Outtakes

There were far too many to choose just a few, but I think I was able to whittle down the best of the best. Please, enjoy.

What a load of

HORSE$#!%.

I am never taking posed photos of these children again. Never. Again.

Semolina Pilchard

Cormac has brief periods of false lucidity wherein he says things like, "Hey Mom." Sometimes it's just "Mommmmmm." I usually respond with "Hi! How's it going?" Then he barfs on himself.

He's been smiling and chattering with little babyvoice noises recently. I like to encourage him, so I do little dances and sing songs with him when he starts talking. Iris gets in on it and drops that little booty like it's hot. Iris is always down for a dance party, with or without music.

Anyway, today I sat with Cormac on the couch, just chilling out after work and trying to tame his cold/reflux issues, and I swear I'm not making this up, he said, "coo coo cachoo!" And then he barfed on himself.

The Happy Horker 2011

Cormac had his eight week check up yesterday. After getting all the stats, the doctor left the room to grab a growth chart, then explained that his weight put him in the 13th percentile. I very slowly asked her if she meant that to mean that 87% of the rest of the children his age were larger than he is. She agreed. I then noticed that the chart in her hand indicated that he was in the second percentile at birth. As in, 98% of this nation's children are born at a weight that is greater than 9lbs 11oz. Really. While I let the weight of that extrapolation sink in for her, she started muttering something about the metric system and stupid computers and sort of wandered off again for another 20 - 30 minutes. We might be switching practices soon, just saying.

Anyway, at eight weeks, Cormac is 24.5 inches long, weighs 13lbs 9oz, and has a head circumference of 16.25 inches. His percentile bracket for those groups is 98%, 83%, and 97%, respectively. His weight has always been the lowest percentile.

We also got a prescription for zantac. Cormac doesn't just spit up, be pretty much vomits continuously all day. He has coughing fits and gets the hiccups nearly every time he eats. He arches his back, and is the noisiest, most restless sleeper. He has reflux. So far the meds haven't helped a whole bunch, but I'm not sure if the results are supposed to be immediate or cumulative. I do know that whatever syrup this stuff is suspended in is seriously not tasty. Cormac makes faces every time I try to give him a hit of it, and I can actually smell how terrible it is from where I'm sitting. Finally today I tried a little drop and it is really, truly awful. It's like menthol and dirt and everclear, all wrapped in an eensy little dropper. (O, my word so many inappropriate jokes could be made here. I shall resist...)

Moving along - it would be nice if we could get the horking situation under control. Obviously so that Cormac will be more comfortable and able to actually keep food in his body (not that he's starving or anything), but also because the poor kid lives in a permanent state of swampy dampness. I swear we change his clothes sometimes 10 times a day (not exaggerating at all). Kelly mentioned that it's Christmas Family Photo time (Kelly: Are you going to take dorky photos of the kids in their christmas outfits in front of your tree? Me: Well, honestly the thought hadn't crossed my mind, but I might, if the puking stays to a minimum, but you know, probably not. Kelly: I'll plan on coming over in a couple of weeks to help you pose them and make sure Iris doesn't destroy her outfit or run away or something. You do HAVE christmas outfits for them? Me: Right. Okay!), and it would be really wonderful if Cormac did not destroy his (or hell, EVERYONE ELSE'S) preshus christmas joy costume with the contents of his stomach.

This year will be our first Christmas in the new house, the first Christmas as a family of four (OMG), and now that Iris is old enough, our first chance to really start building some family Christmas traditions. We plan on never moving again, so we're pretty confident that stuff we begin doing now could actually be carried on for years to come. I prefer to let traditions develop organically, but some things are too awesome to be left to the fates, and I plan to guide our little family down the path of righteous bacon consumption as a general christmas morning theme. See me in a few months for tips on all things bacon (casseroles, cinnamon rolls, ice cream, beer, etcetera).

Not that we'd serve bacon beer for Christmas breakfast, mind you. Maybe brunch. But only once everyone at the table is at least old enough to open their own beer. Tradition!

Patrician Vomitorium

Not a real update, but I just wanted everyone to know that while baby poop smells like buttermilk, and baby skin smells like honey and powder, and baby breath smells like cauliflower, or bread, or something really normal and homey, baby barf just smells like barf. Ask my shirts. Or the couch. Or any soft surface in our house. They know.

It's oh, so, quiet. Shh. Shhh.

I try to imagine a life in which I do not nervously await the sound of something jarring, of someone needing - something. In my sleep, in the shower, in the car, walking from the living room to the kitchen, washing my hands, drifting through mundanity, I listen. I hear everything. If those children so much as breathe differently, I know.

This is not so much conducive to a functioning life of employment. Coworkers do not necessarily appreciate a twitchy, hyper-attentive, more than slightly quirky cohort. They in fact frown upon that sort of thing. Tends to detract from accomplishing actual work.

So I went back this week, and it's same, same. The work is the same, and the people are the same, even if our physical location is different (we needed a bigger office). I am making a real effort to pump this time around, and so I've been assigned my Closet of Dubious Usefulness in which to do so. It's actually kind of fun. For twenty minutes every day, I get to lock myself in a nicely carpeted storage room, post a sign that says "NO CLOSET TIME FOR YOU" (so not joking), and hunker down with some celebrity gossip on my phone.

I have actually been pretty successful at tuning out the rest of the world and getting some things done, but I really do hear phantom sounds of infant distress coming from the HP printer who lives around the corner from my cubicle. I was mildly tempted to walk over and pat his back and ask if he needed a drink of water. I mean, I thought about it anyway.

It's so hard to switch parts of your brain on and off at your convenience. I think that's a well-known fact, but it bears repeating. Kyle and I are executing this life of carefully timed comings and goings revolving around child care and work schedules. There are literally minutes between when I arrive home from work and when Kyle must appear for work. When we are home, we are caring for children, and when we aren't, we are working. That's just how it is right now.

