The Perils of PreK

Yesterday we took Zane and went to St. Monica's School.  They were having an open house, and we wanted to check it out.  St. Monica has a 3 year old PreK, but there's usually a waiting list, so this was our opportunity to get on "the list". 

If we had any doubts that Zane would be interested in school, they were laid to rest as soon as he entered the classroom.  He didn't wait one second to be cautious, but took off as soon as we opened the door.  He ran right to the globe, picked it up, and tried to bounce it.  The world did bounce a tiny bit before Larry got it and put it back into the stand.  Zane spent the next hour running all over the place, looking excitedly at toys, posters, desks, basketball hoops, lights, and many other things.  Larry got to chase him around while I asked questions and filled out forms and let the administrators make copies of Zane's shot records, birth certificate and baptismal certificate. (which for some reason affronted my mother, who wanted to know why they needed a baptismal certificate if Zane was baptized at St. Monica's church) 

They wanted a check for the registration fee and an application fee. I thought it would be about 50$.  No.   Grand total would be 260$.     Nonrefundable.   And they have printed over every piece of paper in the registration packet that registering was no guarantee that Zane would be accepted.  Now, why on earth would a sane person plop down that much money in this day and age just for someone to essentially LOOK at an application?  And even if Zane was accepted, he's not potty trained right now and there's no way to know if he will be by age three, and the school doesn't accept kids who aren't potty trained.  Sheesh. 

Zane had a complete blast, and it was clear to us that he needs more educational stimulation than what he is getting right now. He needs to be in a structured setting with other kids so he picks up those vital social skills that you just can't learn from a book or from homeschooling.  But is my boy ready for PreK?  Maybe not.  He's an October birthday, so he won't be starting Kindergarten until the year after he turns five because he doesn't make the August cutoff date for Kinder.  Then there is his speech and language development to consider.  He is behind in expressive language, which would likely improve in a school setting.  But Zane tends to tantrum if he can't get his point across, and would probably haul off and belt the unfortunate student or teacher who didn't understand him.  That sort of behavior doesn't make you valedictorian material. So much to think about, and the boy isn't even three yet!

My central thought since I became a parent is to do what is in the best interest of my child.  So Larry and I have decided that it would be okay for Zane to be in a daycare setting instead of starting PreK, so he can get a lot more 'seasoning' before he starts school.  After all, he'll be in school for at least the next 12 years plus college.  Lots of time for the pressures of homework and test scores and sitting upright at a desk for hours pretending to listen to boring lectures.  We decided that it's okay for him to be a child for a little while longer. 

Sunday Morning Wakeup

I woke up this morning covered in cats.  Literally.  Tiger was slung across my chest, Pounce was draped across my hip, and Morris was flopped across my legs.  Who needs a blanket?  Of course, as soon as I moved, Tiger and Pounce were gracious enough to get up, but Morris moves to the beat of his own drum.  He was comfy and therefore not moving.  Se engaged in a brief struggle until I managed to get him off my feet. 

I called my dad and talked to him.  He was feeling pretty bad yesterday when I talked to him, which was expected.  I'm just not used to hearing him talk about being so tired, nor hearing the sound of that fatigue in his voice.  When I had Epstein-Barr, I felt as if my very bones were tired. I felt like I could never get enough sleep, even if I was sleeping 23 hours a day.   I imagine that his fatigue is 1000x worse.  but today he is feeling a little better, and I could hear it in his voice when we talked on the phone. 

The entire conversation was punctuated by my son, who was jumping around me yelling "Paw Paw!"  and trying to grab the phone.  Except when I put the phone to his ear, he was silent, listening to his Paw-Paw talk.  My son has thousands of very lengthy conversations with his Paw-Paw every day on his pretend phones.  They're quite animated.  So it cracks me up that Zane won't actually TALK to his Paw Paw when given the opportunity. 

We usually go out for Sunday dinner, my entire family, my brother's family and my parents.   But today we aren't going anywhere, since my dad can't go and my nephew Tristan has a soccer game. So we are being lazy this morning!  It's nice to be able to do that once in awhile.  It seems like we are always going, going, going.  I like to take a breath every now and then!

Caprica

This is a new show that is supposed to be a prequel of Battlestar Galactica.  The two main characters are the inventor of the Cylons and the grandfather of Commander Adama. Their daughters are both killed in a terrorist attack and they are grieving; what they do in response to that grief is part of the story.  Esai Morales is Joseph Adama and Eric Stolz is Dr. Graystone. 

