Friday, April 30, 2004

Who? Me?

I spent today running a Teddy Bear relay race for my daughter's preschool field day. Yup. I know how jealous you all are. I can see you turning green from here. I just live the most glamorous life.

So, as I told a friend of mine (Hey you! Make nice comments to me, please.) in an E-mail today, I got nothing for the blog. I should probably just skip the day, but I've been on a roll. I wouldn't want to disappoint all eight of my readers.

My husband did say something to me last night that got me thinking. His mother had called while he was at work. I rarely talk with her on the phone because I so clearly make her uncomfortable. I'm not sure why, though. I try to be as friendly as I can.

"Oh, come on," my husband said. "You intimidate her."

"I'm not intimidating!" I replied.

And he laughed at me. He said that I am very intimidating and a "female version of your father."

Okay. Them's fighting words. Most women are afraid of turning into their mothers. Not me. I dread becoming more like my father.

Isn't it funny how different people can have such a different perspective of you. I'm pretty sure that my friends and acquaintances think I'm laid-back and easy going, sort of quiet, but sociable once I get going. But my family thinks I am a loud mouth, outspoken and opinionated, and too smart for my own good.

I like to think that I am actually well-balanced right between those two extremes. It's not that I really care that much what people think. I'm just curious. Isn't everyone curious about what people think of them?

Thursday, April 29, 2004

I Enjoy Being a Girl

I sure got the women going in the comments section yesterday. It's funny how that particular topic gets under our skin. So today, I have females on the brain.


A week from Sunday is Mother's Day. Call your mother! Or if not your own, call someone's mother. It will make her day.

Last week my daughter (who has mastered how to call Grandma and Grandpa on the telephone all on her own, much to the detriment of my phone bill!) asked my mother if she could come to her dance recital and her May Pole program at school. My mother is completely wrapped around my daughter's little finger, so she started looking into airline fares.

She couldn't find anything cheap enough to rationalize another trip down here, especially since she'll be making three more trips this summer.

So for Mother's Day, I paid her airfare. Now who's wrapped along my daughter's little finger?

I'm pretty excited. If nothing else, it will be nice to not have to go to these things alone.


My daughter will often talk about having her own babies. She'll name her little girl Ashley and she'll let her wear dresses everyday. So I ask her what she'll do if she has a boy. "Oh, I won't Mommy. I'll have a girl baby." Let's hope.

But she also talks quite a bit now about being in the Air Force. I would never deter her from something she really wants, but I'd really rather she not subject herself to that kind of life. But yesterday she told me she would go to college, then to Air Force school. She said, "But I'll still be a mommy, Mommy."

She thought for a few minutes, and then said, "But I don't want to have a baby." When I asked her why she sort of rubbed her tummy and said, "Well, remember when you had surgery to have a baby and they cut your tummy."

Um. No. I didn't have a C-section. Where the heck did she get that idea? So she told me that her teacher told them all about having her baby. Am I the only one who thinks it's weird that a preschool teacher would talk about a C-section?


While I can be as feminine as the next woman, I'm not really a girly girl. I never really have been. So here, for your consideration, the top 5 reasons why I'm not a girly girl.

5. Although I drive a mini van, I also drive a blue '68 Chevelle Malibu. Which causes me to be hit on by teenagers and 20-somethings at every red light.

4. Although I twirled baton as a kid, I also played every sport I could, including tackle football with my husband and our friends every Sunday in high school.

3. I never wear make up. Well, I wore make up on my wedding day. Now when I have to go formal, I wear some chap stick. I just don't see why women should have to wear a mask for the world, when men don't.

2. I can drink anyone under the table. No girlish, drunken giggling for me.

1. I really love to...well...let's just leave this one unsaid, and let your dirty imaginations fill in the rest.

Wednesday, April 28, 2004

I didn't know I still had this rage in me!

Ack! I did it again. I read other people's blogs before posting to my own. I can feel control of my brain being given over to the cosmic web. I no longer have original thought.

I have quite a few things on my mind today. But I'm all a jumble and can't seem to form a coherent post. I'm tempted to talk about breastfeeding, but I'm pretty sure nobody wants to read that.

Ah. What the hell. You can all live vicariously through my motherhood!

Whenever a group of mothers get together, the talk eventually includes one of two topics, either breastfeeding or birth stories. I'm not sure why, as a species, we feel the need to do this. We must have some evolutionary need to prove our superiority as mothers by showing off our three-year-old breastfeeder (NASTY!) or our Cesarean scar (OUCH!).

Personally, I don't need outsiders to validate my skills as a parent. I'm pretty happy just being me, and doing the best I can for my offspring. So when the talk turns to breastfeeding, I usually clam up. Or if they start to piss me off enough, I'll go on my own anti-La Leche League screaming fit.

My daughter was born one month premature. We had only lived here a few months and I didn't really have any friends yet. And lucky me, my husband was flying that night. When my water first broke, I was in a bit of denial. So, naturally, I called my mother. While I was on the phone, my water REALLY broke. And let me tell you. It's not like you see on TV.

So I called the command center and told them what was going on, in hopes that they could land his plane. As luck would have it, he was on the radio at that exact moment, reporting engine problems. They turned him around and landed his plane within a half hour. And I drove myself to the hospital.

I was in complete hell for about 7 hours, and then I got my epidural. No natural childbirth for me. I'm all about the science. She was born without a hitch, and was very healthy despite her early appearance.

I did my best to breastfeed in the hospital, but it takes a few days to get started. Once we were home and my milk came in, she was having none of that. She would latch on and then just scream her head off. I should have realized that this was a sign of her impending personality, but I figured it was a fluke. I wanted to switch to formula so bad, but my husband kept saying that we should wait until our appointment with the lactation specialist.

Well, because she was premature she was very jaundiced. And the worst thing for jaundice is dehydration. In just a couple of days, she dropped below 5 pounds and became dehydrated. She was on a fiber-optic light therapy and we were feeding her with a medicine dropper, to avoid nipple confusion.

So my mother sat there, with a cup of expressed breast milk (you don't know humiliation until you have pumped breastmilk!) and a cup of formula. She'd squirt in the breastmilk and my daughter would scream. She'd squirt in formula and my daughter would sort of "num num" it all up.

So, I'm not stupid. Screw breastfeeding. Get this kid a bottle.

(Okay, here's the whole point of my story!)

Later that day, she was at the pediatrician on base. I was still a new enough mother to try and make excuses for my decisions. I told the doctor it was too hard to breastfeed her while she was on the light therapy, and I had decided to switch to bottles. And the man actually had the nerve to say:

"I'll make a deal with you. You can take her off the light to breastfeed her, as long as you put her right back on. If you don't breastfeed this child you will never bond with her."

What!!! Who the hell did he think he was? You know what's hard? Bonding with a child who does nothing but scream at your breast. Bottle feeding was the best decision I made for her. She was wasting away and headed for the hospital. UGH! I still get mad just thinking about it.

