My kid rocks at puking

Let's label this as yet another thing I never thought I would be talking about-- let alone bragging about-- before I had kids. But I am so proud of FunnyKid and his new puking skills that I had to share (it's the little things in life, you know?)

Up until this past weekend, FunnyKid had thrown up on two separate occasions. Both times, he was asleep in his bed when he threw up pretty much all over his face and hair, woke up crying and had to be stripped and rushed into the shower, where one parent got him clean while the other one stripped and remade the bed.

I felt awful for FunnyKid when this happened because the only thing worse than being sick is being pulled out of your bed, stripped of your clothes and being thrown into a shower when you were blissfully asleep just moments before. The poor kid would huddle under the water crying and begging to go back to bed while we explained why he was showering (multiple times in one night) and rushed to get him clean.

But that changed this weekend. We were staying at my dad's house for one night (the one fateful night). FunnyKid, who had exhibited no symptoms of not feeling well and had been running around just minutes before, was brushing his teeth when he suddenly started crying, asked for water and then began vomiting in the hallway outside the bathroom.

When he was done, he calmly asked to take a shower (he didn't need one as he had neatly avoided getting anything on himself, but I suspect he now associates puking with a shower afterward). After a nice, hot shower, we got FunnyKid into bed and prayed he wouldn't throw up all over a bed that doesn't belong to us, a rug that isn't ours and some various antiques and other nice stuff in the room he was staying in.

About half an hour later, FunnyKid called me upstairs and in a fairly calm manner told me he had to throw up again. I rushed him into the bathroom and held him while he threw up into the toilet like a seasoned pro. I denied him a shower after that round and he went back to bed and fell asleep.

Around 11:30, as the Pretend Husband and I were falling asleep, we heard FunnyKid call for us again. I met him in the hallway and again swooped him into the bathroom as he told me he had to throw up again. Another round of puking in the toilet and this time he got the shower he requested because if that's all your poor, sick kid wants, that's what he gets.

I feel like FunnyKid is growing and maturing in so many ways, and waking up to puke is one of them. Not the biggest deal, of course, but it makes for a happy mama who doesn't have to remake a bed for the fourth time and explain to a kid why he's showering at midnight.

How I almost died doing a good deed... which explains why I may never do one again

I suspect I would rarely have anything to post about if I wasn't such a moron. Case in point, the bruises and scrapes on both my knees and the scratches on my elbow (I will spare you a photo but trust me that I look like a 10-year-old who fell down on the playground).

Last night, while driving home from work at midnight, I almost hit a huge garbage can that was laying in the middle of a very dark road. I didn't really want to get involved, but the thought that the can could really damage a vehicle that ran over it made me pull over, put on my hazard lights and go get it out of the road.

As I pulled the can onto someone's front lawn, I realized I was standing on the edge of the road with my driver's side door open in the opposite lane and was wearing dark clothing... while a vehicle approached. Wanting to hurry back to my car before the truck coming up behind my car hit either me or my car, I started to run back to my car... and tripped.

It was one of those full-out, arms-pinwheeling trips that propelled me across an entire lane and sent me sprawling in the middle of the street with the truck still coming at me (in the dark with me wearing black). At that point, I wasn't as worried about my car as I was about getting run over at night a mile from home without anyone having an explanation for why I was even out of my car.

Scrambling up, I dove into my car and-- obviously-- avoided being killed. I did not, however, avoid being injured and returned home with bleeding elbows and knees to a husband who was a bit incredulous about why I had put myself into the situation in the first place. And that explains why I probably will not be doing anything nice for anyone ever again... or at least until I heal.

Giving it to you straight about motherhood... or I haven't used the bathroom without an audience in over a month

Yeah, yeah, there's a ton of books, blogs and other resources out there about what it's really like to be a mother. But I'm going to give you the straight poop with a look into my life from just the last 45 minutes.

Motherhood is:

-Holding your son's attention for a minute or two by singing, dancing, clapping, waving and any other inane thing you can think of... and him turning around, finding the tote bag we keep library books in and having it hold his attention for almost 10 minutes.

-Learning to use the toilet while a little one is using your legs to pull himself up to standing. Privacy? What's that?

-Being so tired, you mess up the lyrics to "Old McDonald Had a Farm." Apparently, around here, ducks say, "duck, duck!" rather than "quack, quack!" If FunnyKid ends up having to repeat pre-school, I'm going to feel so responsible...

-Using your child as a dumbbell by lifting them from the floor to the ceiling multiple times. Hey, anything that gets me into shape and keeps FunnyKid laughing is a win in my book.