I keep telling Kyle that everything will be magical in five years. In five years, both children will be completely in charge of their own bathroom adventures. They will sleep with some measure of predictability. They will not wear diapers or need to be fed manually. Then, THEN, when I'm good and 35, I'll be able to relax when it's quiet, not wonder what, exactly, is about to go wrong.

Waterloo: Wherein Strangely I Am The Pint-Sized Loser

Okay, it's a pity party. Don your pointy tassled hats and join me, why don't you? I'm not looking for accolades here, I just really need to express how much of a bad person parenting a toddler makes me feel. What other situations exist in which you are constantly mocked, belittled, and defied by someone who lives in your house and claims to love you??? Two/three-year-olds must be the emotional-abuser-boyfriends of young families everywhere. I mean, the sheer manipulation that this child is capable of is indescribable. If anyone I knew was experiencing this kind of behavior from anyone in their life, I would tell them to cut all ties with the (colorful expletive here) and never speak to them again. That is, anyone except for their kids. Is there any other situation in which you actually cannot escape the madness? I fail to see it, if there is one.

I know I'm not experiencing anything that hasn't happened to millions of people before me. I just cannot get over that I'm so bent out of shape right now that I'm referring to my children as something that happened to me. Who does that?!?! Well, I guess I do. I am six weeks postpartum. I am tired and I'm covered in dubious milk-esque substances (both source and regurgitated). I am lumpy and haggard and I never have time to eat, so WHY DO I STILL HAVE ALL THIS EXTRA SKIN? I live with someone who actively seeks to piss off everyone near her, then when they seem like they're just about to snap, cackles in their face with maniacal glee.

I feel like I am so angry (so, so, so angry) all of the time. What is this doing to her? What kind of person is she going to become if all she knows is that it's fun to piss people off then laugh at them? What kind of person will she become as a result of living with two adults who are still so angry from her last horrible outburst that they can't even be happy with her when she is good?

I have asked several people whom I respect both as people and as loving parents to tell me what to do. The answer seems to be that we are to simply live through it. There is no solution. Party on.

Let Me Sum Up

...Buttercup is marry' Humperdinck in a little less than half an hour. So all we have to do is get in, break up the wedding, steal the princess, make our escape... after I kill Count Rugen...

Sorry, I had to go there.

Anyway, Iris likes school. She cried when I left her the first two days (like, monkeyed herself to my neck and had to be pried off by a surprisingly strong teacher's aid), then on the third day, bemoaned school in general for the entire ride in, then let me go without even a sideways glance. Win.


A couple of nights ago, in an effort to kill time while Kyle was at work, I bathed both kids. Iris, then Cormac, got all clean and snuggy and good-smelling. I tucked them both into the couch with me and everything was just delicious. Then Iris got up to "clean up some crumbs" and swiped her hand through a hidden pile of errant ketchup from dinner. Then (says the ketchup-enhanced child), I picked up Kashmir because she was sad, and there's cat hair on my ketchup, oh hey, I have to pee. Oh, I peed on the floor... oh, and the rug... and also Mommy it got on my legs and my socks. Hey, can you help me?


About three hours prior to this event, Iris informed me that she was going to work, she'd see me after lunch, she loved me and, okay-bye-bye. When I disentangled myself from nursing a few minutes later to investigate the disturbing silence, I found Iris in the refrigerator. Let me explain. I mean that Iris was bodily and wholly INSIDE of the refrigerator. It was shut as much as she could get it shut while standing inside of the refrigerator.

I honestly do not know how to express my total horror and also inappropriate abject amusement at this turn of events. I mean, this level of terror, this is karma, right? I seem to recall a warm, tired voice telling me she couldn't wait till I had kids who were exactly like me. So, that happened. Neat. Can't wait for this show to really get interesting. Perhaps I'll go scrounge up my 13-year-old person's diary and review a bit.

Meanwhile, in New Kid Land, I was simultaneously pooped, peed and barfed upon the other day. Then a few hours later, Cormac lay astride the boppy, looked right at me with a precious little gummy grin, and flipped me right off. Almost got a picure of that one too. It was. so. awesome. Those two facts pretty much encapsulate all there is to know about Cormac these days. I'm going to get him a little bathrobe and start referring to him only as The Dude.

Both kids are napping right now. It is 74 degrees and sunny on this fine November 13th, and I am sitting on my deck, hanging out with the dog. I can hear "This Magic Moment" softly twinkling in my ears, and little birds just carried a garland of sparkly unicorn magic to me in their beaks. Win.

Montessori Narcolepsy

When I first started working at the Columbia Montessori School, I was 22 years old and scared out of my mind. My friend Lois convinced me that I should work there with her, that it would be great, and I would love it. I was barely an adult, convinced I didn't actually like kids all that much, and very deeply worried about my ability to turn off my sailor potty mouth around said questionably likable runts.

Turns out I liked it so much that I fell in love with the bad kids and married this tall guy who worked in one of the other classrooms. I don't think any of the rugrats picked up any bad language from me, but if you meet an 11 year old from Columbia who accurately drops f-bombs with total flourish and joy, I'll go ahead and take that bullet.

One of the things I did not love so much was nap time (GIANT FREAKING NO DOY RIGHT HERE, PEOPLE). I remember telling Claire (friend Claire from the STL, not sister Claire from the STL) that the kiddos were so funny, because they'd all be so obviously destroyed with drunken sleepiness, yet still fight me to the end. I was struggling to find the words to explain myself, when I realized that my feelings could be accurately expressed with song: Ben Folds Five, Narcolepsy (off the album The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner - great album which you should totally listen to repeatedly if you haven't already). The winning line to the song: "I'm not tired! I'm not tired! I just sleep...."

Iris attends her first day of school tomorrow at Columbia Montessori School; Lois will be her teacher. Full circle weirdness is weird, my friends.

I don't know why, but I'm completely nervous for Iris. Blame postpartum hormones, lack of sleep, blah, blah... I don't know. I do know that I had to take Iris to get her final vaccinations before she could legally join the classroom, and while I have been present for every shot she's had prior to today, I never wept loudly while rocking her in my lap quite the way I did this morning. It was just awful. She had already recovered and set to choosing her post-shot present from the treasure chest that the doctor's office so helpfully provides, and I was still over by reception blowing my nose and pulling myself together.