So I just sort of said, "Mmm hmmm. Okay." And I got myself a new doctor post haste.

Unless you have serious problems, you bond with the being who has been growing inside you for nine months. That whole bonding thing that so-called experts are always talking about is a bunch of crap. I don't know if it has grown out of the brainwashing of groups like La Leche League or if it is a manifestation of the post-feminism guilt of working while raising children. But damn. It's your kid. You bond. Trust me.

Breastfeeding is a wonderful thing if it works for you. But if it doesn't, don't do it. Don't let anyone else tell you what is right for your child. It's food, not love.

And as for my son...well...his birth story is too hellacious to contemplate here. But I found great joy in sticking a bottle of formula in his mouth when he was one-day-old. And so did his Daddy.

So I'm sure that all of you gay guys who read my blog are just fascinated. In fact, if you've read this far, I think you deserve some kind of prize. I have mountains of kids' artwork that I'm willing to share. And you can all thank him for setting me off on this rant!

Tuesday, April 27, 2004

Three Decades Down

I have a very clear memory of the month before my 25th birthday. We were living in Pensacola, my husband was in flight school, and I was working at the mall just to be able to afford the occasional movie and pizza. Right before I turned 25, I had a life revelation. Nothing special happened. I think my impending quarter century birthday just spurred me to some life altering decisions.

A lot of it was the normal stuff. You know, eat better, exercise more, be more organized. But we also decided to start preparing to start our family. It was a time of renewal in my life--a time of renewal for the next stage.

I feel like that now. I'll turn 31 in a few weeks, and while I'm not at all upset about it, it has given me focus. I had a set of life goals that I wanted to accomplish by the time I was 30. And for the most part, I accomplished those goals. Now I feel like it is time to get ready for the next section of my life.

So again, I'll start with the eating better and exercising more. It's amazing how those two simple things can set a lively fire in your heart to enjoy life more. It's surely time to lose this pregnancy weight. My youngest is TWO after all.

And his being two is significant to me. I'm not the mother of babies anymore. He becomes more and more a little boy every day. He has one last year at home with me and than he'll start preschool for the 2005-2006 school year. It's amazing how fast time flies with your second (last) child. I've been all about maternal self-sacrifice for the last 5 years. Now I'm ready to focus on me a little bit.

I don't know how long I'll ride this self-improvement wave. But the last one lasted two years. Heck. If I can get two months out of this one, I'll be in a wonderful place.

I felt the need to share this with you here on my blog, because so many of you have been my catalyst. Just by sharing of yourselves, you've given me so much.

Okay. Enough of this philosophizing. I promise to be more entertaining tomorrow!

Monday, April 26, 2004

Changing His Tune

My husband came home from work last Friday night and mentioned that he had seen something on TV about blogs. Yup. They watch TV at work. Last week they watched American Idol while they studied.

Anyway, he said, "You know that Star Trek freak...the young one...he has a blog."

"Will Wheaton. I know. Everybody does." I replied.

"Yeah well, he got a book deal out of it." And so the great shifting of the mind has begun.

Since college, my husband has had this absolute belief that I would publish a book someday. I wish I shared his confidence. Back then I never intended to be a writer, but over the years, with all the poking and not-so-gentle prodding I've at least started thinking about it. I wrote freelance for a newspaper for a while and during his last deployment I wrote him a series of, um, risque stories, and now he is more convinced then ever.

He has spent every moment that we've been together the past weekend trying to get me to start a blog. He thinks that by writing every day, I'll get in the habit. And then at some point I would be able to just shift it to something I can actually make money doing.

Ummmm. I guess he's forgotten that I already told him that I was starting a blog. He must not remember telling me that I should do what I want and that he didn't want to read it. He probably assumed that I would just never get around to it. That would be pretty typical of me.

I haven't actually said that I've already been blogging, but I haven't said I haven't either. I guess I have a choice now. I can tell him that I have a blog, but that I prefer he not read it. He'd respect that. Or I can scrub this one of any non-husband friendly content (anything having to do with sex) and let him read it. Or I guess I could even start another blog just for his consumption.

I think I'll stick with the first choice. Maybe I'll actually have to start writing a book, just to throw him off the scent.

I spent this entire weekend working on his paper, and my mind is complete mush. Seriously. Absolute mush. Can you tell? And he wants me to be entertaining and witty for the masses. As he would say, not gonna happen my friend.

Sunday, April 25, 2004

Books for Soldiers

Hey Guys. This is the first time I've ever made a request from you, but I feel pretty strongly about this so...

Check out the Books for Soldiers site to find out how to send your gently used books to military members serving at forward operating locations.

I know from experience that books can be some of the best items sent to soldiers, sailors, and airmen. It seems like things are getting pretty bad all over the world. Deployments are getting longer and morale is falling. This is a great time to reach out.

Thanks everyone!

Saturday, April 24, 2004


I was lounging in bed last night reading a romance novel when I heard a strange sound from the master bathroom.


"Are you all right?" I call out. But I'm drowned out by the sound of running water and horrid eighties music.

Then I hear it again.

"Ohhhh yeah!"

"What the hell are you doing in there?" I yell. Still no response.

"Ohhhh! Damn that feels better!"

"Hey!" I shout.

The door pops open and my husbands freshly shaven head pops out.

"I'm so glad I decided to shave my head again. Hey! Why are you laughing at me?"

Friday, April 23, 2004

Up, Up, and Away

You're all so sweet. The comments and E-mail I received from readers of this blog made me feel better. Well, that and the fact that my fever finally went away. I'm no doctor but I think I have an ear infection (or two) and a throat infection. Now we'll be conducting an experiment to see how long those infections can last without the interference of antibiotics. Because my husband is an aviator, I have to go to the flight surgeon. I feel so out of place and stupid there that I avoid it as much as I can.

But speaking of aviation, I have airplanes on the brain today.

This weekend the base is hosting an air show. For residents of the base, this is a big pain in the neck. But I still can't help but get excited. As long as I've been involved in the military (about 12 years now), I still get excited when I see or even hear jet planes. And I've been hearing them for two days now. I've gotten so that I can tell aircraft apart just from their noise. Pretty cool, huh? And a bunch of different aircraft have been flying in for the show.

My kids love airplanes. I guess that makes sense for two military brats. But they're like little aviation prodigies. My daughter can tell the difference between all the planes that fly from our base, and she knows a few of her other favorite planes. She decided last month that she wants to be an "Air Force person" when she grows up and she wants to fly AWACS. What happened to being a ballerina?

Whenever we're out driving in our little mini van and we know Daddy is flying, they blow kisses to every one of his type of airplanes that fly by. "Have a good flight, Daddy," they yell, as they wave and kiss. I think it's cute. My daughter says that even if it isn't Daddy in that plane, it is still someone's Daddy up there and they need kisses and luck too.