-Feeling good about yourself because the kiddo bumped his head and was immediately comforted by your touch and voice. Then immediately not feeling good about yourself when he bites your shoulder. Hard.

-Being able to write this post one-handed while simultaneously wrestling a baby. Don't get me wrong, he's still winning the match. My only victory will be hitting "Publish Post" if only I can get my hand free to do so.

All this and I'm still carrying baby weight?!?

While lots of people talk about recovering from childbirth and how physically demanding that is (and it is), there's a lot less chatter about the months and months that follow and what kind of aches and pains are associated with them. Which is where my million-dollar idea comes in: a workout based on what moms of babies and toddlers do every day.

The workout involves a lot of sitting on the floor (which isn't always as easy as it looks. As someone accustomed to sitting in a chair at work, I had to get used to the extra drop). Ok, sit on the floor with legs straight out or crossed or whatever is comfortable for you. Ok, sit, sit, sit. Now jump up and run!

Again. Sit, sit. Baby is going for the dog's water bowl! Get up and run!
Sit, sit. Baby is about to go head first down the stairs! Get up and sprint!

Are you feeling it? Are those thighs burning yet?

Oh, but we're not done yet. Back down on the floor. Ok, now get a 20-pound weight and get up off the floor without using your hands and without dropping the weight (the weight cries-- loudly-- if you do that). Do that about a million times.

Almost there. Now stand up and put the 20-pound weight on the floor between your feet. Bend over from the waist and lift the 20-pound weight up over your head, hold and return the weight to the floor. The 20-pound weight thinks this is a great game and wants to do it again! And again! Repeat at least 35 more times and be prepared for the weight to be upset when you stop.

How do you feel? Good. Only eight more hours before Daddy gets home and you can take a break!

Tomorrow, we work on stretching your arms by reaching under the couch for a lost toy and will add some resistance by having the weight flail around while you try to lift it. Now hit the showers (but only if the 20-pound weight is napping and you've finished everything else you have to do today).

My "triumphant" return to the soccer field (if you take the word triumphant to mean "I survived")

I went back to playing soccer this past weekend after a year-and-a-half hiatus to gestate, deliver and start raising FunnyKid. When I got the email that the league was going to be starting to play soon, I knew I had a little work to do to get into my previous fighting shape (and A LOT of work to do to get into even better shape than that). I didn't want to injure myself so I packed FunnyKid into his jogging stroller and decided I would do an easy one-mile jog.

I think I made it about a quarter of a mile before my lungs and legs gave out. It was then that I realized all those month of packing on the pounds, eating whatever I wanted (because, of course, it was "for the baby") and doing little more than walking had actually taken a toll. I've never been the fastest person on the field, but at least I was able to run from one end to the other without stopping for a drink of water.

Over the next few weeks, FunnyKid and I went out for walk/runs where I slowly went from mostly walking to mostly running. Still, I was worried about being able to keep up when I got to my first game.

Forget about keeping up, I should have been worried about keeping my own teeth. The first play of the game that involved me included me knocking the ball away from a girl, but ending up flat-out on the ground after bumping bodies. The second play was even more spectacular as she kicked the ball as hard as she could and I stopped it-- with my face.

After checking to make sure I didn't have any loose teeth, I kept playing-- and kept ending up on the ground. I blame the amount of time I spent eating dirt on how rough my opponent was rather than a lack of skill on my part (I firmly believe I lost my endurance during my hiatus, but not my skills). All in all, it was a fun game and I'm grateful that I'm not as sore this week as I thought I would be. I'm a little bruised, but I'm proud I was able to keep up whenever I was on the field. I think I'll go back and do it again this weekend.

My, how a kid changes your priorities...

Last year at this time, I would have considered my biggest accomplishments to be meeting a deadline at work, avoiding too much traffic on my commute home and getting a decent meal on the table for dinner.

My latest big accomplishment is the fact that I finally fit into my pre-pregnancy jeans. A small accomplishment, for sure, but you would never know it from the happy dances I've been doing ever since.

I'm a kept woman

Kat's lil sis yelled at me yesterday and told me I had better post something soon so no one thinks I had the baby and that's what's keeping me away from the blog. So, are you all on FunnyGals Baby Watch 1.0?

Unfortunately, the reason for my lack of posting is much less exciting that the arrival of FunnyKid. I was pulled out of work and put on bed rest so not only do I not have a computer, but being away from the office and not allowed to be out interacting with Wal-Mart cashiers has left me with a lack of funny material. That, and it's so hard to type out a post on an iPhone.