I loved this last incarnation of Battlestar Galactica.  When I first watched it, I was prepared for the cornpone of the previous rendition, minus Lorne Greene.  I was pleasantly surprised to be intrigued by the storyline, which is much darker and more rich than the original story.  Lots of miniplots spinning together the fabric of an epic tale.  Parts of that tale included the story from the point of view of the Cylons, who are monotheistic.  (vs. the humans, who are polytheistic).  My favorite character in BSG is Gaius Baltar, who has tremendous growth over the arc of the show, and who is such a multilayered character that you don't know whether you want to hug him or shoot him in the face. 

Caprica is much the same.  You have several different major plots interwoven with minor threads which should tie in together at some point.  The themes of the show are pretty complex, and I find myself pondering them after each episode.   What makes us human, and if what makes us human can be placed into digital form, is that digital form living?  I already sort of worry about characters I create in the online games I play--I can't let my animals on Farmville go one day without checking on them!--so exploring the virtual world in Caprica is fascinating to me. 

Anyway, if you've never seen this show, you're about five episodes behind, so check it out on SyFy.  I think that you can still download the first episodes, and the pilot is out on dvd. 

Who the Hell is Debbie?

My son has some language delays.  He's very smart at figuring things out, and he understands pretty much everything we say.  But his own talking hasn't come along quite as fast, so we are working on it.  He is supposed to be seeing a speech therapist, but she hasn't exactly been showing up.  I guess she doesn't know what I do for a living, but she will when I ask for compensatory services. 

My son IS talking, even stringing some words together.  He says "Mama", "Daddy".  He knows what a "beetle" is, and knows lion, cat, dog, bird, alligator, hyena, cricket, and weirdly, antelope.  He's even said a very close approximation of 'cicada', close enough for me to understand what he was saying!  He knows 'eat', 'poop', 'go', 'car', 'circle', 'apple' and most popular is 'cookie'.     Zane has not EVER said 'no' or 'yes'. 

If my son can't say a word, he often makes an approximation.  For instance, the word elephant is 'e-hee', and his word for 'worm' is 'mmmm'.  Waffle is 'wa', water is 'wa-wa'.  These have persisted even though we always say the correct word to him, so I have to believe that is developmenta.   Then there is 'spider'; Zane's word for that is 'bee-ya'.  I imagine that there's a logic there, but so far I haven't been able to figure it out.

Grandma is 'Nia', and Grandpa is 'Paw-Paw'.  His Aunt is 'Auntie', and his Uncle is 'Uncle'.  He says 'Ty' for his cousin Tyler, and 'Maggie' for the dog, but he cannot say Tristan or Courtney at this point, and he appears to be trying to cover it up by smiling cutely or saying gibberish.  Because that's how he rolls.

When my son acquires a new word, we sometimes have to scramble to figure out where he heard it from.  We learned that his Auntie says 'dammit!' a lot, because Zane started saying it.  Recently, my son has started saying bye-bye and hello to Debbie.  He says it consistently, very clearly.  The only problem is that we don't know anyone named Debbie.  No relatives, no friends, no acquaintances.  Zane doesn't act like he's speaking to an imaginary friend, so I have to believe there is a reason.  It's not necessarily a specific person--at one point my husband was Debbie for the day.    The ONLY thing I can think of is that Zane has heard my brother call Larry 'Dub'-short for the letter W(I have no idea why my brother does this).  But that's stretching it. 

If we meet someone named Debbie, we're set. 

Snow in San Antonio

Yes.  It. Snowed. Here.  In San Antonio, Texas.  They'd been saying that it would, but you know that you only believe half of what the weathermen say.  As I was driving to one of the campuses this morning, I had sleet falling, and when I came out of the school around noon it was still sleeting.  It sleeted rather heavily while I drove to Jack in the Box for an Ultimate Cheeseburger(something about cold weather makes me want to eat stuff that will put fat on my thighs--not good, but it's better to just give in when the craving is that strong).  I figured that is all we would get.  But then the sleet stopped and it started to snow.  Big, fat, lazy flakes at first, followed by a rush of snow, as if the sky was in a hurry to let all of it go.  It snowed where we were about an hour.  Unfortunately, we had no accumulation!  I did find one tiny corner outside where some snow had gathered and huddled against the building to hide from the sun.  I took a couple of pictures for posterity and Facebook uploading.

I texted my sister-in-law to see if Zane had seen the snow, but he napped through the whole thing.  He won't know what he missed, at least not yet.  I actually think that I would like to see him playing in some snow one of these days.  I would take lots of pictures.  Then I would make my son shovel the snow, so he has a well rounded and realistic experience with snow.  Because where there's fun to be had, work often follows, unfortunately. 

