. That's right. Little Miss Clean-up-that-mess was too busy bossing around other moms to notice that her son was bullying a two year old.

Nice.

My passive aggressive kicked in as we stood next to her to put Christopher's shoes back on. I praised him loud enough for her to hear. I praised him for asking the boy nicely to "please stop" and told him that sometimes kids didn't listen or play nicely. Then I told him he could always come to me for help if that happened again.

I doubt she took any notice of any of that though, because she most likely was already back to patrolling the other, less perfect than herself, mothers.

The singing wachine machine

I'm sitting on a pile of laundry. Granted, it's clean, but I'm sitting on it. It's just that as soon as I open a page to compose a post, I remember that I have clothes to fold, diapers to assemble, dogs to feed, dishes to wash, or a baby starts to cry.

So, I'm sitting on the laundry. Quite literally.

Sometimes I still get extremely overwhelmed. I can't seem to help it. The house still isn't finished, the washing machine broke, the Jeep needs new tires, the front tire of my stroller burst, and the xBox broke. Every time we turn around, something else needs about $850 thrown at it. It's ridiculous.

The weekend found me stewing about our new washer and dryer. I mean, how stupid is that? My husband buys a fantastic new washer and dryer set, and I'm pissed off about it. Sometimes I'm a moron.

The washer is sick. It will wash 31 bath towels at once. Not that I own 31 bath towels or that I plan to, but whatever. It's very proud of the work it does. When it's done with a load, it plays a tune. A full out song - not a bell tone, but a virtual symphony. "AHHHH! Your clothes are CLEAN!!!" It's the most noise the thing makes ever.

But it doesn't fit in the existing laundry room. They are too deep, and the only solution was to move them out into the new part of the house. Into my office/sewing/crafting room. The room that I had all laid out with my sewing machine, serger, ironing board, storage, filing, and art supplies for the boys. It was going to be our create-space.

And now I'll have to do chores in it.

Oh my stars. I am SUCH a whiner. But I was sad. Granted, I'm over it, but I was sad.

Until tonight, when I happened to discover the musical talents of our new washer. Just when I was cursing having to find shoes to go out to the unfinished floor full of sawdust, wire cuttings, and random nails, that stupid washer began to sing a little song; telling me my clothes were CLEAN! LA LA LA!

And I had to smile. I keep saying, and it's true, "It's all going to be lovely."

Let's just move on to Thursday, shall we?

Don't ask me why I said it. I don't know. It's a dumb thing to say if you don't really want to leave somewhere.

"Christopher, if you don't start listening to me and calm down, we are going home."

Well, damn if we didn't leave five minutes after me saying that. And I didn't want to leave. Colin and I were enjoying music class - except for the part where Christopher was acting like a little hellion.

It's been that kind of day. Upon leaving music class, we didn't actually go home, we went to the grocery store where I proceeded to do all of my shopping and go to check out only to find that I had no wallet.

Great.

Meanwhile, I'm getting news that my momma has either had a heart attack or a stroke, and they aren't sure which one if either, but she's driven herself home from the store so she can go to the ER. I swear this woman is still alive not because of modern medicine, but because she is just too damn stubborn for cancer.

For crying out loud. I hate this day.

P.S. Momma just finished a hamburger and is enjoying a lovely blood thinner drip now. Doesn't that just somehow seem wrong? Just ribbing you, Momma.

Drano

I've lost it. I've lost my blogging mojo. There's too much Facebook. Too much just sitting and absorbing and not enough interacting. I'm thinking that regardless of the Zoloft, there is still an underlying problem. I'm thinking that the Zoloft helps me deal with day to day life and keep it together, but that there is still a sadness there that I'm not dealing with. And that it's drawing me inward.

Or, I'm just lazy and don't want to write lately.

Either way, I'm here now. And grumpy. Aren't you glad you stopped by? Seriously though. The construction on our house is still going on, and for whatever reason, people seem to suck.