My heart breaks at the thought that she might be confused at the new routine, or get her feelings hurt by one of the big kids in her class (it's a multi-age classroom for 3-5 year olds, and sometimes potty trained 2-year olds). She really likes to hold hands and crawl up into laps. She likes hugs and standing far too close to the adults in the room, and that is just... not how things work there. I know this! I worked there for years!

Of course I know she'll be fine. I am good friends with both of the teachers in her classroom, and I know that these people love her. She will be looked after and she will benefit from the organization that going to school provides so much more than she might ever suffer the learning curve. I know this, but it is still so hard to let it go. This seems redundant, but I feel the need to point out here that I never, ever, evereverever thought I would be this way. I am that mom, who cries when her baby cries and frets over letting her grow up, and might even threaten to cut anyone who tries to hurt my kid. Even if that threat comes in the form of a four year old punk with an agenda. Maybe. Just don't try me...

Fortunately, Iris will only be attending half-days, so nobody will be subjected to her particular brand of not being tired. Listen to Ben. He knows what's up.

Duermen, Ninos

I swear, I should retitle this blog "The Sleep Chronicles," since it's all I seem to be able to talk about. The new kid stopped sleeping, btw...

Iris likes this Sesame Street DVD called "Favorite Kids Songs: TWO," or something, and there is a song on it called "Duermete, Mi Nina." It roughly means, "sleep, my little girl." She likes the song a whole lot for someone who hates sleep. I think Cormac has been studying her, because he went from being the kid who sleeps in these big beautiful four-hour chunks with no problem, to being a fussy, tired, sleepless baby.

It's not all bad. I mean, he does EVENTUALLY sleep, but the fact that we have to work so hard for it now is very reminiscent of the whiz, and not very awesome in the least. I know this is kind of rambly and uninformative, but I just realized tonight that only NOW (now that Cormac shuns sleep with the pros), do I have that stressed out/senses-heightened/mama-bear-will-KIIILLL YOUUUU-if-you-mess-with-my-babies...thing happening. This feeling must be a direct result of sleep deprivation in new parents. I was beginning to wonder if something wasn't wrong with me, simply because I'd been so relaxed about Cormac up till now.

I actually have emergency congingency plans all laid out to deal with various (completely unrealistic and barely probable) scenarios. I remember doing this when Iris was brand new. I had this plan that if someone came to the house to plunder/rape/pillage (because vikings are so prominent in columbia and everything), then I would sacrifice myself and destroy the baby monitor, all while silently dialing 911, in the hopes that even if I died, eventually some emergency responders would find Iris, safe and sound in her crib. Or something.

The point is that I was so proud of myself for not going to that crazy place this time around, and now look at me, all wondering if crazed hobos are living in the woods behind my house. I mean, at least I usually have the dog with me back there, and I'd totally throw her under the methodone addled freaknut the bus to buy us a few minutes....

I think it's important to note here that I don't actually believe that any of this could or would happen, but it's important to plan ahead.

Right?

I should maybe sleep some.

Iris at school

Iris is going to start at a new school next week, and she was invited to participate in their halloween party this past Monday. Rebecca Allen, photog extraordinaire, fellow classroom parent, and good friend to boot, snapped these shots from the party.

Eating a super nutritious rice krispy treat

Hanging with Logan

LOVING Logan

This is a really precious shot, till you learn that she got plowed down by a very large five-year-old moments later. Ah, memories.

Freaky

Well, I think the kiddos are about the same age in these photos. I must say, I always thought Iris was a pleasantly chubby baby, but she had nothing on the new kid. I have no idea how much Cormac weighs now, but it's certainly more than Iris' petite 8 week old, 11lb. self. I mean, he's four weeks old today (omg), and definitely already has that weight beat.

Anyway, not much to say today, more later. Probably. Go look at cute baby pics on Facebook. :)

Pretty Pretty Princess

So, the baby only sleeps during the day. The two year old, remarkably, sleeps mostly at night. I sleep with my eyes open.

There will never be enough coffee

To wit: I'm Screwed

I think, perhaps I may have been mistaken.

The new kid, you see, while dormant for a while

Seems to have quite abruptly awakened.

He offers an easy smile,

Shuns rest and stirs,

Leaves daylight for sleep, and 3AM shaken.

My Buddy and MEEEEEEE

You guys remember that song? If not, save yourselves and DO NOT google it. If so, I hope you cherish that earworm for the rest of the century.

Aren't they just totally stinking cute though?

So anyway. I started this post many days ago - not sure how many, but I'm sure that when I post this little bloggerism the date will remind me. What I meant to say those many days ago, is that Iris loves her new brother. She wants to hold him all the time and literally grips him to her body when he starts to get fussy there on her lap and I need to take him away for a little snack or whatever.

What she hates is her newfound lack of attention, or at least her lack of immediate attention when she wants something rightnowmom pweees pweees pweeeeeees. It's really sad, because it always ends in massive big fake tears, which turn real pretty quickly. Not a lot can be done, even for the real ones, when you're stuck in a chair nursing an almost asleep newborn. She had her share of potty accidents (only three, then the reemergence of super-bribery-by-candy happened), she had her big fake fits over anything she could think of (I want toast! Is presented with toast. NOOOO I don't WANT DAT! WHYYYYYYYYY?), and she has of course entered the land of inappropriate laughter in the face of confusing challenges (baby is crying, poop spewed so far it hit the wall, nobody is directing attention Iris' direction: freak out). Okay, I might have injected some inappropriate laughter in that situation had I been in her shoes, so that can be forgiven...