My Dad has Cancer

There.  I said it.  He has squamous cell carcinoma, which is a form of skin cancer that is growing on the inside of his body.  He had three lymph nodes taken out last summer, and we thought that was the end of it, but it came back around Christmas.  My dad had surgery to remove it, but the doctor was only able to get 98% of it out.  So here we are.  He starts his first round of chemo tomorrow.  From his description, it sounds very extreme:  3 x 96 hours of chemo every 21 days, then 7 weeks of radiation along with a cancer-killing pill.  But his doctor said that there's a  100% cure rate using this method, and he is supposed to know what he is doing.  My dad has hardly ever been sick, but he hasn't exactly been vigilant about skin cancer. He spent a lot of time outside in the sun with little or no sun protection, and unfortunately now he's paying for it. A while ago he had to start having stuff removed from his nose, and I was concerned, but my parents were very blase' about the whole thing, so I didn't think twice about it.

My dad has always been larger than life to me, but I guess that's how most people feel about their dad.  He's always been the one who took care of things.  If you need a lock installed, he'll take care of it. He's built us entertainment centers, bookcases, and other furniture.  And when there's been medical situations, my dad has always been my universal translator, since there isn't a doctor on the planet who can seem to speak plain English when you need them to.  Every time I've had surgery, my dad has been in there when I talked to the anesthesiologist and quizzed them as to background, education, and experience (In case you didn't know, the anesthesiologist keeps you alive while you are in surgery--so you should make damned sure they know what they are doing!).  Growing up, if I hurt myself and my dad told me to "walk it off", I knew I was okay.  In fact, the one time my dad said "we need to go to the ER", I thought I was actually dying, and all I had was a bad nosebleed.  

Sometimes the day-to-day prevents us from focusing on what is important. Both of my parents are very self-sufficient and independent, and they don't talk about themselves.  My mother is especially tightlipped about some things.  I joke that she would probably not tell me when my grandparents die until a couple of months later, but that's likely not far from the truth!   She's not being passive aggressive, that is just her personality. Also, I am an emotional person--I tend to cry.  This completely discombobulates both of my parents, and they tend not to want to tell me things when they know I'll cry.  I can still function, I just cry while I'm doing it.  And go through a lot of tissues.   But my dad has become more open to talking about his life over the years as family has become even more important to him, so if I remember to ask, then he tells me what is going on. 

I know that I am supposed to be scared or worried, but for some reason I'm not.  For some reason, I feel like everything is going to be okay.  Cancer is not going to kill my dad.  It may make him wish he were dead, but it's not going to actually kill him.  I have no idea where I get this feeling from.  Probably this feeling came from the same place that, when I was in the process of dying the last two times(2003/2007), told me not to worry.  I don't think of myself as any sort of holy person, but events have shown that God has a definite interest in my family.  That's pretty cool. 

Fridays are Awesome

I am exhausted and my butt hurts from sitting all day.   But I am sitting at my home computer typing, after I spent the day at work sitting at a computer, typing.  But it's different.  It's Friday.

On Fridays I can freely surf the web without worrying that any of the sites I might visit will be blocked, as they are at work(the National PTA website is blocked at my work.  I work at a school district).   I can visit cracked.com and mentalfloss.com and icanhascheezburger and peruse them to my heart's content.  I can download porn, if I so choose.  It's exhilarating to have all that freedom.    I hope all that power doesn't go to my head.   On Fridays I can read a book ALL NIGHT long if I want to, like I did when I read Twilight.  Like I used to when I was a kid. 

When I was in my twenties, Fridays were Girls Night Out.  My friends and I would get dressed up and go out dancing.  We were all interested in dancing and drinking and having a good time back then.  The music was always so loud that you couldn't hear anyone talk, which was great; nobody ever says anything mindshatteringly profound in a club anyway.   Nowadays, I much prefer the quiet where I can listen to the sounds of my son sleeping and just be. 

If I play my cards right I can get my husband to let me sleep in tomorrow, even if it's only an extra hour.

Why I Don't Like Sarah Palin

I don't like Sarah Palin.  I haven't liked her since McCain introduced her as his running mate.  Actually, that pretty much guaranteed my vote for Obama--I was on the fence before that.  Seeing Palin's smarmy face as the Vice President just made me cringe, but what really set me against her was her obvious/oblivious use of her children as a political prop.  Her children, especially her son Trig, were carted around and strategically brought out when needed to demonstrate that she was a mom!   "Look at me!  I have a son with Down Syndrome!"  That is what I rememberd most about  the election of  2008.   She has continued in this same vein, but her whining about a Family Guy episode which included a satirical jab at her and her son, was just too much to be believed.  If it bothered me that Palin uses her kids as political props, it infuriates me that the only thing she ever seems to focus on with her youngest child is the fact that he has Down Syndrome.  I've seen pictures on the web--that is a beautiful, healthy looking boy.  You'd never know that just listening to Palin.  She goes on and on about how using the word "retarded" is wrong, and "children with special needs have a hard enough time", but it seems to me that it's just so she can have air time.