If you underbid on a construction project, take four times longer than you quote, act like an asshole while I'm in LABOR, and then still don't finish the job? Most people won't pay you. Not my husband. He goes ahead and chalks it up as a loss and pays you what was promised because he feels sorry for you and also wants you gone. Then you bitch about how much time you spent on the job and how little money an hour that works out to, and you threaten to kill him and do some other ridiculously stupid things that we won't talk about here. Yet. Because we're not finished with them.

Seriously. The guy is four times slower and doesn't finish and we're supposed to pay him more? Right.

Then, today, D the drunken painter, who I have previously thought was awesome, proceeded to piss me off beyond belief. He asks for a third of his pay, which I happily provide him in the form of a check. Mind you, I had asked him yesterday if a check was still alright with him. He's worked for us twice before, and I've always written checks. So I give him a check and the bitching begins.

Our USAA account apparently is a problem for him. Translation, he doesn't have a bank account and needed to go to our bank (which doesn't have physical branch) in order to cash the check. I cannot tell you how much of my problem this is NOT.

Without the gory details, he was not pleased with the mere $300 the ATM would give me at one time and proceeded to bitch to me about us not having a local bank account. So I pointed out that he must not even have ANY bank account, and that pissed him off.

Seriously. I'm supposed to drive around town going to ATM's, collecting cash for Mr. Pisspants the drunken painter because he's not responsible enough to keep a checking account of his own?

What the hell is wrong with people? Are we not in a recession? Why is it we can't find decent, honest, sane, and hard working people to work for us when so many people are out of work?

Yeah. Maybe this is why my mojo seems to be gone. The whole house thing is not going well, and I haven't wanted to write about it in a public way. Because there is some seriously bad stuff that's gone down. Like changing locks and watching my rearview mirror bad. But you know what? I'm tired of hiding out and not talking. I'm tired of being scared. I'm sick of it all. I want my house done. I want my life back. I want my husband to quit having all of this work hanging over his head.

I'M SO DONE.

One thing I've learned from experience in blogging and having crazy people read it. How to get a restraining order. Kidding. No, actually, I'm not.

So I'll be back to talking about whatever the hell I want to talk about and fuck the crazies. They will do whatever they want to anyway, so I'm done tiptoeing around them.

And yes, I'm aware that not much of this made any sense, but it felt good, and I'm hoping that it's going to unclog whatever has been keeping me from writing.

Pampers Dry Max and other evils on the shelf

Bird is at school and Squeak is sleeping in his bouncy seat. He slept on my chest for 90 minutes, but then want to move, so he's vibrating and snoozing, and I have two free hands. Two free hands which should be cleaning something, writing thank you notes, doing laundry, or organizing the boys' clothes for storage - but I'm actually trying to put writing back into my list of priorities, so here I sit.

I have a copy of Healthy Child, Healthy World that I have been putting off reading because I'm scared of all the things I could be doing better for my children. That's so lame. After this week of recalls and dangerous products, I'm thinking it's time to dive into it.

Squeak had almost finished his trial size bottle of Infant's Tylenol that has been recalled. It could have tiny particles - of what, they didn't say - in it or it could contain too much of the active ingredient. Either way, it's not good for him.

Bird had on a Pamper with their new "Dry Max technology" the other day. When I went to change it, he started grabbing the inside of his thigh and telling me that it hurt. I lay him on the changing table, and he began to scream before I could even get his shorts off of him. The blisters on his legs and bottom were unbelievable. I immediately began trying to calculate when the last time I changed him was and starting cursing myself for letting him have a wet and dirty diaper - even though I hadn't done anything different that day than from any other day. I changed him right when I noticed, and it wasn't that long from the last change.

I was mortified and cried right along with him. I stopped trying to clean him up at the changing table and put him straight into the tub. I wanted to make sure he was 100% clean, and rubbing the blisters wasn't an option.

After I put him to bed that night, I noticed a buzz online about Pampers and their new Dry Max diapers. A friend from my LLL group had posted a news story, and after watching it, I started searching for more information. What I found was unbelievable.