Okay, obviously they can all be forgiven, since she's TWO and everything. Two year olds get an out for purposefully incendiary behavior, since they are only doing what they know how to do to get the kind of attention they need. She has peppered various encounters with questions like, "Mommy, you happy now? You not angry?" Oh, jeez. Just stab me a little more with your big sad guilt trip face. I teared up a bit and meant to ask Kyle about it in private, when, in front of friends, Kyle said: "We should compare notes on what she does to get out of bed time. She asked me for water, and to go potty, and told me her tummy hurt, then she asked me if I was going to yell at her." Oh. So THAT'S how it's gonna be? Captain Manipulation, thy name is Iris.

Still. Two year olds are babies who need lots of hugs and patience. Even the tall ones who look like four year olds and even talk like them too. Ack.

Things are much better today, and I expect will be better tomorrow too. We're getting there, and oh, by the way, did I mention that Cormac is the sweetest, most easy going baby ever? No? The easy ones always get ignored, man. More on him later (the neglect! It's already happening!), but right now I need to polish off this box of wine that Grandpa R. so thoughtfully got going for me last week (Franzia: It's a family afairrrrrr), and also address my weird love of parenthetical commentary today.

P.S. The Franzia: THANKS GRAMMY K!

FBK is a Big Mac

Okay, does anybody who reads this thing NOT have Facebook? Just in case, here you go:

Cormac Michael Kelley

9lbs. 11oz. 22 inches long

Born Thursday, October 6th, 2011 at 8:06 am

His body was so big that doctors couldn't fit their hands inside the abdominal incision in order to extract him. The incision was made larger and vacuum extraction was used. I could feel my entire body being pulled towards the doctors as they tried to pull him out. I think my shoulders might have been lifted from the table at one point. I think there was an audible pop. Once he was finally out, the team of seasoned doctors could be heard exclaiming things like, "He is definitely a man!" and "He looks like a two month old!" I mean, so far the two outfits he's worn were sized 3mos and 6mos. Seriously.

We should have access to the hospital pictures soon, so I'll post that link as soon as I get it. I have seen previews of them, and dudes, my kid is astoundingly cute. In fact, all of them are. I should have several more, just so we don't deprive the world of all of this potential adorableness. I'm pretty sure that's an actual fact. I'm not biased or anything.

AHHH NO INNERNETZ BOO

Hey Dudes! We have no internet at home till Thursday. I am trying to unpack the house, cram in 40hrs of work, and not go into labor till this weekend. So... I'm busy.

So is Kyle. He stopped being able to feel his legs a couple of days ago; it's pretty nuts actually.

Baby shower was fun and apparently you guys DID think I was being an assy lush (thanks?), as I got several boxes of wine. Yes. Several.

Been having cramps/backaches all day, and they hurt.

Also, um? Dudes - NINE FREAKING DAYS. NINE. LESS THAN TEN. SINGLE DIGITS.

That is all.

Info Aperitif

Gosh I wish somebody was handing me an aperitif... am I too focused on alcohol these days? Someone let me know if I'm sounding like a jackassy lush over here. But just so you know, it is only 20 days till I can (probably) partake of a deliciously crisp and refreshing alcoholic beverage, and oh by the way, have I ever mentioned how much I love the efficiency and economy of a nice box of wine? Say, some Franzia? Just checking.

Some quick bits of info which I presume to be precursors to an actual, rambly-style post which I will write Some Day:

• Not dilated nor effaced


• Started having contractions the day after last cervical check (also: ouch).


• FBK is for sure head down (or was on Wednesday).


• OMG WE HAVE A CLOSING DATE OMG (Sept. 23rd).


• Started full-time work from home today, which will last till baby comes.


• I have decided not to have the baby till Grandma & Grandpa Reinhard get here.


• This will work, because I said so.


• If you have any cats you need harassed, I have just the toddler to do it. She accepts nachos as payment.

Scenes of Macho Times

8:30pm, the living room, last night:

Mom! I'm eating dis fing wif Dad it's wike chips an' cheese an' sour keeeem an' it's DEWISHUS. Dad made it an' dere's cheese wike sprinkled on it. I eatin' it.

Yeah, I used the tortilla chips that were already opened, so I'm a little disappointed because they're stale, and these could have been so much better. I should have done the chip check before I put them in the microwave. *scoffs somewhat bitterly* I mean, they were still good, and I was really glad to have the opportunity to put sour cream on something...

7:37am, the living room, this morning:

I hungry. I need some fooooooOOd.

Okay, we have craisins and bagels and cereal and fruit...

I wike cheese and sour keeeem. I wike chips.

Iris are you asking for nachos for breakfast?

Yeah!

Well, can you at least attempt to eat something healthy first?

Okay, I eat some raisins?

Cool. Let's do this.

8:17am, in front of PBSkids, this morning

Hey Iris, how's your breakfast?

(whispers reverently) Dere's cheese an'.... wike sour keem...chewchewchew...dis a chip...chewchew...Mom, I wove machos.

CleverOff

You know, I do try to be witty, sometimes. I actually take a few minutes to think of post titles that one might describe using words like, "sharp," or perhaps even "charming," if nothing else. This is not going to be happening for the foreseeable future. So, I'm sorry if I bore your pants off, but the big baby on the outside and the not-so-big baby on the inside conspired to melt my brains, and hey - at least you can say the party's never dull when the pants start coming off! Ahem - moving on.

This pregnancy has gone completely differently than the last. For starters, Iris' pregnancy dragged by because I had nothing else to think about or focus on in any way. It was pretty much 10 straight months (yes - pregnancy is 10 months long - look it up) of staring at my body, waiting for it to do something labor-ey. I was in pretty serious physical pain from the moment her little fetus self started to become big enough for folks to notice I was pregnant. Whatever cocktail of hormones her pregnancy created made me feel angsty and ragged around all the edges, all the time. I literally cried because I was hungry. Multiple times. My hips felt like they had bolts screwed into them way too tightly, and my back pretty much felt like someone took a hammer to it.