You know that part in Airplane!where Robert Hays keeps talking about the past and each individual he is talking is so tortured by that long story that they kill themselves in hilarious ways?  I keep that image in my head to remind me not to go on and on about my son, because I would talk about him all day.   It's an occupational hazard for a parent, understandably so.  Your child is your world when they are small.  For a few years, a parent's focus hones to a razor sharp point on the face or faces of their children.  That is how it is supposed to be.  Sarah Palin may want to gush about that first tooth or first haircut, but she doesn't because that doesn't make for good press.  Nobody wants to read an article about a parent going on and on about their wonderful child; see above Airplane! reference.  

Focusing on a handicap does make for good press, however.  Everyone loves stories about people overcoming adversity, and disabled/handicapped people have a hard road ahead of them no matter who their parents are.  But it's not Palin's adversity; it belongs to her son.  He's the one who is ultimately going have to figure out how to get along in the world; Palin's job is to make sure that he gets the tools(love, interventions, supports, food etc.,) he needs and a safe place to grow.   That's it.  But there's no advantage for her to focus on that, and it sickens me to see her continue to do so. 

My Pets

I love cats. I love animals period, but cats have a special place in my heart.  My first cat was Isobel, a long haired black cat who just showed up one day on my balcony.  She and I had some rough times at first because Isobel thought I was a kitten, so she brought me lots of live animals for me to kill, and this was not good for an apartment.  After I found the dead dove under my coffee table I stopped leaving the balcony door open for her.  Isobel didn't live very long because she got feline leukemia and a brain tumor.  She died January 17th, 2001.  I still cry when I think about her death, but I wanted to be there and I don't regret one second, except that it happened in the first place.

Next came Morris.  Morris, so named because he looks like the 9Lives cat, showed up on October 17th, 1998, in the midst of the Great Flood.  Isobel and I heard a thumping on the front door--it was Morris, knocking.  I opened the door and there was the wettest kitty ever.  He's been mine ever since.  Morris is special needs; he was declawed by some idiot who damaged nerves.  He has trouble eating, he has trouble walking, and he's very likely to bite you if he's scared.  Imagine how you would function if all of your fingertips were cut off at the first knuckle.  I don't think you would have a good attitude either!  Morris was initially the most mean tempered cat ever, but he has mellowed quite a bit over the years, and now he even purrs occasionally when there isn't food involved.

After Morris I met my husband and moved in with him.  There we found Tiger, who started off as the property of a neighbor kid who wouldn't take care of him.  After a day in which the temperature soared to 110 degrees and we saw that he had no water, we started taking care of him.  After he got hit by a car right in front of the house and we paid his vet bill, we told the girl and her mother that Tiger was ours.  I don't think that the girl really cared, and when she did show up at our house to visit, Tiger would run from her. So I don't think that he cared, either.  Tiger always reminds me of Pickles, the Fire Cat   The Fire Cat if not in looks then in his behavior. 

We got Pip next.  Pip showed up and Larry thought she was Tiger and carried her inside.  Pip was a demur little serial killer who liked to use her claws to skewer unsuspecting scorpions and fling them into walls.  So of course we got along famously.  Pip was with us for ten years, but when my mother-in-law moved in with her annoying yappy dog Rascal("just for a couple of weeks" has turned into almost two years!), it was too much for her and she ran away.  I hope that she found a good family.

Once we moved into our house and got married, my husband brought home Pounce, who was the last kitten in a box.  Pounce was named because she likes to pounce on things.  She is a diluted calico, which means that we should have named her Crazy.  She is extremely skittish and generally stays upstairs. She loves me, but is afraid of everything else.  And for some reason she is extremely round.   

We also have Sandy The Wonder Dog, who is a yellow Lab that Larry brought to our relationship.  Sandy gets along great with all the cats, and they treat her as one of them--Pounce even give Sandy baths occasionally.  Sandy is 13yrs old and has trouble walking these days, but she is still a great dog. 

We also have a collection of feral cats who come through our yard, all in varying shades of yellow.  One has decided to live in our back yard.  We named him Lalo, because as the time that is how my niece said the word "yellow".  Lalo won't let anyone but me get closer than three feet to him.  I think that's because I am the one putting the food out for him.  He is also very round, but he seems very happy and hardly ever leaves his place under the purple sage.  Lalo has become very interested in looking in the window that is our back door, and has seemed like he has wanted to come into the house, but he runs away if you open the door.  He loves Morris, and if Morris goes outside, Lalo approaches him like they are littermates.  Considering they are both yellow, they might BE related. 