Fortunately-- but only in the sense that it gives me material-- I have been admitted to Labor & Delivery twice in the past week for monitoring. So there is at least the story about the nurse who came into the room to draw blood and, upon hearing how much I hate needles, said, "Oh, I do too! I cry when I see them."

Uh, OK. It turns out she is able to hold herself together when drawing other people's blood, but loses it when it's her own blood in question. Still, the experience didn't go well and ended with another nurse poking into my other hand to get the job done.

Speaking of which, I have become an expert at giving blood and urine samples since each is required of me every couple of days to check on the pregnancy-induced hypertension I am experiencing. I'm not yet sure how I'm going to make this translate into a party game, but there's got to be some potential to put these skills to use somewhere.

So, no baby. No great stories. Lots of laying around on the couch. Any ideas for boredom busters I can do while laying on my side are greatly appreciated.

There goes my dream of being a supermodel's mom

I had an extra ultrasound yesterday because the doctor thought FunnyKid might be measuring big (he or she is actually a tad on the small side so that's science for ya!) This is the third ultrasound I've had and it went about as well as the first two.

Meaning, we have some great photos of an arm, a foot and the baby's spine-- but none that would, you know, actually identify the subject as an actual baby. Last time, the baby was facing my back and wouldn't show his or her face for anything. This time, the little bugger kept putting a hand in front of his or her face (please, no flash photography!)

It's par for the course since every time FunnyKid gets all playful and jumpy inside me, it only takes me telling someone to put their hand on my stomach if they want to feel the baby for the little one to settle right down and pretend they've been asleep the whole time (people may be questioning my sanity...)

Yesterday, the kiddo took it a step further and was not only wholly uncooperative with having his or her photo taken, but actually kicked the ultrasound wand. Seriously, the kick was so hard, the wand popped up off my belly.

Ok, maybe he or she won't be a model, but I'm still holding out for professional soccer player.

My parents should have named me Grace

Because being eight months pregnant isn't enough of a challenge, I went ahead and broke my toe last night. (Well, maybe. The Pretend Husband thinks it might just be badly sprained, but it's painful nonetheless). It wasn't even doing something acrobatic or daring-- I pulled open a door without getting my foot fully out of the way and smashed the littlest toe.

Whether it's sprained or broken, it really hurts. I have worn nothing but flip-flops for the last three months, but even those are bothering it. They are kicked off under my desk right now.

The PH has been semi-sympathetic to my pain. He has made all the right noises ("I'm sorry you're in pain) and he also suggested I give the breathing technique I plan on using during childbirth a try ("If it doesn't work for a little toe, you should probably be looking for something else to use for labor!") He has a point.

That eight minutes even included three questions asked and answered!

Dear Doctor,

I realize your time is valuable. Which is why I was not only on time for my appointment this morning, but I was even early. We have to see each other every two weeks now, so I figure it doesn't hurt to butter you up a bit.

But when I got to the window to sign in, the woman in front of me mentioned she was there to see you, too, leading me to believe your office double-books you. Which is fine with me, especially because my appointments these days never last more than 10 minutes.

But the question remains, why did they have you take the woman with the 45-minute appointment before the preggo with the 10-minute one? If you're going to leave a patient waiting, isn't it better to have her sitting there for 10 minutes rather than 45? And, by the way, you saw me for all of eight minutes, which would have meant even less time for Miss Full Examination And Then Some to wait.

Yes, you have a very important job that sometimes takes longer than the time allotted. But I consider my job to be pretty important too (especially because I'd like to keep it and not get fired for being gone half the morning). I hope you will take this into consideration for future appointments.

Regards,

Your Patient (although probably not your favorite)

Not your usual love letter to baby...

Dear Herbie (aka the kid in my belly),

I had your father speak to you about this yesterday, but I think it bears repeating. That's not a pillow. Or a trampoline. It's my bladder. And you jumping on it or using it as a place to rest your head has consequences for me. Like having to try really hard not to pee when I laugh. Or having to run to the bathroom every 20 minutes. Or waking up every three hours during the night.

I love you, Herbie, and I want you to have a good time in there. Punch my belly as many times as you want. Make it pop out in weird places. And definitely kick the palm of your dad's hand when he rests it near you (we both love that). But, please, let's make the bladder off-limits, shall we?

Actually, forget that I asked. You WILL stop kicking me in the bladder. There, I said it. Why will you do that? Because I'm your mother and I said so.