Thousands of reports of chemical burns and unusually bad blistering and rashes have been reported with these diapers. I couldn't believe it. The pictures I saw of those poor babies look just like Bird. The bigger than a quarter raised blisters - they were on all of these babies.

No more Pampers for us. I don't care how much that box cost me. I'm not using another Pamper ever again.

So begins my foray into cloth diapering. I tried it with the gCloth inserts for our gDiapers and hated them. They were terrible. But I've got some friends who are willing to give me lessons in all of the other ways to cloth diaper, so we are getting ready to make the switch. And for the times we need a disposable one, I'll be using a Huggies natural or a Seventh Generation diaper.

I feel so strongly right now, that as a mama and a consumer, I have got to start making better choices for my family. Choices based on their well being instead of cost and convenience. I did that for Squeak's birth, and now I need to continue that throughout their lives. I owe it to them to keep them safe and healthy.

It's frustrating to not be able to trust as a consumer.

Lonely real life

I didn't expect to make friends on the internet. Certainly not ones that I would travel to visit or that would take a weekend to come see me. I didn't expect to make friends that I would miss or that I would long to live closer to so that we could hang together in the flesh.

But I have.

Lately, and maybe it's the hormones to some extent, a lot of my in the flesh people have been letting me down. Granted, I've been told I hold people to unfair high expectations, but I can honestly say that the Zoloft has been helping that. Still, I just can't count on some of the friends I once could count on and that hurts.

But, in my new found quest not to be crazy these past months, I've found a way to still love my friends for who they are and not necessarily what they are to me at the current moment. It's hard, but I think it will be good in the long run.

Today though, I'm missing people that I only get to interact with online. All my mamas on the board especially - I wish that we could have a playdate, get some coffee, go shopping, or just take a walk. Liz L., who I wish I could learn to be a doula with - I think we would make a great team. Patricia, who I recently reconnected with on Facebook and just got to see for a moment in April. All these people make my life richer, and a little lonely at times too, because they are far away.

It's just one of those lonely days. Especially when compared with Monday. Pardon my pity party. It will be over soon, I promise. How can it not be when this is what I get to see everyday:















Happy babies make great SSRI's.

Dear Asshole Who Just Stole My Purse

Dear Asshole Who Just Stole My Purse,

Really? You take purses from the parking lot of a nice city park where families take their children to play? Did you happen to notice that I'm 39 weeks pregnant and toting around a 2 year old? Did it occur to you that carrying a purse too was just too much for me today?

I guess you did, since you stole it right out of my car.

All the cards and checks are canceled. The phone too. I don't carry cash. There is nothing for you there except my address. Which, if you had any decency about you, you would just drop off my favorite bag intact some time tonight. At which point I will forgive you and we'll call things even.

You took the pictures of my son that were on my phone. You took my day planner and all the information on my son's upcoming surgery. You took our evening. You've certainly tested my ability to hold it together.

I hope that you found my blogging business cards and come by for a peek. There was nothing for you to gain by taking my purse. If you happen to be the little shits who were throwing mulch all over the place where toddlers were trying to play, then yay for you. Maybe you feel some vindication because we asked you to stop.

More than likely, you're just some asshole who ruined our afternoon and took my most favorite Holly Aiken bag. Congratulations. I wish I had the pleasure of being around when karma comes back to you and gives it to you good.

Sincerely,
The sucker who forgot to lock her car today

My 12 days of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
A broken washing machine.

On the second day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the third day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the fourth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the fifth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the sixth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the seventh day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the eighth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
A dirty dirty house
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the ninth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
A daddy in the hospital
A dirty dirty house
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the tenth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Braxton Hicks contractions
A daddy in the hospital
A dirty dirty house
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the eleventh day of Christmas
My true love gave to me
Dog poop on the floor
Braxton Hicks contractions
A daddy in the hospital
A dirty dirty house
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

On the twelfth day of Christmas
My true love gave to me.
A high of 65
Dog poop on the floor
Braxton Hicks contractions
A daddy in the hospital
A dirty dirty house
No energy for baking
More rain in the forecast
Thirty days of Zoloft
A sprained ankle on the right foot
A broken toe on the left foot
Bird's double ear infection
And a broken washing machine.