I Hate Shopping, Part II

I hate to shop, remember?  I especially am not fond of grocery shopping, because it usually takes me forever to get out of there because I can't find anything quickly and I have to wait in the checkout line for hours.  But we had to go today.  So I thought Larry and I could do it together, we'd take Zane and be in and out of Walmart quickly.  This is how far my delusions created to survive shopping trips have taken me. 

We put the harness we got for Zane on him before we let him out of the car.  It's actually a leash, to be blunt, but the boy is at least three times as fast as we are and this at least evens things up a bit.  We put Zane down outside the car, and...he wants to be carried.  Larry carries him to the entrance and we put him in the seat in the cart.  Larry complains about his hip bothering him.  I say nothing--I usually hurt all over, but if I say anything then I'm accused of being a "one-upper".  

Zane is like most kids--if it's shiny and he sees it, he wants it.  And he knows that "please" is the magic word that gets you all sorts of prizes.  So he starts in with "Peez, daddy, peez" and "Peez, mama, peez" as soon as he sees a toy he wants.  He wants them all, or at least, everything that is on the aisle we have to pass to get to the garden center.  I am happy that he seems to be stringing words together to communicate. 

We almost always lose Larry if we pass too close to the electronics section of any store, and today is no exception.  One second he was there, the next he wasn't.  I kept going on to the food section, with a brief stop in the books cut short by Zane's reaching out of the cart to pull books off the shelves.  I hurried to the dairy to begin grabbing what we needed.  Zane also began grabbing whatever he could and throwing it either on the floor or in the cart.  Then, when I told him no, he started to grab what was in the cart and throw that stuff on the floor, even stuff I know that he likes.  I tried to run interference while gathering as many supplies as I could, singing to him, pointing stuff out and otherwise trying to distract my son, while keeping as many vulnerable groceries out of his reach.  I  I repeatedly texted Larry to hurry up, because it was only a matter of time before something not meant to be thrown, like a jar of spaghetti sauce, ended up all over Aisle 5.

Finally Larry showed up, and I gave Zane to him.  Let him run out some energy, I said.  He'll get it out of his system, I said.  That was crazy talk.  Off Zane went, pulling Larry along for the ride.  I blew out a brief sigh of relief, glad that I could now concentrate on groceries.  I got about ten feet down the cereal aisle when I heard it.  I pretend I didn't, hoping I'm mistaken.  I'm not.  My son, my beautiful son, is running up and down the aisles at Walmart, yelling at the top of his apparently healthy lungs.  He is gloriously happy, having a great time, dragging his father behind him.  People are staring.  I pass a teenage girl with one of those babies they use to teach about the responsibilities of parenthood.  I don't think she understood why I was giggling. 

Unfortunately, Daddy gets tired and can't keep up with Zane, so back in the cart he goes.  At least that is what Larry thinks.  In the ensuing battle of wills, Zane is the clear winner.  Larry finally just hands him to me. I carry Zane while we find a checkout line that doesn't have thirty people waiting in it.  (Wtf is up with that, anyway, Walmart?  You should have the capacity to open up every single checkout within five minutes if needed--and it was needed today! It's poor business, not that you care.)   Zane doesn't want me to carry him.  I put him back in the cart. He doesn't like it, and he's crying, but oh well.  We get to the check out, but we have to wait.  And wait. And wait.  Zane doesn't do waiting.  He starts trying to throw things out of the cart again.  I get him out of the cart and hold him for an eternity.  I put him down so I can do the transactions to complete the check out. He lays down on the floor.  I refuse to look.  The people in line behind us are glaring, probably because we are horrible parents and let our poor child just lie on the floor like that.  Larry turns around from putting the bags of groceries into the cart and sees Zane and makes some sort of comment like "Why are you letting him play in the dirt on the floor of Walmart?"

So I punched him in the face.  No, not really.  I would never actually do anything like that.  But I seriously thought about it, because I was that frustrated.  And I made a mental note to not bring Zane or Larry next time I have to go grocery shopping. 

Valentines Day is Every Day

We don't celebrate Valentines Day in my house. Oh, we used to, at least for the first couple of years of our marriage.  Just one year we decided that we didn't need to buy a card or present just one day out of the year as an expression of our love.  We could celebrate it every day.  So that's what we do. 