Love, Mom

I was just... cleaning the bathroom? (Think he'd buy it?)

I don't mind the klutziness that has accompanied my pregnancy (in truth, I'm probably no klutzier than I was before I got knocked up so it's not like I've had to adapt to that...) But I can do without the pregnancy brain.

Never heard of it? It's the only explanation for why, after I finished brushing my teeth the other night, I picked up my glass of water, gave my hand an order to dump the water in it into the sink and place the glass on the counter next to it... then proceeded to pour the entire glass of water on the counter about six inches to the right of the sink.

I still haven't told the Pretend Husband about that stunt because I'm not sure I can stand to (again) see the look of incredulity on his face when I do things like this.

Something I will never do again

Number one on the list of things I will never do again is go to Wal-Mart on a Friday night. Perhaps where you live, Wal-Mart is the heart of the community and everyone dresses appropriately, speaks clearly and has all their teeth. At the one closest to where we live? Not so much.

I actually had never been there... and now I know why. Wal-Mart on a Friday night is insane. Let's see, we were treated to half-dressed people, little kids screaming their heads off (perhaps because it was 9:30 p.m. and they were still awake?) and some of the rudest, least helpful employees I've ever met.

We had to go to the automotive section of the store for the battery the PH needed for the new love of his life, his riding lawn mower. As we stood there, two teenage boys who had been checking out the stereo systems cranked a bunch of them up then ran off laughing. While a nearby employee didn't seem to mind having to scream over the noise, I did, so I went over and turned all the stereos back down (and yes, I realize how old that statement makes me sound).

Then, while looking for a certain product to cover all the gray hair that has been invading my head, I spotted an employee stocking shelves and politely said, "Excuse me." That's when she grunted at me-- grunted! When I asked her where the magic potion was that will make my head go from looking like it's 50 to looking my age was, she muttered, "last aisle, on the wall" without looking up. Ok, then.

The last straw was as the PH and I were each lugging a heavy lawn mower battery through the store and we started hearing what the PH thought was an injured bird loudly crying out in pain. It turns out it was some type of toy that some kids in the toy aisle kept making squeal over and over and over again. We hustled to the cash register, having to scoot around a trio of 20-year-olds dressed all in camouflage with the girl trying to make out with her big, steel toe-booted, NASCAR hat-wearing boyfriend while his identically-dressed friend looked on.

And that is why I shop at Target.

Oh, that? That's just God messing with me once again.

The Pretend Husband and I just got back from a trip to visit the cutest nephews in the world in Georgia. The nephew part of the trip was fabulous, but the weather? Not so much. I was hoping to leave home (where the temperatures have been in the 20s and 30s with snow at least once a week) and find sun and temps in the 50s so we could take walks, play outside with the boys, etc.

What we got instead was it snowing in that particular part of Georgia for the first time in 30 years. (I won't go into how it was hardly a dusting and yet schools were closed and the media was telling people to make sure they had enough food and supplies for three days-- despite the snow melting within hours). While the television newscasters were going on and on about how dangerous is was and how people needed to stay off the roads, kat's lil sis and I went out to get pedicures (seriously, the snow wasn't even sticking to the roads...)

Anyway, we were in the nail salon and the owner asked me where I was from. I told him I was from New England and joked, "Yeah, I brought all this snow down with me." And wouldn't you know it, but a tracksuit-wearing, big-haired, florescent pink lipstick-wearing, heavily-accepted lady in the salon spent the rest of the time I was there giving me dirty looks. I can't decide if she just hates "Yankees" or if she believed me about the snow.

The Cut

I probably have more important things to blog about, and I realize that I have been absent for like. a long time.

And I have really important updates like the concert via Karaoke Revolution for the Wii that the PH gave last week to KAT on Saturday night when she was exhausted from working all afternoon and evening and we were... well, drunk.

But instead, I'm going to share what I did most recently to my hair.

The Before:

(Although in truth that wasn't immediately before... that was after my last hair cut).

The After:

It was about 7 inches in back, 5 inches in the front.

I'm saving a boatload on shampoo. 

Because a true friend turns the attention on herself when you're having medical issues...

My best friend in high school, "Bertha," was put on modified bed rest this weekend, meaning she can't leave her house for the next two weeks and can only get up from the couch to use the bathroom or sit at the dinner table, but no cooking or setting up the nursery or being on her feet. She has 10 weeks left in her pregnancy and is hoping the bed rest will not be continued through all of them since she has a lot of work left to do to prepare for this baby.