I had no idea what to expect, so I just figured that's what pregnancy feels like, and trudged on (Kelly's insistence that I see a chiropractor notwithstanding. I was stubborn. And feared the co-pay, I think). Anyway, Iris' pregnancy = anxiety, massive amounts of pain, and really wanting to stab anyone who paid attention to me. So, pretty much like the onset of puberty. Except when you're 14, everyone expects you to be a cranky insolent ass, but when you're pregnant, everyone expects you to be a joyful, glowing orb of Maternal Light. How anyone expects that when the experience is the equivalent of puberty with an extra layer of "run over by a truck," I'll never understand, but whatevs. That's what happened.

This time around, I actually had morning sickness. I must have been spared it last time because I was already being such a punk about how much things sucked and the universe decided to spare Kyle from the injustice of having an EVEN CRANKIER wife to deal with. So, I got the morning sickness this time, but it was totally bearable. It was essentially like the worst hangover, but without any of the fun before hand. Oh, and also I never puked, I just hung out on the bathroom floor "just-in-case" for a good three months. Good times. We had a really clean toilet during that time, that's for sure.

Once the fog of the sickness lifted, I started to notice odd things. Like, for starters, I didn't want to kill everyone at work yet. People would inquire about the pregnancy, and I didn't automatically shoot lasers from my eyes at their insolent question-asking. In fact, I don't remember even thinking that speaking to me made you an assh*le by default. This was not true last time.

Also I didn't feel the need to eat everything that was ever made of cheeseburger this time. Last time I would get all gaggy/barfy if I went more than a couple of hours without massive protein intake. Seriously. And I took in that protein in the form of bacon cheeseburgers. A whooooole lot of them. So this time around, I'm still a good 20-30 lbs lighter than I was last time. I also don't have stabby hip pain and my back doesn't feel broken. Coincidence? I don't know, but I'm not going to question it.

This time around, I've also been busy as hell. They actually give me something akin to responsibility at work these days, so that's taken up a lot of focus. We have been trying to sell our house and buy another one for nearly this entire pregnancy, which is unbelievably distracting. Once that whole situation is settled, I'll be sure to regale you all with the neverending story of how we settled the housing issue. For now, it's still ugly and I've turned completely superstitious, and I refuse to jinx anything by trying to talk about it online.

Then there's the whole issue of having a toddler around. Incredibly distracting creatures, these small people. They have far too fine motor skills to have such undeveloped brains. I read something, somewhere, one time (real specific-like, ya know?), which I am paraphrasing, which said, "bless the first-time mother, for she knows not how easy she has it, sitting there on the couch, NOT chasing any other children." Or something. The sentiment was the same. How could my first pregnancy have been SO much worse, when I had SO much less to do or worry about? I had nearly zero responsibilities and yet I wanted to cry myself to sleep every day. I don't know. It's not like this time around has been without pain, but it either wasn't as bad, or I didn't have enough time to focus on it. Hell, it's been so much better, I think we should go ahead and have two or three more of these suckers (right, Kyle? Ha, hahaha, Kyle?)!

In the next three weeks or so, we should be moving into our new house, having a baby sprinkle (like a small shower, get it?) at said new house, and then of course there's the small issue of having the actual baby. No big. We have time. I am so completely not being sarcastic when I say I'm not worried about it. I have some sort of weird internal gauge of "alrightness," which is usually pretty accurate, which is not anywhere near the red zone. I truly believe that everything will happen in the order that I want it to happen, in the time that I want it to happen, and I therefore have no need to devote any level of stress to it. Everything is okay because I said so! But really. Everything is okay because I said so.

P.S. I'm apparently not dilated at all, but I've been having all sorts of contractions! I don't think it means anything. Will try to post some pictures soon. OH, and we get an ultrasound in about a week and a half. Yay!

30

FBK drops in 30 days. The Ministry of Obvious has this to say for itself:

30. Days. 30 DAYS! WHAT?

With the Quickness

Real quick like, since any position my body can get to that is pro-typing is also pro-"please can I have some more stabby everything pain," I give you a tiny pictorial:

The Yard Sale

We had a yard sale, I think we sold a bunch of stuff, and we also made $52. It was a tiny bit disappointing after investing $13 into an ad in the paper and prepping all that junk for days and sitting in the stupid hot driveway at 6:30a.m. Kyle is hosting "Driveway Sale Part Deux" this weekend sometime, and he was able to sell more stuff on craigslist after the fact, so there's something. Honestly, I'm not holding out a lot of hope for "Please Buy My Stuff 2.0" this weekend. Especially after last Sunday's tepid response to "Old Stuff We Don't Use, v. 1.5" (wherein Kyle sat out with the stuff another day, but didn't like, tell anyone he was going to do that, and just really hoped that the giant neon signs all over the neighborhood would draw folks in. They did not.) I'm just shocked all the baby stuff didn't sell. There were FOUR strollers and like, three tons of awesomely cute (and in some cases NEVER WORN) girl clothes.

Fig. 1: Approximately 1/8 of the baby clothes that were presented for sale last weekend

Fig 2: More clothes which sadly remained betagged during their tenure in the wardrobe

Pirates Have Feelings Too, Express Them Via Finger Paints on Sundays:

Iris caught me folding laundry the other day (don't tell Kyle I did that willingly - he'll try to make me do it all the time), and in it was an old bandanna. As soon as I picked it up I heard, "It's a pirate hat, Mommy! A PIRATE HAT, MOMMEEEEEEEE." So Iris wore the pirate hat and asked to paint a little bit. We put the old Dad shirt on and tied up the pirate hat just so, and when I asked Iris if she wanted me to get her a snack or anything to munch on while she expressed her big deep pirate feelings, she said, "ARR." I'm so not joking. Ask her sometime.

Fig 3: Iris, mid-pirate joke, "So I sez to the blue whale, CHEER UP!" Har.

Fig 4: Quoth the shirt, "My Sultry Sunday Shirt (Pants Optional)"

Things Best Avoided at Work

Belly shots, yo. Do not try to take belly shots at work. Even if you have no full-length mirrors at home, and heaps of messy crap everywhere that will show up in any photo you take anyway, do NOT try to take belly shots at work! Especially if you forget to turn off the flash, and it's anywhere near lunchtime, and crazy ol' HPD is roaming the halls. Especially not then.