Anyone who tells you that relationships are easy is trying to sell you something. Relationships are hard work.  It can get downright messy for all concerned.  I think that the number one reason that people divorce is because the parties involved have an idealized version of what they think a partnership is all about. (I blame the romance novels.  Not everyone can be Fabio!)   If the person doesn't initially meet the idealized criteria, we all think that will change.  But a relationship, be it marriage or friendship or whatever, isn't made of what we want to see, but what is.  We do disservice to our partners by insisting that they fit a mold that was never made to fit anyone in existence.  Then everyone becomes disillusioned with each other and sometimes they end up going their separate ways.  Other times people grow up and accept their partner for who they are and then real love can grow.  When I got married, I had no illusions about my husband.  I think that he had some illusions about me, but I popped those bubbles pretty quickly.  There isn't time for illusion in our marriage, unless it's the kind of illusion that involves hobbits.  Or Fabio.

What Happy Couples Do: Belly Button Fuzz & Bare-Chested Hugs--The Loving Little Rituals of Romance

Ah, the random virus...not the computer type.

Yes, I've been feeling ill all day.  Not nausea--that is my Achilles' heel--but my tummy has been roiling and growling and bloated all day.  I've been burping like I drank a six pack of beer in 30 seconds, but I haven't had that sort of fun since college.  Now I've got the headache, the body aches, the fever, and the just plain sheer exhaustion. 

One of the pitfalls to working in a school district is that you are exposed to all sorts of random viruses that the students bring with them to school.  Contagious diseases spread so fast on a campus that before we even hear about the virus, we have acquired it.  They've done a pretty good job with getting the little kids to wash their hands and wipe their noses with kleenex.  Middle school kids...not so much.  And I work on a middle school campus, as does my husband. 

He was sick today as well.  I had to go pick him up from work and take him home.  He complained about being sick most of the day, via text message.  I briefly mentioned that I didn't feel well either, but Larry was all wrapped up in his stuff.  So I got Zane duty.  I was hoping that my MIL, who has been living with us for going on two years(she was 'just' going to stay "until she got back on her feet"), would step up to the plate and take care of him. Then I could have at least had a quick nap.   But as soon as I mentioned that I didn't feel well and that I had a fever, she immediately said that she didn't feel well either.  Great.  Yeah.  You sit over there on the couch and let the woman with the 101 fever take care of the toddler.  I wanted to say something, but then it would all be my fault somehow.  On top of all that, she fell asleep on the couch. 

So I took care of Zane, like a good mom.  Hopefully I didn't infect him.  I hate it when he's sick.  I feel so helpless, just like I did when I first saw him in the NICU. 

Okay, I'm going to go camp out near a wastebasket and ride this virus out. 

Amazon.com and beer barrels

I love Amazon.com.  It's my favorite place to 'window shop', and I visit the website often.  My favorite section has always been the book section, but I've been expanding my visits to see toys, electronics, clothes, makeup, and even vitamins.  I feel like Amazon was created just for people like me.  People who hate to shop. 

I am not ashamed to admit that I hate shopping.  I can never find anything quickly, I hate crowds and I hate waiting in line.  I especially hate shopping for clothes because that involves looking for things in  my size, trying them on, getting discouraged at seeing my fat ass in the mirror(at that point, NOTHING looks good on an ass that big, I think) and walking out with nothing.  Stacy and Clinton would smack me into next Sunday, but I tend to just grab stuff that doesn't fit well and just rush to the cashier so I can leave. 

I know that my ass probably isn't nearly as big as I think it is.  Actually it is not my ass that bothers me, it's my waistline.  Since Zane came along I have acquired dad's family shape, which is round.  If you look at old pictures of the women on that side of my family tree, they all seem to be beer-barrel shaped.  Which is fine if you're a beer barrel, but not so great if you're a person.  Besides the health risks for round women, there's the problem that nothing fits because most clothing is made for someone with a waist.   I refuse to buy anything with an elastic waist, so I have resorted to wearing shapers.  I am seriously considering a girdle.  Before that, however, I'm going to join my officemates in a weight loss contest.  The weigh-in is tomorrow.  I will try not to cringe when I get on the scale, but then I will get busy trying to lose the beer barrel look. 

A Diaper Hall of Fame

My husband keeps tabs on all the "poopy" diapers that come his way.  When it is his 'turn' to change a diaper and it is an evacuation situation, Larry's acting and facial expressions would make Uncle Miltie envious. There is a surprise sniff, an expression of horror,  usually with  "OMGWhat is THAT?" This is followed by the required peek into the diaper to verify the stench's location. Larry will always pull his shirt up over the his nose and say "Shields, Captain?" in his best Chekov imitation.  Next, Larry has to find at least four packages of wipes and two diapers(the second diaper is the Safety Diaper, just in case there's an accident).    If he thought that it would help him, Larry would gladly put on a hazmat suit and mask.  Especially the mask.    While he is doing this, Zane is moving as far away from Larry as possible, because he thinks it is fun to run away from diaper changes. (What Zane doesn't realize is that his daddy would like to run away from the diaper change as well.)