But every once in a while, I actually know that he is in the plane that we're waving at. I won't get into the details of how that is possible, but it is. Of course the kids get excited, but I get some pretty strong feelings too.

When he first started flying, I wasn't nervous exactly, but I did have nightmares of driving to work and seeing an aircraft like his and watching it crash and burn. I did my own little silent version of my kids' lucky kisses back then.

Now I just feel sort of in awe of the whole thing. He's actually up there, doing that whole defending freedom thing. Him. My husband. The guy who scares me to death when he drives my car. The guy who could barely read when he started college. My husband, who isn't anything special, except to me.

Except he is special. But not because he was given any gifts. He's had to struggle for everything he ever earned in his life. Nothing was ever handed to him. He was blessed with one gift as a child. He was blessed with a dream. He told me when he was seven years old, he decided he wanted to fly. He never gave up, even through what seemed like insurmountable odds. And now he's doing what he loves.

Sometimes I envy him that dream. That gift of knowledge. That absolute certainty of what he wanted to be when he grew up. I never had that. But mostly I'm just proud of him.

Thursday, April 22, 2004

Poor Me

After yesterday's classy post, I'm feeling a little shy today. I'm also feeling sick. My poor little baby girl gave her illness to her poor mother. I'm floating in that freaky place that you can only find in fevered dreams. I can't seem to get my temperature below 100 and it keeps creeping back up to 102.5.

Please feel bad for me. Because nobody else does. That is the bane of the stay-at-home military mother. I can't go to the doctor, because who would watch my kids. It's not like Grandma can fly in from Boston just because I feel like crap. My friends all have at least two kids of their own, so I can't foist my sick children off on them. And my husband has to fly. It's not like he can say, "Oh. Sorry about that national security thing. My wife and kids are sick."

My husband is a wonderful man in many, many ways. But when it comes to taking care of me when I'm sick, he sucks at it.

Last night, I went to bed at 7 p.m. He came home from work at about 7:05 and came in the bedroom to check on me. After I informed him in my most pathetic voice that I was "sick and have a temperature" he informed me that he was staying away from me to avoid catching anything.

Nice. Then when I asked him to get the thermometer this morning, he said, "I will if it will prove to you that you're not as sick as you think you are and you'll stop moaning." So I took my temperature and felt vindicated that it was 102.5. Hah. That will teach him to minimize my distress.

So obviously my writing is suffering from my illness. And I will shut up now and let you all get back to your much more interesting lives.

Wednesday, April 21, 2004

Rated M for Mature...OR Warning! Too Much Information!

My Daddy for a Day problem is solved--sort of. My poor baby girl is sick enough to be out of school for the rest of the week.

So I spent a few hours at the pediatrician's office today. Is it wrong that I was checking out the Daddy of a little girl who kept throwing up? He was all hot in an Old Navy surf shirt and all sweet with his little girl. And then at the pharmacy, I was reminded of my appreciation of guys in scrubs. Even a normal looking man can look so hot in scrubs. I remember the day after my son was born (It was Christmas weekend) and the doctor came in wearing scrub pants and a grey sweatshirt. I couldn't stop staring at his ass while he was writing on my chart. That seems sort of perverse now.

So I have sex on the mind again. Big surprise. I find that the more sex I have, the more I want. That doesn't seem normal either. Which lead to this conversation with my husband:

Me: I hope it doesn't bother you that I just get more revved up after we have sex.

Him: Why would it?

Me: Well, I don't want you to think that you don't satisfy me.

Him: Hon, you're insatiable. I've known this for years.

Me: But that's a good thing right? I'm sure there are husbands out there who have to practically beg for sex.

Him: It is good. But I'd trade a quarter of our sex life for you to be able to sleep at night.

Me: Just a quarter, huh?

Awww. He cares about me. He'd give up a quarter of our sex (I'm guessing that would be the mundane quarter and not the you-give-the-world's-best-blow-jobs quarter) so that I could get a good night's sleep. I don't know where he comes up with this stuff.

But since I'm talking about sex (which I promised I wouldn't), I figured I'd stuff as much sex into this here post as I can.

I think people have a specific image in mind when they think of military wives. Especially officer's wives. I'm sure the stereotypes hold true for a lot of people, but I don't think I really fit into one. And I've met a lot of different wives over the years.

One of the ways to get to know people when you get to a new base is to get on the party-going circuit. And I don't mean the kind of parties that you all enjoy. I'm talking about parties where people sell things. You wouldn't even believe the number of different kinds of parties: Tupperware, Mary Kay, candles, stickers, stampers, srcapbooking, baskets, painting, lingerie, cookware, and toys are just a few. But I think my favorite party so far was the sex toy party.

I was invited to this party by a new friend of mine who didn't want to go alone. Everyone there was a young officer's wife. Apparently, someone had a party like this for a bachelorette party and decided it was fun. But they had a different salesperson. This salesperson was missing a few teeth and kept referring to things her husband and her had done in their trailer.

What cracked me up though, was that she kept presenting alternate uses for the products. This cock ring can also be a hair scrunchy. This rotating dildo can also be used to mix cakes. And when everyone made horrified and disparaging comments about the anal lube, she informed us that she keeps some at her house because it is good for bug bites.

After the presentation, we each went into the bedroom with the salesperson where we could privately make our selections. You always feel obligated to buy something at these parties, so most people came out with lotions and "joke" gifts. Me? I chose the anal lube. You know, bug bites are a big problem for me.

The salesperson suggested that I hide it in my purse, considering the comments that had been made. So I did just that. And since any activity related to the use of said lube (except the bug bite treatment I had so obviously bought it for) is still illegal, even for married couples, in our little world...I didn't tell anyone what I bought.

Over the next year, I became very close friends with the woman who invited me to the party. She was a bit wild. When they were moving away she told me that she had been curious for a year about what I had bought at that party. She offered up stories of her own public sex in trade. I told her what I had bought and she responded, "Oh. *pause* You win hands down. I thought I was the more freaky of the two of us."

"What?" I asked her. "What's so freaky about treating bug bites?"

Tuesday, April 20, 2004

Kill Me! Kill Me Now!

But don't tell my heart,
my achy breaky heart,
I just don't think he'll understand.
But if you tell my heart,
my achy breaky heart,
he might blow up and kill this man.

Is this song stuck in your head now? Is it? Good! Maybe it will leave mine.

This morning's radio disc jockeys had a compilation of the 50 worst songs ever. They were giving a prize to the caller who could guess the #1 worst song of all time. Achy Breaky Heart was number 2.

So what the hell was #1?

Monday, April 19, 2004

More stuff about me

So this morning I returned to my normal happy-go-lucky self. Aren't you glad? I know my family is. Actually, I don't think anyone would ever describe me as happy-go-lucky. I'm more of a kind of laid back happy. But now that my mood has improved, I'll post the post that I was too cranky to write yesterday.