Ho, ho, freaking ho. Thank goodness for the fifth day of Christmas.

Here's to time with whatever part of your family you get to be with, whatever food you get to eat, and however full your stockings are. Christmas is coming tomorrow whether I like it or not. Might as well enjoy it as it is.

Merry Christmas, everybody.

Unfiltered

The birth center called. My thyroid test came back normal. I'm thinking I'm supposed to be glad about that, and I am in regards to no drugs and baby is okay. However, the flip side to that is that if everything is normal, then I'm just a little bit crazy. Awesome.

I suppose if my dear family can hang with me until about June of next year, I'll be leveling out again by then. I'm pretty sure Kevin can hang that long. Poor Papa may not make it though. He is so lucky that I'm comfortable enough around him that I don't feel like I have to fake things. Yes, that was sarcasm.

If I could just get a filter, things would be better. Things that actually are annoying, I tend to just call as they are instead of filtering a socially acceptable response. As in, the neighbor who was talking to another neighbor and her two dogs IN my driveway AT naptime. True, it was annoying to have them choose my driveway to stand in with the dogs, thereby driving my dogs insane and waking up Little Bird. However, I wish I could have thought of something to say other than, "Hey, y'all. I'm trying to get my child to sleep and you are driving my dogs insane. Could you please move?" Something nicer. I can only think of meaner things, not nicer ones.

I'm harsh. I know it. No filters. It makes for the crazy to come across even crazier. Awesome.

Etiquette questions

I have etiquette questions. Not necessarily Emily Post questions, since I don't think she covered Twitter or what's the best way to tell someone to shut up. But questions nonetheless. Feel free to leave me all the assvice you can muster in the comments.

1. Is it rude to simply copy someone's Tweet and not retweet it properly? Like word for word?
2. Is it rude to DM someone on Twitter if you don't follow them? So you can't DM them back?
3. Is there a way to politely let someone know they are constantly spamming you with Facebook and Twitter DM's? I'm assuming I can't start off with, "Hey, stupid."
4. Non computer related, what do you do when someone constantly pummels your toddler with questions that he can't answer? Over and over and over? Like, "What did you do today? Huh? Huh? What did you do? Did you go to school? Did you play? Huh? Huh? What did you do today?" Not that said toddler would have had time to answer even if he could, but do you step in and answer for him?
5. On the dairy aisle, where you can't pass other people, what do you do when some dude is coming at you full on with his cart and doesn't cross over when he has the chance? Do you back up and let him through? Stare him down?
6. What do you say to the person who keeps referring to all the colds your child has had, even though he hasn't had colds, he's just been teething? And you've told him this numerous times?
7. Is it rude to tell the old man from up the street that if he is going to wander through the construction in your home, that you prefer him to knock first? Since sometimes you like to walk through the completely exposed kitchen in your freaking underwear?

You see, my hormones are out of control and I'm a little sensitive lately. So go ahead, coach me.

Don't take that tone with me

It was a look and tone I was used to getting at the OB's office. It was what initially turned me off on their idea of care in the first place. I was surprised to get it from a midwife yesterday.

It has occurred to me that it might be me. I know, big fat duh. I don't mean though, that it is all me. Just that I might be a little overly sensitive at times (insert the raucous laughter of my husband here). Even so, that look and tone irk me.

The head cocks to one side. The eyebrows raise. The back of the pallette raises and they start their next sentence with "You knoooooooow, you are going to have to . . ."

Dude. I really really hate that.

Yesterday it was in regards to tandem nursing and making sure that Little Bird knows that when the baby comes, Mama's milk is for him.