After cornering Zane, the actual diaper changing can begin, except that Zane begins Evasive Maneuvers, rolling side to side, trying to push away from Larry so he can get up and run.    Holding onto one of his ankles helps.  But with a really stinky diaper, there's usually more effort involved, since we have to hold him while trying to wipe the 'residue' off Zane's bottom while simultaneously keeping the stuff from getting on the carpet or couch or us.  I really don't know how people with more than one baby can handle all this. 

Once the diaper has been opened, there is a good chance that Larry will describe, loudly, what he finds in colorful detail, a habit that I can definitely say runs in his family.   I've had brown, green, red, orange, black and yellow-ish descriptors.  Consistency is also described.  When the diaper has exceeded maximum capacity, then I get a play by play description of where the overflow ended up. And after the diaper has been changed, Larry has a tendency to complain about how horrible that diaper was, and compare it to other horrible diapers Zane has had in the past.  Yes, my husband has a Diaper Hall of Fame, and only the stinkiest get a shot at enshrinement.  This morning was apparently the equivalent of the diaper he changed in January of 2009, which involved colors not found in nature and a stench so insidious that all the windows in the house had to be opened up so the house could be aired out.  Larry concluded that this particular diaper was like the scene in the movie Independence Day when the aliens "let loose" with the destruction. 

Occasionally Zane succeeds in his escape attempts and takes off without a diaper.  I am waiting for this to happen in a public place.  It is likely that we will be featured on the "People of Walmart" website chasing our half naked toddler through the frozen food section.  If this happens I fully intend to use that incident as blackmail when Zane is a teenager.

Hey, parents of teenagers need all the help they can get.

Late Night Musings

When I was a kid, I thought that I could reach up into the sky and touch lightning.  Whenever there was a thunderstorm, I thought I could step outside, throw my arms out and embrace the power from the sky.  I had no inkling about electrical currents and voltage at the time--I just wanted to touch lightning, and I thought that I could. That was all there was to it.  With that kind of belief in yourself, you can conquer anything that comes along in life.  Kids thrive on that belief, as long as they know that their parents have that belief as well.  As long as someone believes in them, they thrive, even under the most horrific of circumstances.  

I don't know when that feeling of being powerful enough to hold onto pure electricity disappeared.  It just wasn't there anymore one day.  Maybe it was hearing my dad tell me that I wasn't intelligent, maybe it was all the moving around we did, maybe it was being teased by other kids because I didn't fit in somewhere, or maybe it was just my trust in myself that disappeared.  For whatever reason, at some point I stopped trusting that I could handle all the tribulations of life.  That's when I became afraid of the thunderstorms, and afraid of lightning. 

Every now and then I try to recapture that sense, that almost sacred feeling, right down to the marrow of your bones, that all you have to do is want and it can happen.  I know that I came as close as possible to that feeling when my son came into the world.  I intend to do all I can to make sure that he knows this feeling of power/confidence in himself.  And I hope that he keeps it with him his whole life.

Eating Healthy is Hard

It's easy to eat healthy when you have two things that most people have none of:  money and time.  I would love to have the time to peruse healthy recipes, the time to buy fresh fruits, veggies, organic meats, etc., and the time to artfully prepare them. Ideally, I would have time on Sundays  to prepare meals for the week, and then all I would have to do when I came home each day would be to take stuff out of the fridge and pop it into the oven.

I work until five most days.  When I get home, I have a two year old who wants Mama's attention.  He doesn't care that I need to prepare food for dinner, it is more important that I stop and draw him a beetle, a kitty cat, an elephant and a spider.  Over and over again.  Even when my husband runs interference and tries to keep Zane occupied, he continues to seek my attention.  Which is fine, except when it's not.  Which is when I am trying to cook, because that usually involves ovens and pots and pans and knives and other things that toddlers aren't supposed to have contact with. We have an oven lock, but when it is time to open the oven door, here comes the boy. 

It also doesn't help my eating healthy that my husband never met a vegetable that he liked(his mother is the same way).  And he doesn't like casseroles. He likes meat and potatoes and bread--all the things you are supposed to eat in moderation, he eats to excess.  Occasionally I can get him to eat something healthier--I found some "light" sourdough bread that is only 40 calories a slice(Nature's Own) and doesn't taste like paper, for instance, and he likes the Smart Ones breakfast muffin sandwiches.  But I usually have to sneak healthy stuff past him, like adding extra veggies to the spaghetti sauce. I've tried to appeal to the Daddy factor--he needs to be seen eating healthy so his son will pick up good eating habits.  I have had no luck, just like I had no luck appealing to his lowered risk of Alzheimers, heart attacks, etc.   I am open to any and all ideas.  