Two nights ago, while I struggled to sleep, I had a revelation. My husband always says that I'm naive. He says that I expect people to be like me. And by that he means down-to-earth,accepting of differences, and unconcerned with appearances. I usually tell him that he's wrong about that, but I think he may be right.

So I got to thinking. How did I end up this way? I really wasn't raised to be this way. My father, while he loves me a lot, is not an accepting man. He couldn't be more prejudiced. He tried to teach me to be as aggressive as possible. I remember one college softball game where he yelled at me for not pitching the ball at a girl's head. (She deserved it but I don't play that way.)

My mother is eternally sweet, but a total doormat. I said to a friend recently that she would have missed the women's movement even if it had camped out in her front yard. She is nervous and uptight almost all the time.

But it hit me. There is something different about me. There is something that I went through that most people don't. But it never was a big deal to me, so I rarely think about it.

When I was very little, I had an extremely hard time walking. It's not that I couldn't, it was just very painful. I have no memory of the pain though. I think I was probably just used to it. My parents took me to a bunch of doctors, and finally, when I was 3, I was diagnosed with Legg Perthes disease.

Legg Perthes disease is pretty rare. And it is much more prevalent in boys. When you have Legg Perthes, the ball and socket joint of your hip disappears. Doctors still don't really no why. But recent research shows that it is a genetic disposition aggravated by second-hand smoke. (My dad smoked 6 packs a day.) When I was diagnosed, most sufferers would spend years in traction, years in braces, and then end up in a wheelchair as an adult.

My parents decided that they wouldn't go that route. They shortened my time in the hospital, but I still spent a few months at home in traction. Then they moved me into a newly designed brace much sooner. And most importantly, they encouraged me to be as active as I could. They signed me up for swimming lessons and a tennis program for handicapped kids.

It was the tennis program I was thinking about the other night. Linda from Sesame Street was the founder of the program. The participants ranged from kids with mental disorders to kids with missing limbs. I remember that my closest friend had only one arm. There were blind kids and deaf kids. I had a total crush on my very cute coach, and it was fun.

But being in a situation like that surely teaches you something about life. I learned to answer questions about my disease without blinking an eye. I learned about the troubles other kids face, but I also got to know them as people. I went to public school (My dad had to threaten the school board to get them to let me be in a "normal" class.) and never felt out of place or different.

By the time I was 6, I was out of the brace. By the time I was 8, I was completely healed. I had a decent career in both high school and college athletics, and I'm not in a wheelchair now. I was lucky, but mostly it was my parents doing. They decided to let me be a kid, and it worked to my advantage. They also made sure I was properly diagnosed.

To my parents, my "illness" (as they called it) was a very big deal. They decided not to have any more kids, and they put themselves in debt to pay for everything that insurance didn't cover. My dad once punched out a guy who made a disparaging comment about those kinds of people. It was devastating to them. But they didn't let me know that. To me it was never a big deal.

I haven't even thought about it in years, but I guess it really shaped who I am. When you accept being different at a young age, and learn never to care what you look like, it affects who you are as an adult. I learned what was important in life very young, and I'm glad that I had Legg Perthes. It taught me life's most valuable lessons.

Sunday, April 18, 2004

Oh! So this is why I blog.

I am in a bad mood. A pissy, cranky, spewing pea soup kind of bad mood. A Wicked Witch of the West meets Heathers kind of bad mood. The kind of mood that makes my children run to their rooms to play and sends my husband off to the office. But I don't have any real reason to be in a bad mood.

But, let me tell you. If I have to spend one more precious weekend afternoon at a kid's birthday party, where the mother thought it would be a wonderful idea to invite 20 or 40 kids to a gymnastics place, or Chuck-E-Cheeses, or an arcade...well, I will have to...I don't know. Someone please provide me with a drastic solution. Today's party featured at least 30 kids at a bowling alley. My head is pounding.

But, I must admit. I got online, checked out the comments on my blog, and they made me smile. I linked through to all of my favorite blogs and they either made me smile, laugh out load (You've got to read Traveling Spotlight today!) or helped put things in perspective.

And that's it in a nutshell. I love to share. I'm a sharer.

And that Daddy for the Day position is still open, boys. It's been sunny and in the eighties here. The men in uniform are worth the plane ride alone. And it's only a quick three hour car trip to the Big D.

Saturday, April 17, 2004

One Month Down

I can't believe I've been blogging here for one month, especially because it feels like years. I'm such a newbie, but you guys have been so great. I had no idea that blogging would be such a release to me.

In honor of my one month blogiversary, here is a conversation between my husband and I.

Me: What would you think if I started a blog.

Him: Why would you want to do that?

Me: I don't know. It's good for writing.

Him: You should do what you want, just don't talk about the military or me.

Me: Are you serious?

Him: Yup.

Me: Well, honey, that leaves me with nothing to talk about.

So, you know...oops. By mutual agreement he doesn't read my blog. Good thing, huh? Notice he didn't mention sex. Or naked pictures.

Friday, April 16, 2004

Ego Boost

My husband has decided to try growing his hair back. He first shaved it while he was deployed about a year ago and now he's getting sick of having to shave it every few days. I still don't know how I feel about it.

So we were sitting on the front steps tonight. The kids were playing in the yard and the weather was beautiful. I was checking out his hairline and his sudden infusion of gray, when I caught my own reflection in his sunglasses. I've developed some allergies and I haven't slept much in a few days and I look awful.

Me: God, I'm ugly.

Him: You're not that ugly.

**stunned pause**

Him: Wait! That didn't come out right! I're beautiful. You know you're beautiful. I mean...umm...sorry. Can I go buy you some ice cream?

You gotta love the big lug.

Girls, Boys, Plaid Skirts, and Pink Eye

I got an e-mail yesterday from the adorable Nicky of Ajax in the City fame. He seemed quite surprised that a girl (a girl!) had linked to his page. But you know, I always fit in better with the boys anyway. Especially cute, funny, sweet, wonderful boys like all of y'all.

(Please note that today's suck up quotient is high.)

I seem to have gender on the mind lately. Writing about my son reminded me of a quiz I took in college with a bunch of my friends. I think it was a Reader's Digest thing, but it was supposed to tell you if you thought like a man, a woman, or somewhere in between. My friends all came out somewhere between the middle and the totally woman side of the scale. I, apparently, think just like a man. They found this very amusing.

I think that maturing in an all-girl school helped shape who I am quite a bit. So many girls hated it, but I loved it. Not being defined by boys or my dating potential helped strengthen my already healthy self confidence. So when I was with boys, at work or with friends of friends, I think I radiated a strength that most teenage girls don't have. That's what my husband says anyway. Plus, girls who go to Catholic school and wear those little skirts are just irresistible to teenage boys.

So anyway...

I had to pick my daughter up from school today because she developed a case of pink eye. Now I can't seem to stop scratching at my eyes. The poor thing. She cried all the way home because she was missing out on all the fun at school. So I gave her cookies. Isn't that what a good mother does?