Fine. Valid point. But my issue is that I've ALREADY BEEN THINKING ABOUT THAT. I don't need the cock and eyebrow. I don't need the tone of "I'm sure you are a moron who hasn't done any of your own preparation." I don't need the assumption that because you are my healthcare provider, you are a deity and need to preach to me.

Sensitive? I suppose so. It just bugs me.

There could be a much better approach. The question could be posed, "Have you thought about how you will help Bird understand what the baby needs when he gets here?" or "Do you think you will have any issues with Bird's nursing once the baby is here?" Something along those lines would start the same conversation, and would also validate the fact that I'm not a dumb ass.

Did I say any of that though? No. I'm such a weakling in an exam room. I should have said something. Instead I just reminded her that Bird is not even two yet, but that yes, we were reading books about new babies and talking about how he will have to share the na-na's because the baby will need them.

It felt like this midwife was telling me not to tandem nurse though, and that really surprised me. Last month, the midwife I saw practically gave me a bear hug when she asked how long I had nursed Bird and I said, "You mean this morning? About 10 minutes." She was really supportive of tandem nursing.

In the end, I guess I just have to stop being so damn sensitive and stop caring what anyone else thinks. It's not that I mean to care - I get a few hours away from it and realize that I've been wasting a bunch of time caring. It's stupid.

I'm going to make decisions that my OB wouldn't have liked. I'm going to make decisions that the midwives won't like. I'm a middle of the road mama, what can I say?

But the head cocking, eyebrow raising, here comes a lecture? I can totally do without that from anyone.

Hump day, dump day

This was first thing this morning. The City of Raleigh said on our last bill, which was e-freaking-normous, that we were using 625 gallons of water a day. No way.

Kevin checked the meter while all the water was shut off in the house, and it wasn't spinning. There were no signs of water in our front yard. We assumed our meter was whacked and asked them to come check it.

They declared our meter to be working fine and then slapped us with a "leak notice" that came with 48 hours to fix it. Today, in the cold and rain, Kevin and Mr. Rob rented a backhoe and went at it. They replaced the main water line to the house, so there is no more leak. However, in the meantime, they also cut right through the AT&T trunk line for the street.

The "no cuts" people didn't mark that one. Oops.

Our yard, which had such lovely lovely grass, is now a mudhole. Our DIY plumbers are finished and the AT&T crew are finished. We have phone, internet, and water again. It's a trade off for the grass, but what are you going to do?

But wait, there's more.

Here's how happy Little Bird was all day. If it weren't for his big sister being here to play with him, this look would have permanently frozen on his face. His teeth are torturing him. He has top molars that have been coming in for MONTHS. Now, his bottom canines have stalled out in a position where they are close enough to be able to be seen right below the gum, but the gum hasn't broken yet. Add on some awful seasonal allergies that he inherited from both his daddy and his mama, and you have one miserable little boy this week.

Mama ain't happy either.

To top the whole day off, it turns out that the SPCA here is not a no-kill shelter after all. I talked the the adoption center today because a sweet old chihuahua has taken up residence in our kitchen, but he can't stay. If we can't find his family, we are going to have to take him somewhere.

Back to the SPCA though. The adoption center told me that they were no-kill, but that I would have to take the little guy to the lost and found pet center where he might get cleared to go to the adoption center. I feel really deceived, but perhaps I had just been misunderstanding all along. Either way, I can't take him there. He is so old; he will never get cleared for the adoption center.

Poor little dude. He's sleeping soundly on Kevin's lap right now. He can't stay here though. Bird has already tried to sit on him and pet him WAY too enthusiastically. Plus, Aja and Gibson are about 100 times bigger than him and are not excited about the possibility of a new pack member. Plus, plus, the little chihuahua has been growling at the big dogs as though he could take them on at the same time, when in reality, Gibson could eat him in one bite. We are not a good home for this little guy.