My Story, the End of the Beginning

So we are at the hospital, two days short of 32 weeks. It's a brand new labor and delivery unit, and I am glad, what with my negative associations with the old unit. I walked up there, said who I was, and they let us in. I was rushed into one of those embarrassing hospital gowns, put on a gurney. Then I was surrounded by nurses trying to get me ready to go back, asking me questions, trying to stick an IV into my arm. The person trying to put in the IV was having trouble, because I could feel blood trickling down my arm. The anesthesiologist came in, and after ascertaining that this wasn't his first day on the job, he decided that general anesthesia would be the best route. He asked if I had eaten breakfast. I said yes. One of the nurses gave me some gawdawful thing to drink, and the next thing I know I had to go. Literally. But they wouldn't let me leave, they just put me on a bedpan. And wouldn't you know it, at embarrassing moment, in walks...Larry, my dad, Dr. Sadler, and about three other men! After that, I decided that nothing would ever embarrass me again.

A short time after that, I went into the operating room. Zane was born soon after. He was breech, and as a consequence he got more of the anesthesia than he needed. From what I was told, Zane had an Apgar of 1 when they got him out of me, and he either coded or they thought that he was going to code. Ten minutes later, Zane had an Apgar of 7 and they were wheeling him off to the NICU. Larry was waiting outside in the hall, and they let him take a picture of Zane before the nurses whisked him off.

I woke up a little later, I remember seeing Dr. Sadler, and after a little while they brought Larry back to me. I can remember him being there, and then I can remember that I couldn't exhale. I could inhale, but not exhale. I remember saying that I couldn't breathe and someone saying that if I couldn't breathe then I wouldn't be able to talk. I distinctly remember thinking "yes, that is true"...and then I passed out. Larry was whisked out of the room and a code ended up being called on me. Larry said that he had never seen that many people in the hallway of the hospital, but they were all there to help, just like they are trained to do.

I woke up again with three doctors arguing over me(if they had all been women, I might have thought of the Fates). I remember that one guy was bald, and he seemed to be a bit of a bully. He wanted me to go to an ICU for the night. He won. Once they got me down there people could come and visit me. I started freaking out a little about stupid stuff, now that the 'worst' was over. Larry offered to go back home and get some stuff, and I gave him a very long list, which he still has. I can also remember that I talked my fool head off, again, probably out of sheer relief.

People who have never stayed in a hospital are under the impression that it is a place of rest. It is not. Just when you actually start to sleep someone comes in and wakes you up to check your vitals. I also had someone coming in to make sure that my uterus contracted back into the right shape, which sort of hurts. And the nurse, who was from L&D, probably was a little peeved that she had to come to me, so she wasn't exactly gentle. Lucky for me I had a morphine drip!

I did not get to see Zane until the next day, and Larry wheeled me to the NICU. He wasn't in the first room, he was in the second. Which means that he wasn't AS bad as he could have been, but they still needed to keep a sharp eye on him. When I first saw him in the incubator with all the tubes and wires and his little chest laboring so hard to draw in air, I just started crying. It was explained to me that things weren't as bad as they looked, but it was still a shock.

The second night I got to stay in the L&D unit, and that was awesome--wood floors, lots of space, etc. If that room was the Hyatt, the room I had the next night was Motel 6. I grumbled about having to move--it would make sense for you to stay in one room your entire visit so you don't lose your stuff, etc. I would have gone home the day after Zane showed up, but I guess the hospital wanted to make sure that I didn't do anything else weird. After all, for at least the next couple of months I was a minor celebrity--everyone in the hospital knew me and Z as the double code that NEVER happens in L&D. But I had staying in hospitals(because of the no rest thing), so when Dr. Sadler showed up early on Monday and asked if I wanted to go home I was practically already packed.

Larry and I visited Zane every single day. We scrubbed in, got used to the bells and whistles, and did what the nurses told us(rule number one in a hospital: OBEY the nurse)There was a problem with the valve what is supposed to close between the lungs and the heard, but that was taken care of with medicine. He started breathing better. He had jaundice, so they put this little mask on him that looked like a pair of sunglasses and let the sun lamp take care of it. The nurses were kind, although there were a couple who seemed kind of cold, which is not who you want working with your baby. Zane got to come home about a month after he was born, when he hit five pounds and had passed all the health checks. The day before he came home, Zane was the 'star' of a presentation the hospital had set up for Premature Baby month. He was filmed for two newscasts, and I also spoke to a reporter for the Express-News. Zane slept through all the excitement. We had yet to learn that Zane IS the excitement.