And I'm sad for her. I found out today that next Friday is Dad's Day at school. There is no way my husband is going to be able to get off of work to go be with her. These are the times when I don't like being a military family. So if any of you male types would like to be a Daddy for a day, you just let me know. Dallas is only three hours away!

**Hey David! Notice the comma in the title just for you.

Thursday, April 15, 2004

Hugs are Good

I know some people have a problem with drunk blogging. That will never be a problem for me since I've never been drunk. But, after rereading today's post, I think I will resolve not to blog when I'm tired and pissy. I didn't even come close to getting across the point I was trying to make.

I think I just need a hug today. I've found, to my surprise, that cyber hugs are kind of nice. There's nothing wrong with me that a pint of mint chocolate ice cream won't fix, but...hugs are good. Yeah. Hugs. Good.

And something just happened that brightened my day. I was cleaning my office and unearthed our cork board. The only thing pinned to it was a Chinese cookie fortune that my husband had saved years ago. It says, "You and your wife will be happy in your life together." Awwww!

Big hugs to all my readers. And especially MAK and David for sending a bunch of readers my way. You guys rock.

Rant Alert! Boys Will Be Boys

I am, quite obviously, insane. Why I ever agreed to watch four kids at one time is beyond me. I guess I figured that they are all sweet, well-behaved children. I assumed that it wouldn't be so bad, since the older three would all play together. I couldn't have been more wrong.

It went downhill when I was carrying the 6-month-old and felt something wet on my arm. I assumed he had spit-up. I couldn't have been more wrong. Did you know that it is possible for a baby to get poop in his hair, when he can't even walk?

Anyway, this experience reminded me about something I've been meaning to rant about.

My son is two-years-old. He is sweet and affectionate. He is also very strong-willed and independent. He's a lot like me, come to think of it. He also lives in a very feminine world. Because he has an older sister, and an enlightened father, he spends a lot of time playing "girl" games with "girl" toys. The other couple of children that he plays with on a regular basis are little girls.

One time, my kids were playing quietly in my daughter's bedroom. That was nice, but after a while it was too quiet. So I went to check on them and they were both decked out in make-up and crowns and jewelry. Of course I took pictures. Someday my son will want to kill me, I'm sure.

My daughter has ballet class every Thursday, and my son and I always have to wait in the little waiting room. One time the teacher asked all the parents in so the girls could show us a routine for Christmas. My son stood beside me and did every single move along with the teacher.

Both of these incidents made people make comments like, "Oh, your husband will freak." Or "Make sure your husband doesn't find out." What? What is that supposed to mean exactly?

One of the most common phrases you hear in the South is, "He's all boy." Usually this is said while the boy is breaking something, disobeying, or even beating up on another child. Like violent tendencies are something to be proud of. That drives me insane.

I understand that boys and girls may be different, especially at a young age. But I still expect both of my children to behave to my expectations, and I expect them both to be empathetic and caring people. And since I would never stop my daughter from playing sports or other stereotypical boy games, I'm not going to stop my son from dancing or other stereotypical girl games.

But what bothers me the most is when people assume that my husband will be upset if my son wants to dance ballet or play with dolls. This implies that these activities will make a boy gay. Doesn't it? I mean, isn't that really what they are saying? And it further implies that being gay would be an awful, humiliating thing? Doesn't it? And it further implies that my husband would be asshole enough to find fault in his wonderful little boy if he were to be gay, or even effeminate.

Argh! Now I realize that being gay isn't easy, and it's not what I want for my son. Unless that's who he is. Then I want him to be happy. But why do people have to be this way? How many times do I have to do my passive aggressive reprimand thing before my friends get it? Why can't we just let our kids be who they are?

Okay. The next southern mother who makes such a comment to me is going to get blasted. I'm sorry to rant out like that! But I really needed it. And isn't that what blogging is all about?

Wednesday, April 14, 2004

Worlds Collide

In an early post, I mentioned a story about when my military friends and my gay friends met. Since I'll be taking care of four children today (What was I thinking?) I thought I'd just tell that story now.

When my husband was in flight training, we would go to the Officers' Club every Friday afternoon for free munchies and beer. Our friends were mostly like us, young married couples with a few single guys thrown in the mix. Only one couple had kids though. One particular Friday, after an hour or two of drinking, the fellow with kids said he had to get going because he was taking his kids to the Monster Truck Rally that night.

Hmmm. Monster Truck Rally. That sounds really fun to a bunch of half-drunk fly boys. Being the indulgent souls that we are, my sober friend and I drove the whole group to the arena. We parked next to a Korean restaurant and made our way to the Seventh Layer of Hell.

Dem boze got awful rowdy around all that testosterone. We were walking back to the car when my friend insisted that we dine at the Korean restaurant. I wasn't thrilled with this idea. I tend to get embarrassed for other people when they act like drunken fools. But, like a good little wife, I found myself heading toward the restaurant.

"Look at these guys," one of the loudmouth drunks I was with slurred to us. There was a group of about 8 or 9 "club kids" hanging out by the door. They were our age. One in particular stood out because he had bleached, spikey hair and was wearing leather pants and a leather duster. I got all tense as a few of the jerks in our group made comments about their group. I could just imagine a scene from West Side Story breaking out at any moment.

I was avoiding eye contact as I got near the door, when I heard someone say, "Hey Tuna Girl!" I looked over to find my good friend from work wearing all leather. I hadn't recognized him because he looked quite different at work in his polo and khakis.

"Hey!" I shouted back and got hugs from him and the couple of other gay boys I knew in the crowd. Now I am standing in the middle of a crowd of fly boys looking shocked and a crowd of gay boys looking ready for a verbal free for all.

My husband, being very much him, pushed through to my side and greeted my friend warmly. I introduced everyone around. We all went in the very small restaurant and filled every table. We proceeded to spend a couple of hours there, all getting to know one another and having a grand old time.

Of all the parties and social events I attended while we were in flight school, this is the one I remember most fondly. And it was completely impromptu.

It's a stupid little story, but I heard my friends tell it a bunch of times. And it always made me a little proud.

It's always strange when different parts of your world collide. Thinking about my wedding always cracks me up because there were whole universes colliding. There were a ton of cops, a bunch of ROTC cadets, some military officers, my whole college softball team, my assorted lesbian friends, my family, and of course the freakiest of all, my in-laws. And we had a blast.

Mostly though, I think I'm just glad that I am able to associate with so many wonderfully different types of people.

Tuesday, April 13, 2004

Work It, Baby

I want so badly to have a funny little story to tell you today. But I got nothing. Natta. Not a single thing. I'm just not in a funny little mood.

Since editing my husband's paper (i.e. completely rewriting a paper on a topic that I have no clue about in order to make sure he doesn't come off sounding like a complete idiot) I can't seem to put a sentence together for myself. So today you get a Tuna List!