Besides, he has a home. It's pretty obvious. He wants to be with people. His fur is evident of long time collar wear. He doesn't stink. He isn't thin. And I don't know how to describe it, but you can tell that he really really wants to go home. It's breaking my heart.

Tomorrow doesn't have to be much better to beat out today. Let's keep our fingers crossed.

Letters

Dear Blue Cross Blue Shield,

Thank you for having not one, but two very nice ladies available to help me over the phone today. I now understand better why I had to shell out a large chunk of money for my one routine ultrasound that is supposed to be included in my global maternity plan.

While your customer service people were nice and helpful, it doesn't change the fact that I'm getting screwed here. Having switched from an OB to a midwife will save you a huge amounts of money. The three days that I won't spend in the hospital this time? Will save you a huge amount of money. All of the decisions that I am making in this pregnancy happen to save you huge amounts of money.

So why is it that it's costing me so much more?

Sincerely,
Just another American frustrated with health care and insurance companies


Dear Jardin people,

You make a lovely crib. I did not mean to break it when I was so pissed off earlier today. I now know that I can't yank the rail up that hard. At least not without breaking the little plastic parts on the bottom.

The fact that you are sending me the new parts free of charge and so quickly is very nice, and it makes me wonder if you realize that it's my own damn fault the thing broke in the first place.

Sincerely,
A mommy who seriously needs a break


Dear Glenn,

I'm guessing that working at Babies'R'Us in the furniture department is not your dream job. Maybe you had your sights set on something white collar, 8-5, that came with a company car. I don't know. Maybe, you are really good at retail.

However, I for one, am grateful that you work there. You probably just thought you were doing your job, but unless your job description includes dealing with insanely hormonal pregnant women who cry on the phone to you while their toddlers scream and throw things in the background? Unless it includes that, you went way above and beyond today.

I didn't know the brand, the model number, or where it was made. You knew your cribs so well, that you helped me identify it over the phone by describing a couple of specific parts on it. When you realized that I still had one child using the crib, you asked if you could call me back so you could see if there were parts you could take off a crib in stock so I could have them today.

When you couldn't actually get the parts for me today, you instead gave me the part numbers and phone number and everything else I needed to order them myself so they would get to me faster. You did pretty much everything but come to my house and dial the phone for me.

My day sucked. You not only helped my fix Bird's crib, you helped fix my day. I should probably tell your boss.

Sincerely,
That same mommy who seriously needs a break

Nemesis

He's taunting me. I leave the front door open to let in the sunlight through the storm door. When I walk by, he doesn't budge. He dares me to come running out the door, cursing and waving my fists at him.

Sometimes I chase him all the way to the dogwood tree, shaking it until he runs up into the neighboring pine.

Sometimes I just sigh in defeat and kick the storm door. Those times, he sits still on the railing, staring me down, never missing a beat in the rhythmic devouring of the leaf he has stripped from my hibiscus.

I hate that damn squirrel.

"Squirrel" is the newest word in Little Bird's vocabulary. He has learned to go to the front door and yell it out to me, just to see me come running to save another branch of my soon to be naked topiaries. He steps aside and chants, "Squirrel, squirrel, squirrel," rolling the r's in that odd little baby way that he does. He likes it when I make it all the way to the tree shaking.

Gibson stands next to him, drooling. I should let him take care of that squirrel.

It was only the one on the right for awhile. However, today, when I opened the front door for the first time, there he was, hiding behind the planter on the left. He peeped around it, and I swear on my grandmother's box of handwritten recipes, he waved.

I really hate that damn squirrel.

Two weeks ago, my front stoop was flanked by two beautiful hibiscus topiaries full of lovely deep pink blossoms. Today, I didn't even bother to sweep it off or pull the weeds before taking pictures. It wouldn't have mattered. My flowers have been ravaged.

The biggest surprised is that the squirrel didn't stop and pose as I snapped photos of the devastation he has wrought.

He had better watch out. I'm planning my revenge at this very moment, and he just might find himself making a lovely rug for some Barbie's Dream House living room.

Damn squirrel.