Fig 5: Just learned today that I'm "about to pop," the baby has "dropped," I am "carrying low" and also "look WAY more pregnant" than I am. A-haaaaa-wesome.

A Month In The Life

I know it's been a month and I'm total fail at blogging, but I'm not about to start getting better today. I have a quick break at work which I will use to post some stuff super quick like, but for a real update you'll have to wait till I screw my brain on a little tighter than it is now.

The Great Lone Range, or Why My Butt Loves The Couch Way More Than Me

So Iris and Kyle did go out of town, and lo, there was much lazing and repose. On my part, that is. Kyle and Iris did whatever they did, and it was all a mystery that I don't care to solve. I decided that I was so excited for their departure was going to miss them so much that I simply had to snap a photo right before they got on the road. Don't they look joyous? So precious in their stylishly coordinating travel costumes, those Kelleys....


Anyway, I actually did have to work the first two days they were gone, so it's a good thing Grammy took pity on me and babysat Iris for the weekend. I got all my work done and sat on the aforementioned sofa, and I do believe that was the last time FBK was small enough to avoid directly stimulating my sciatic nerve. If you're not familiar with your sciatic nerve and what it can do, do not bother trying to learn. That would be like researching what, exaaaactly jellyfish stings are like.

I was all set to blog about stuff that weekend, in fact, but then Babs' charger broke (Barbara Jean - the Apple laptop), and I had to rush order a new one. Then I was going to meet Grammy and Papa in Concordia to pick up Iris, and noticed the huge bolt/nut/washer combo sticking out of my driver's side tire. I did not drive to Concordia that day. G & P did bring Iris back home though, which is nice, since I kind of like my kid and everything. And - bonus - they fixed my tire too!

MOMMY, TakemypictureCHEEEEEEEZE!

Iris really likes having her picture taken now. She actually directs photo shoots starring her. It's... kinda weird in an endearing little way. I think it might be the "CHEESE" face that gets me the most. I mean, it reminds me of one of those poor, harried stage children whose mothers bleach their teeth and put them on toddler diets. I seriously have no idea where she learned that. I barely even wash my own hair, so I think I can safely opt out of that little blame cycle. Fortunately these shots look relatively natural. Here is a small sampling of a recent photo shoot:




Irisey With The Fringe On Top

The hair in the face was about to kill me. So, as much as I hate bangs, hated having them growing up and hate that they make children look creepily precocious, it had to be done. I stood her up on the toilet lid last night and chopped those suckers off. They are crooked and jaggedy, but at least she dosen't look like one of those Afghan dogs with the hair and the not-seeing and whatnot anymore.

Oooo, Let's Dance, Awight?
...quoth Iris when she first heard this song, and then of course again every time after. This is the time when I shamefully admit that my kid likes dance music. Like, that one might find in a dance club. For dancing. I um... will be sitting on my couch with my unwashed hair. Someone who likes glow sticks and sequins can be responsible for endoctrinating Iris into the land of technopop:

(Sorry - would have embedded the actual video but Yeasayer said "no," if you can believe it.)

Miscellany - Ask Me Later

We bought a house! We did not manage to sell one though.

The dog died and I didn't even cry. Only part of that statement is true.

I like yard sales and I especially love preparing to host one! That entire statement is false, which makes the likelihood of its occurrence no less probable.

Cats only barf where bare feet go, and children only pee on the floor when you're late for something - discuss.

I'm way pregnant. Whoa.

Wilco Copper Norge

I just scammed a bunch of words off of the bulletin board in my cubicle to come up with today's post title. It's utterly meaningless, but sounds cool, no? If it didn't have the already super-recognizable "Wilco" part in there, I'd pretend it was a really awesome new band that only I had ever heard of. I'm so in-tune with the indie scene. Man. Anyway...

I was just reading someone else's blog (you don't know her; I don't even know her), and in it she explains that she recently had to cry into her mom's lap for a bit about how stressful children are, how much they suck when you can't take them outside of the house, how they're never going to stop being all needy and loud, recognized her own continued needy/loud-ness in regard to her mother, cried more, etc. Yes to all. Yes times a million. And this woman is a stay-at-home of three girls under the age of eight. I get to go to work three whole days of the week (hah - I GET TO WORK)! And for two of those home days, I'm not even primary care! And yet!

And yet, I am still embarrassed of the shallow lack of patience I currently sport. Iris is so wound up, all the time. The child just needs an energy outlet, and that is impossible when the heat index is 112 degrees. Poor, poor, awesome Kyle deserves an award for how well he cares for her and also refrains from tossing her out the window daily. She's just hysterical, and not in the funny awesome way, more in the losing-her-damn-mind kind of way.

She has been talking lately. Like, really talking. Talking like a big kid who has some level of reasoning skills and likes to ask questions. Her favorite question at the moment is "because why?"

(sounds of cat sadness coming from Iris' direction....)
Me: Iris, stop patting Kashmir's back please, you're hurting her.
Iris: Because why?
Me: Patting her back too hard will hurt her.
Iris: Because why?
Me: It will hurt her because hitting hurts.
Iris: Mommy, I not hit Shashir's back, I PAT her back. She not crying.
Me: Kashmir doesn't know the difference between patting and hitting, Honey, she just knows she doesn't like it.
Iris: Because why?
Me: Because it hurts her.
Iris: I NOT HURT SHASHIR!
Me: Well, you're going to have to take that up with her because she thinks you are.
Iris: Shashir, I not mad at you, I pat your back! No crying!


That could seriously go on for hours. She is somewhat willing to be redirected, but it takes a high level of bribery and waaaaay more patience than I have right now. Massive high-pitched melt downs are very common around the Kelley abode. The cat convo was just a tiny example, but my brilliant solution to that problem is to ban cat interaction forever. This will soon be a problem if it becomes my solution to every problem, as I can't very well ban her from touching everything in the house, especially when the inside of the house is the only place she can go.