Jobs I've Had

1) Bookkeeper for a convenience store (I was 12)
2) Assistant to a wedding photographer (I was 14)
3) Cashier at a grocery store (This is where I met my husband...and the other 3 boys I slept with)
4) Customer Service Clerk at a grocery store (Where I once paged a Mr. Ben Dover on the intercom)
5) Secretary (On an Air Force Base, I was a spare secretary so the others could go to the bathroom)
6) Marketing Writer for a Grocery Chain (Best job I ever had...too bad it was an unpaid internship)
7) Marketing Manager for an Air Force Base (Quit because I was being treated like crap)
8) High School Softball Coach (A father almost decked me)
9) Real Estate Agent (Moved before I ever made a sale)
10) Sales Associate at a mall store (You can see I was heading up!)
11) Director of Marketing for a SCUBA Magazine (Free SCUBA lessons, got paid less than at the mall)
12) Fitness Counselor at a women's gym (Great at the fitness stuff, awful at the sales stuff)
13) Substitute Teacher (Junior High and High School, while I was pregnant...7th graders are the devil)
14) Freelance Writer (Clients suck, money's wonderful...quit when I got pregnant again)
15) Stay-at-home mother (The toughest job you'll ever love)

That's a lot of jobs for a 30-year-old to have had! That's what it's like when you're a military wife. But I'll never work again so I can't complain.

Monday, April 12, 2004

Goldy and Rocky

I am very sad today. It isn't often that I feel really sad. I'm not even sure what to do with myself.

Our pet fish died. Both of them. Overnight. When the kids and I walked down the stairs this morning, there they were...belly up. The kids noticed right away and the tears started. I was crying too. I could say that I was crying because they were and it broke my heart. But the truth is that I was just as sad as they were that our little fish are dead.

When I was about six months pregnant with my second, we decided to buy my daughter some fish. The idea was that she could learn about responsibility and nurturing before she had a little baby brother. It was also something that we were doing especially for her, to make her feel special.

She named them Goldy and Rocky. She fed them twice a day. She helped us change the water and clean the tank. She would note the unique personality traits of each fish. She would always include them when she drew pictures of our family.

We weren't expecting them to live very long. My husband and I have both been notorious fish killers. But those fish had seen us through a lot. They were a constant in our lives during the aftermath of September 11th, long separations from Daddy, and even adding a new member to our family.

My husband changed the water in their tank last night. He either didn't let it warm up enough, or he didn't fit the filter back right. The tank was all bubbles this morning. And I'm angry with him. Really angry. This is the second time I've had to deal with pet loss all alone. But I also feel so sad for him. He loved those damn fish. He's going to be sad too when he gets home and he's going to blame himself.

I can't believe I'm sitting here crying about two little goldfish. But I feel like its the end of an era. And I'm sad.

Sunday, April 11, 2004

The Gospel According to the Tuna Girl

I was gazing out my kitchen window this morning, while my husband and kids were making pancakes. I noticed that all of my neighbors were out, most likely gone to church. And I had the overwhelming desire to tell my husband, "I'm glad I married you." So I did.

He, of course, asked why, and my answer was, "because you get me."

I think this is really what it is all about. To find the one person out there who "gets you."

Because this morning, while all our "saved" neighbors were running off to church, we were in the one place we wanted to be. We were home and together. My husband was half a planet away for the last two Easters. We are not religious people. So we spent the day hunting eggs, making breakfast together, and worshiping at the alter of Disney.

We figured while everyone else was in church, we'd take the kids to the movies. We saw Home on the Range and the kids loved it. I thought it was mediocre at best but I enjoyed watching the kids. I had to laugh though. All the blogger folks I read are jetting around seeing everything from Avenue Q to Auntie Mame. And I get to sit through a boring Disney movie. Ah, the joys of motherhood.

Tonight we'll probably order pizza and we'll definitely watch the Bruins. Because we get each other and we know that being together and doing the things that we enjoy is all we really need out of life.

No matter what your beliefs, I hope you were all able to enjoy the day with someone who gets you. And if you weren't, know that there is one happy woman out on the bayou who has been there, who knows how it feels to be alone, and who is certain that it gets better.

Happy Easter everyone! And as my two-year-old says, "Bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce..."

Saturday, April 10, 2004


I'm supposed to be editing my husband's paper right now. I'd rather do just about anything. I'd rather clean up doggy diarrhea that's been tracked all over the house. I'd rather have a small child throw up in my mouth. I'd rather clean out a week old sippy cup of milk that was hidden in a toy box. But since I've done all of these things already, I guess I'll blog.

It's too bad I don't have anything to blog about.

Friday, April 09, 2004

An Heir and a Spare

So I ask you. Why would anyone want more than two children? Two is really pushing the boundary, don't you think? I don't think the children in a family should outnumber the parents. That's just bad math.

I'm not really crazy about children. I know that sounds bad, since I have two. But as a wise mother once told me, "I hate other people's kids."

Admittedly, there are some lovely children out there. My best friend has two incredibly sweet children. And she tends to association with moms who also have wonderful children. She's my best friend, after all.

Today I took one of her children, and my own, to an Easter party, thrown by the most annoying friend I have. As well-behaved as all three of mine were, it was still one child too many. I became like a day care teacher. I kept counting heads to make sure all three were uninjured.

So I implore you. PLEASE. For the love of mike, and to lessen the burden on society...please stop having so many damn children! Two is plenty. Three is just selfish. Any more and you're starting your own little cult. You don't have a farm to work, people. Your excess children are not going to help you out while you audit taxes.

Stop the insanity.

**I'm sure the children and young relations of any of my readers are also lovely little additions to society.

Thursday, April 08, 2004

You've got to check this out!

Amy's Diary reminds me why I asked my parents to send me to an all-girls school.

I laughed so hard my stomach hurt.

Oops I did it again!

Damn. I did it again. I read some other blogs before posting on my own. I was going to write about the sex and hockey conversation my husband and I had last night. I've also been meaning to write about what I've learned from blogging. But no. Mark mentioned plastic surgery and now you're all in for another long story about the Tuna Girl.

When I was in junior high I got braces. I actually had to have this torture device across the roof of my mouth that spread my upper jaw. I was supposed to turn a little metal key in it twice a day to make it spread. That was awful and extremely painful.

Anyway, once my teeth were straight, I was supposed to have surgery to push my bottom jaw back. I didn't want to do it. I wasn't an extremely attractive teen, but I think I had my own unique physical charm. I even did some modeling and stuff and photographers always told me that they loved my jawline. I thought my face was fine, and I didn't want to mess with it. But they told me it was a medical necessity. The doctors said it would get worse over time and that I'll eventually have trouble even eating.

Well, the time came for the surgery and they did a growth study to see if I had finished growing. I was about 16 or 17 at the time. I was so glad when they said I still had some room to grow and needed to wait a year or two for the surgery. By the time I was in college, my parents had sort of forgotten about it. They would still mention it from time to time, but they never made me go get it done. I had successfully avoided the surgery.