While I was on the phone with her yesterday hearing about her predicament, I tried to come up with some things she could do from the couch. I suggested she have her husband wash all of the new baby clothes and then bring her the basket so she can fold them on the couch. Then I asked her to watch "Oprah" for me today and be ready to summarize it when I call (I also vowed to call a lot more now that I have a captive audience. She can't avoid my calls now!)

Last night, I came up with a few more ideas, so I emailed her to suggest she read through the entire archive of this blog and send me an email detailing how funny she thinks I am. And, if that task gets done fast enough, how about I send her some beads and she can spend some time making crafts that I can then sell as my own? I'm still coming up with some more ideas for her and am open to suggestions.

But, please, let's make sure they benefit me in some way. Because although this concerns Bertha and whatever precautions need to be taken to keep her son healthy and safe, I've managed to make it all about me. That takes talent.

Just in time for Halloween, a tale of blood and (a lack of) guts

You know those people who can give blood regularly, stopping in at a blood drive on their way to work and then spending the rest of the day in the office without fainting or otherwise embarrassing themselves? Yeah, that's so not me.

In high school, I was that peppy go-getter that was in a bunch of clubs, including the Student Council. And, as part of the Student Council, I was in charge of organizing the blood drive. So we got it all set up and, after doing whatever it is that made me in charge, I hopped up on the table to make my donation. And, although it's not the most pleasant thing to have a needle in your arm, I did fine.

Until I stood up. I took two steps and said, "I can't see anything." Although I was still conscious and could hear everything, I had blacked out. Which led to a red alert that involved throwing me onto a stretcher, force feeding me cups of orange juice and making me lay still for an hour before I was allowed to stand up only with an American Red Cross worker on either side of me.

That led to years of feeling dizzy and lightheaded in doctor's offices, and the realization that I will never be a blood donor. Seriously. I tried. I even got as far as going into a blood drive once before the smell alone made me lightheaded. Also, my poor brother, laying in the chair after waking up from wisdom teeth surgery, once had to tell me to put my head between my knees and breathe deep to keep me from passing out (and that was from the nurse just talking about blood!)

My history of being a total wimp when it comes to needles was brought back to me this morning when the Pretend Husband and I had blood work done in order to get life insurance. The nurse made me lie on the couch to have the blood drawn and took all sorts of extra precautions.

So I'm thinking the only way I'm going through childbirth is if they can pump me full of drugs without using a needle. Is that asking too much?

sj needs -- well not really but i bought them anyway- a new pair of shoes

Tell me.

Do these make my unpedicured toes look fat?

Some marketing person thinks I'm old

It happened. A J. Jill catalog came in the mail yesterday. This morning, I started flipping through it. And while some of their stuff is nice, I guess, I am definitely not in their preferred demographic. Because, for example, I'm not 40 and planning to live at our summer home at the Hamptons for three months. So there's no reason for me to have "shimmer linen cropped pants" and "Wearever tunics" and "raffia totes." Especially not at J. Jill prices.

Being a J. Jill target, on top of the Lands End and LL Bean catalogs I've been getting lately, has started to get me down a bit. I'm not quite ready for high-rise mom jeans. No, I don't need summer white denim with flowy cardigans, perfect for those cool evenings by the ocean. And I see no need for sensible shoes when chasing after the little ones (partly because of the lack of "little ones" and partly because I'm still in a "completely insensible but totally cute" shoe phase)

And I wondered what purchase I made lately that tipped off J. Jill that I'm rapidly approaching the age where $139 linen tunics seem like a good idea. But, just as I started to feel too old, I flipped over the catalog. It is addressed to the Pretend Husband. I'll just put it right over here next to his latest membership offer from AARP.

The price of beauty...

I'm not sure guys know how easy they have it (although I think the Pretend Husband's toiletries-- deodorant and cologne-- versus mine-- full drawers of them-- are cluing him in...) But think about everything the ladies have to do on a routine basis-- pluck the eyebrows, shave a whole bunch of areas, sometimes wax some oh-so-sensitive parts. Apparently, we females are a pretty hairy bunch, but we do a good job of hiding that. But I'm not sure how easily I'm going to be able to hide the dreaded mustache. Scroll down to take a look and tell me what you think...

Be honest. Is it obvious?

Actually, this is in honor of the King's birthday. The King is the husband of blogger Isabel and he has a thing for fake mustaches. And yes, I do have a lot of work to do, but found making a fake mustache and posing for photos in it a good way to procrastinate. Why do you ask?