Iris also recently decided that the things we ask her to do are pretty much just suggestions that can (and should) be ignored. Not awesome. Yesterday the only way I was able to get her to listen to me and stop running/screeching/giggling maniacally was to stand in front of her and let her ricochet off of my legs. I certainly couldn't have caught her if I was actually running after her. Then of course there was the resulting fallout/tantrum of epic proportions. I ended up doing that awesome thing where I drag the pissed off child around by the upper arm while she does her best protester limp. That was all within the first few minutes of my arrival home from work.

Did you know that July 4th marks the beginning of child abuse season? Did you know that there was a SEASON? I think it's only something referenced by ER staff, but still, this is a THING. I learned that little tidbit in my random other people's blog perusal as well. Apparently it has something to do with school being out, children being insane dictators, and the heat index being such that taking them outside to run off steam is something akin to child abuse. I'm just saying, you know I'd never participate in such a season, but I SEE WHERE THEY'RE COMING FROM, YAKNOW?

In lieu of my own mother's lap upon which to cry, we are shipping Iris off to KC for two weekends in a row. I have next to zero guilt about this. Okay, maybe like 5% guilt. Possibly more, but I'm repressing it. Kyle is going out of town to visit friends in Texas that he's been trying to find time to visit for like six years or something. The decision to send Iris to KC this weekend was a last-minute deal, offered up by Grammy because she knows I'm nuts? I don't know, I'm not questioning it, because you know what? DO YOU PEOPLE KNOW WHAT? (I just don't even know how to make shouty-caps shoutier than this...)

I AM FINALLY GOING TO BE HOME ALONE FOR TWO WHOLE NIGHTS. THIS IS ALL I HAVE EVER WANTED.

The only thing that would make this more bursting with awesomeosity is if I could bring my friend Franzia along for the ride. Alas, FBK would not enjoy the resulting brain damage, so I guess this will just have to happen again next summer! Booya. Silver linings are shiny and pretty/I heart shiny things!

Tomorrow, next week, same deal

So perhaps I was hasty in my assessment that I'd post pictures "tomorrow." I'm not terribly worried though, since I'm pretty sure only Kelly and I read this thing, and I showed her the pictures in person last weekend. I kid! I know for a fact that at least two other people look at this blog sometimes when an automatic e-mail shows up to tell them that I posted something. So, all three of my dear readers, enjoy yet another picture of FBK's feet, and three profile shots wherein he attempts to suck on the umbilical cord and lick his knee.

{Toes Again!}

{Knee-to-face action}

{Umbilical cord as binky}

{More umbilical fun times}

100 Days

Well would you look at that! One hundred days of pregnancy to go. That's crazy! I think it was right around this point in my last pregnancy when I decided that I was really very over this whole preggo ride and would like to get off now please and thankyouverymuch. It's not so bad this time, but I can tell you that all of the crap that hurts when you're pregnant now hurts, so I'm not like, savoring every second either. I'm probably just better equipped to handle it all since I know what's coming and I clearly lived through it once before.

We had our last ultrasound today, which was really just a follow-up because FBK wouldn't move to accommodate pictures of his heart last time. He is definitely for sure still a boy, and today's ultrasound tech couldn't stop gushing over the beauty and perfection of his heart. He weighs 2lbs6oz, which is apparently on the high end of the normal range for size at this gestational age. This is me not worrying. Totally not worrying. Still within normal ranges. Anyway I have the standard gestational diabetes test next month so we'll find out if he's on his way to being abnormally large. I'm not worried about it, but I guess we'll see.

There were pictures, but I don't have them ready yet. I can tell you that FBK and The Whiz have the same nose and of course they share the hobbit feet of doom. Sorry kids. I'll try to get those pics up tomorrow!

Iris Music Thursday: Tighten Up

Iris really likes the Black Keys. We discovered this fact on a trip out to the country(ish) to check out a supposedly awesome foreclosure last week. It was awesome but moldy, so I guess it was not very awesome, but it wanted to be. The house, that is; the house was moldsome. Iris' love of the Black Keys was FOR SURE awesome. She did a lot of dancing and demanding that the dancing return in-between every song.

We tried to show her some of their videos online the other day, which is when we discovered that the visual accompaniment to the music is usually kind of violent or sexually inappropriate or just kind of obscure and funny (but only to adults, probably).

So anyway, here: watch the kind of violent, mildly funny video. Know that Iris busts out her hippiest windmill arm dance every time it's played.

It's better this way

There are things that annoy me. Irrational things. Things that annoy me so much that my annoyance annoys other people. What's worse, is that many times the activity that annoys me is perpetrated by someone who thinks they are being really extra polite. So I have many encounters wherein the person with whom I'm interacting expects a reaction from me that is somewhere on the spectrum of ambivalent to grateful, and I come back with a badly-concealed eye roll. Okay, maybe not that bad. Eye rolls are incredibly dismissive and mean, but sometimes the best I can do is an emotionless dead stare, and I'm not sure that's better.

This is all a very long-winded way of announcing that I am now going to list all of the things I can think of that drive me batty. You don't have to read it, because they really don't make sense for the most part, and I'm sure that my feelings about this list are greatly exacerbated by the insane hormones currently raging inside my body. Nonetheless, I have to put them here or I'll say them out loud. To the people who actually annoy me. Nobody wants that. It's not their fault that they sneeze wrong.

• Mouth noises - If I can hear you chew, gulp, smack your lips or breathe through your mouth, I'm probably feeling violent. That's disgusting and uncalled for.


• People who insist on saying "bless you" following every sneeze they hear. If I sneeze 17 times in a row (it's happened), and you feel that you MUST bless me, say it ONCE, okay? ONCE. I don't even really need you to say it at all, certainly not 17 times.


• Cars who stop to let me cross the street. Okay, I know this one is weird, but think about it. If there are only one or two cars on the road, and you are patiently waiting on the sidewalk to cross the street, you will actually get to the other side faster if the cars just go ahead and pass, rather than take the time to slow down and come to a safe stop in order for you to walk across. Plus, I'd really rather not have an audience while I cross the street. It makes me feel like I need to rush and that I'm holding up traffic and that I'm in the way.