I'm an idiot. Now I really need to have it done. Over the years, my underbite has gotten so bad that my teeth don't even meet anywhere. And I'm in constant pain. It's been at least three years of headaches and jaw pain. I got kind of used to it, but after my son was born, I couldn't take the pain anymore.

So what do I need to do to prepare for this surgery? Get braces. Yup. It's hell. Because my jaw was so messed up, my teeth got more and more crooked over the years to compensate. I've been wearing braces now for about a year and a half. I got the clear kind, but people still stare at my teeth. I look young anyway, but since the braces strangers ask me what high school I go to.

So this summer I am having major facial reconstruction. By now I'm actually excited about it. Erin had a similar surgery and she went from being cute to being really pretty. People who've had it done say that it is very satisfying. But they also say that it feels like you've had your face broken in a car accident. Whoopee!

I'm just looking forward to being able to read an entire bedtime story without pain. And I'll admit that I'm looking forward to the weight I'll drop while my jaw is wired shut.

So if you call me on the phone this August and get only a muffled "MMph" in answer, that will be me.

Wednesday, April 07, 2004

I Got My Own Thing Now

I usually don't read other blogs before I post to my own. My brain gets easily clouded with other people's thoughts. Sometimes, when I'm reading a genre book, I actually start thinking in that style. Is that weird? I think I might be weird.

But today I was all a jumble, and couldn't think of a single thing to post, so I read first. Last night, when I couldn't sleep, as usual, I reread my own blog from first post to last. And man! I am so trite, insipid, and boring! How did that happen? How did I come across so boring? I'm not boring. Am I boring? I think I might be boring.

Anyway, Mark ended up talking about how he obsessively edits his own posts. I do the same thing. I am constantly rereading to see how I've come across. I am appalled at the number of typos, and I can't just leave them. I have to edit every one, even if it has been weeks since someone has read that post. But I am not a perfectionist. Really, I'm not. I might be a little bit compulsive, but that's just good editing, right?

And Zenchick has been talking about Passover and the plagues. This reminded me about my junior high Catholic School production of Moses and the Freedom Fanatics. I played Miriam. We carried picket signs and wore frog masks. I sang a trio (is that the right term?) with Brian and Garth...I mean...Moses and Aaron. When I walked onstage at the beginning to be introduced by the narrator, I fell. Face plant. Smack. Right into the stage. And I laughed. And blushed. I still remember the songs we sang. But I'm not a nerd. I swear. I was cool. It's not nerdish to remember so much about a junior high play. Right? Of course I did a similar thing in high school playing an old woman in The Roof. I don't even like to act. Why did I do these things? Oh wait. It's because I'm a nerd.

I could go on and on. It's been a crappy day. My wreath broke and my four baby eggs got gobbled up, probably by the stray cat that lives under our house, and poops in our shed. My daughter collected caterpillars from the backyard for her science project, and I know I'm going to kill them by mistake. We have an infestation of yellow jackets. The preschool teacher dropped the ball on the Egg Hunt and is blaming me. I took the kids for fast food again, even though I promised myself I wouldn't. And I have to make 20 jelly sandwiches for a preschool party by tomorrow morning. OH! And I am helping my husband edit a paper he wrote, and it's making me want to tear my hair out. Good thing I love him, and he's cute, and good in bed.

But, a bunch of nice bloggers have linked to me, which makes me feel nice and validated. And my good friend Erin replied to my e-mail. It's been years since we caught up with each other. I thought I must have lost her again, since we were both moving so much. But, no! She's been in one place for 4 years, and I've been here for 5. We must be getting old. I can't even picture what Erin must look like at 30. I'm excited to get reacquainted.

If some sweet person would show me why I am too stupid to figure out how to link to my own previous posts, I'll remind you who Erin is. :-)

Thanks for hanging with me guys!

Tuesday, April 06, 2004

Head of the Line

My husband was in Vegas last week. He goes there at least a few weeks every year for work, and he always comes home with great stories. Because he likes to play hockey there, rather than gamble, he is always the designated driver for his buddies. This means that I get the sober version of my friends' drunken husbands escapades.

In the past, they've almost gotten arrested for...well...maybe I shouldn't say. If my best friend read this story and figured out what her husband had done, she'd probably chew him a new you-know-what. Let's just say that it involved a halter top and a pissed off woman.

This time they didn't break any laws. But they did something that I thought was cute. After drinking for a few hours, they went to some famous club to go dancing (read that as "ogle women"). The line was already really long. "Not to worry," slurred one of the guys. "I can get us in."

My husband was a little worried about what this friend might do, so he sidled up behind him as he went to talk to the bouncer at the head of the line. The friend spoke into the bouncer's ear, pulled something out of his wallet and then yelled for the rest of the guys to follow him. They were all IDed at the door and let right in.

When they got inside, my husband asked his friend what he had said. "I told him we just got home from the war and we were looking to have a good time. He asked to see my military ID and then said, "Go right in'"

Isn't it nice to know that serving your country (or at least lying about it) can get you into the strip club ahead of everyone else?

Monday, April 05, 2004

I Love the 80's (Fights Back)

I stole this from here, by way of here, by way of here.

Bold means I "so totally did that!"

You are a child of the 80's if...

1.You've ever ended a sentence with the word "PSYCHE."
2. You can sing the rap to the "Fresh Prince of Bel Air."
3. You wore biker shorts under your skirts and felt stylish.

4. You yearned to be a member of the Baby-sitters club and tried to start a club of your own.
5. You owned those lil Strawberry Shortcake pals scented dolls.
6. You know that "WOAH" comes from Joey on Blossom.
7. Two words: M.C. Hammer.
8. If you ever watched "Fraggle Rock."
9. You had plastic streamers on your handle bars.

10. You can sing the entire theme song to "Duck Tales."
11. When it was actually worth getting up early on a Saturday to watch cartoons.
12. You wore a ponytail on the side of your head.
13. You saw the original "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" on the big screen.

14. You got super-excited when it was Oregon Trail day in computer class at school.
15. You made your Mom buy one of those clips that would hold your shirt in a knot on the side.
16. You played the game "MASH" (Mansion, Apartment, Shack, House).
17. You wore a jean jacket and you were proud of it.
18. L.A. Gear (High tops. With the pump. Oh yes.)
19. You wanted to change your name to "JEM" in Kindergarten.
20. You remember reading "Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing" and all the Ramona books.
21. You know the profound meaning of "WAX ON, WAX OFF."
22. You wanted to be a Goonie. BABY WOOOOOOOOOTH!
23. You ever wore fluorescent clothing.
24. You can remember what Michael Jackson looked like before his nose fell off.
25. You have ever pondered why Smurfette was the only female smurf.
26. You took lunch pails to school. And it had a matching thermos.
27. You remember the CRAZE, and slap bracelets.
28. You still get the urge to say "NOT" after every sentence.
29. You remember Hypercolor T-shirts.

30. Barbie and the Rockers was your favorite band
31. You thought She-Ra and He-Man should hook up.
32. You thought your childhood friends would never leave because you exchanged friendship bracelets.
33. You ever owned a pair of jelly shoes.

34. After you saw Pee-Wee's Big Adventure you kept saying "I know you are, but what am I?"
35. You remember "I've fallen and I can't get up"
36. You remember going to the skating rink before there were inline skates.

37. You have ever got seriously injured on a Slip and Slide.
38. You have ever played with a Skip-It.
39. You had or attended a birthday party at McDonald's.
40. You've gone through this list occasionally saying "Totally awesome."
41. You remember Popples.
42. "Don't worry, be happy."
43. You wore like, EIGHT pairs of socks over tights with high top Reeboks.
44. You wore socks scrunched down.
45. "Miss MARY MACK MACK, all dressed in BLACK BLACK BLACK" Or, Ms. Susie had a steamboat, the steamboat had a bell Ms. Susie went to heaven, the steamboat went to....
46. You remember boom boxes vs. CD players.
47. You remember watching both "Gremlins" movies.
48. You know what it meant to say "Care Bear Stare."
49. You remember watching Rainbow Bright and My Little Pony Tales.
50. You thought Doogie Howser was hot.
51. You remember Alf, the lil furry brown alien from Melmac.
52. You remember New Kids on the Block when they were cool.
53. You knew all the characters names and their life stories on "Saved By the Bell," the ORIGINAL class. As in Mikey, Zack, Screech, etc. When Miss Bliss was the teacher.

That's a lot of bold folks.

I must mention that I had my first real kiss in a roller rink. I was 12 and he was 18! Whoops. I was an early bloomer. And my mother took me and three of my friends to a NKOTB concert. The screaming was so loud, you couldn't here the "music".

I think it's funny that many of these fads are back for my daughter's generation. She has Strawberry Shortcake, Rainbow Brite, Care Bears and My Little Pony. And so does my son, but that's another story.

Sunday, April 04, 2004

Advertising Makes the World Go Around

Sometimes I think the ads that show up on Blogspot blogs are funny. A lot of the ones I read have plenty of Rugby ads. And many have ads about NYC. And if you want to open a Subway franchise, well you better go here. And I almost forgot, but for dreamy diaper bags, this is the place to go.

What about my own little blog. Well here you can learn all about marriage, divorce, and romance. Hmm. Maybe I need to get out more.

By the way, y'all. I've recently realized that my husband looks a lot like The Rock. But, well, shorter.

I had a wonderful weekend. Hope you all did too.

Saturday, April 03, 2004

The Birds and the Bees

Our little front door nest now has 4 eggs. My daughter wants to know how they got there. Evidently telling her that the mamma bird laid them there isn't enough of an explanation. She wants to know how they got out of her body.

So I'm literally explaining the birds and bees. Luckily she hasn't asked how our babies got out of my tummy yet. But I can feel it coming. And then it will be *sigh* innocence lost.

Daddy will be home in a few hours. Maybe she'll ask him!

Friday, April 02, 2004

April Fools and Tuna Babies

Yesterday I was thinking about April Fools. I've always hated April 1. What a mean-spirited holiday. I think practical jokes are just plain mean. Toying with people's emotions is so wrong. That's probably why I hate most reality TV.

But it reminded me of a couple that we were in flight school with. My husband ended up, purely by coincidence, being in a flight class where most of the guys knew each other from ROTC. One guy, named John, was younger than the rest and freshly commissioned. He married his college girlfriend right after graduation. Those two were a trip. He was just baby-faced adorable and sweet, and she was...well...she was pretty immature but extremely outgoing. We all sort of watched out for them.

At an Army-Navy game party (those boys take that stuff seriously!) she told us all about how John had sobbed and cried at their wedding. That poor boy. He's forever stuck with the call sign "Cry Baby".

One April 2, out with the girls, she told us about the prank she had played on John the day before. She had told him she was pregnant, and even doctored up a pregnancy test to make it look positive. She thought it was so funny that he was stunned. But, you know, they were married. He had a good job. I can just imagine that like my own husband, he was stunned at the news, but completely joyful somewhere deep inside. She let him hang for the entire day and finally told him it was a joke that night. That is so wrong.

I didn't get the chance to have a dramatic "Honey, we're having a baby!" moment for either of my pregnancies. For the first one, he was away. And before you think ill of me, I had gone to visit him for a week during that trip. And came home with a wonderful little souvenir. I ended up telling him over the phone that I was pregnant . I was actually in the bathroom of my parents' house, whispering into the phone so they wouldn't hear my news. I was also sobbing like a baby. He went out and got a pint of ice cream and a cigar to celebrate.

The second time, I figured I could make up for it. He was actually home, and we had just started trying. I just knew I was pregnant. The second time around, you can almost feel it. But the damn tests kept coming out inconclusive. I must have spent $100 on those things. So I was stressing and just couldn't keep it from him. We did like four more tests together and just decided to lie to the flight surgeon and tell him I had a positive test.

Now, finding out the sex of our babies...that was fun! He was completely convinced we were having a boy the first time around. We even bought boy stuff. We ended up having to go into town and pay $150 for an ultrasound to find out the sex. When the technician just casually mentioned that it was a girl while she was scanning, I thought my husband would faint. He went as white as a ghost and his jaw dropped to the floor. I don't know why he was so shocked. It is a 50/50 chance, you know.

The second time, I was in the room alone and I could see the little "turtle" (that's what it looks like on an ultrasound) before the technician said anything. We had agreed to wait for the unveiling until she could bring in my husband. I think she knew that I knew, because she told him, "It's a boy, Daddy!" I have never before and never since seen such a smile. He really didn't want to be the only male in the household. And it is common knowledge that when you pull Gs for a living, you have girl babies. G for GIRL! But man! He was a happy camper.

And so was I. I knew in that moment that our family was complete.

But a had a fleeting thought yesterday. What would my husband think if I called him and told him I was pregnant again? Well, he'd think I was lying, because he had the big V when my son was only a week old. Yup, no more guppies in the tuna house. For you non-breeders out there :-) the big V is a vasectomy. My husband tells all his friends that it was the best thing he ever did. I completely agree. When you're a girl, you spend so many years avoiding pregnancy at all costs. And then you spend a few years desperate to get pregnant. And now it is so wonderful to just have fun. Lot's of fun!

For someone who promised not to talk about sex on her blog, I'm doing a lot of alluding to it. The big guy's home tomorrow. Woo Hoo! might not hear from me for a few days.

Thursday, April 01, 2004

Phallically Yours

I was reading my daughter a bedtime story about a little bunny who follows his nose into the woods. He asks his little raccoon friend, "What are you doing?"

And the raccoon friend replies, "Fucking cucumbers."

Oh wait. That's "picking cucumbers." Whoops. At least I caught myself after only the "f" slipped out.