• On the other side of the sneezing issue: People who vocalize while they sneeze. I know, I know, that it is impossible not to do so when you have been doing so nearly all of your life. But I also theorize that it is not necessary nor is it natural. Babies don't hoot in the middle of sneezing; they don't say the actual word achoo while sneezing. They just breathe in deeply, and then breathe out really quickly through their noses. No voice.


• Patronizing use of the word "we." This annoys everybody, doesn't it? WE are not eating this meal, I am. WE did not say how far along we are in this pregnancy, as last I checked, WE do not share a uterus. I almost feel like this bullet point is so obvious I shouldn't have even listed it, but you know, spirit of sharing and all that...


• Open doors, but not the ones that lead to houses. Okay, again, super dumb and weirdly irrational. I do not understand why someone would open a cabinet door to retrieve something, then just leave it open. Why would you open the mailbox, get the mail, then leave the mailbox open? WHY? Really! I need to know!


• People who say "Git Er Dun!" What is that? What does that even mean? Are you trying to sound like an assh*le? Because you do. You sound like an uneducated hick.


• The too-long door-holder. Dude, if I am right behind you, cool - hold the door for me. That's a very nice thing to do. If I am any other distance from you than within the 2-foot door-holding range, just let it go, it's not worth it, and you're probably making mouth noises that I really don't want to hear anyway.

See? Now I feel better and I'm not even going to punch my very good buddies who gulp water at me and bless every sound that even slightly approximates a sneeze. Good times.

Limpid Bagel

Wouldn't that be weird, and probably a little gross? Like Crystal Pepsi? Ew. Anyway, disregard the title, I just thought it sounded cool.

So I don't have any major (or minor, really) updates, and obviously you didn't get a song last week. I mean, I'm perfectly comfortable posting The Farmer in The Dell (AGAIN), but as Aunt PittyPat noted, you guys aren't really here for the cartoons, no?

Potty training is going much better; thanks for the suggestions. Turns out bribery does work, we were just doing it wrong. I mean, stickers are nice and all, but she was holding out for chocolate. We've actually noticed that Iris might be saving up trips to the bathroom to ensure more trips to the Potty Candy Stash. Smart kid.

I continue to get huge and FBK continues to kick about. I'm not really sure what's going on in there, but his feet are definitely still firmly planted on my bladder. It's neat.

That's about it for now. Again, name suggestions? Anybody? You know you are just dying to tell me what to do (right? people love telling other people what to do, don't they? that just me, then?).

Take a Gander...

...And throw him down the stairs. That jerk totally deserves it after what he did to that old guy. We don't have a new song this week since Iris is still firmly in love with the Farmer in the Dell, but she did expand her horizons to include Goosey Goosey Gander sometimes. I'm not saying I approve of this behavior (*cough*kylestopshowingherthestupidvideo*cough*), but it is what it is, so here you go. I guess we do have a new song, just try not to watch it around children.



Okay, why is he in his lady's chamber? Why would a goose who is seemingly intent on checking out some lady's bed care one way or the other if some old guy was praying or not? Are we really teaching the youth of India (and elsewhere, I suppose) that violence is okay if you don't follow the rules? Don't get me wrong, I enjoy threatening to cut my co-workers if they chew too loudly or play with their clicky pens too frequently or like, breathe really loudly, but that's FUNNY because I would never ACT on it. Probably. But that goose is seriously just rude. Don't you think that old guy was kind of frail? Has he no concern for osteoperosis? Why is this a children's song?



TELL ME WHAT TO DO

Iris is fully potty trained at school. She initiates her own visits to the bathroom and almost never has accidents. She naps without a diaper and has for weeks. I think her last accident happened like two months ago, seriously. At home, her response to "do you have to pee" is always "NO." If you force her to sit on the potty, she will sit for hours and hours and insist the entire time that there is no pee. Then she'll stand up, pull up her pants, and pee on the couch/floor/your lap. She will wake up in the morning with a dry diaper and hold her pee for hours after waking. I have seen her go over 14 hours without peeing. Help me.

Meet Aloyshious Fitzpatrick Kelley

Don't freak out, I made that up. We still have no idea what to name this kid. All I'm saying, is that if "Guy" is a real name, then "Dude" totally is too.

{Fig 1: (Skeletor) Face}

{Fig 2: (Hobbit) Feet}


{Fig 3: (I know it doesn't look like it but it's definitely a) Penis}

Iris Music Thursday: Somebody Hug The Cheese!

I'm really very sorry to be doing this to you. I really, really am. As someone who has lived the reality of this song on repeat for days, I can tell you with pristine sincerity that I am completely remorseful to impose this earworm on you. In the spirit of honesty though, I'm required to share.

I don't know how to explain Iris' love of this song. She wants to sing it or hear it all the time. She likes the predictability of the lyrics, for sure. She bops her little butt around to the tune, while nodding her head in time with the beat in a very serious, musical connoisseur-type fashion. She's cool with the farmer, the wife and the child. She's fairly ambivalent about the nurse, but by the time we get to the dog part, she knows that the cat part comes right after, which directly precedes the mouse, and she is not pleased with the mouse. The mouse takes the cheese, you understand, and the cheese stands alone!

Iris: Mommy, da cheese crying!
Me: Yeah, the cheese is alone, isn't he?
Iris: Yeah, he sad. He crying.
Me: Well yeah, there were a couple of tears, but look, they dried up! I think he feels better. I, for one, don't really mind being alone. It's kind of nice sometimes, really. Refreshing, you know?

Iris: ...

Me: What?
Iris: Mommy. Da cheese sad. He need a hug. Why he sad? MOMMY! Da cheese SO SAD!
Me: Hey, why don't we go watch something a little more uplifting like Elmo, or Gabba Gabba, or like shark week or really anything else...

Iris: NOOOOOOOOOO MOMMY, FARMER DELL! FARMER DELL!

ad infinitum...



I'd also like to note as a point of extreme awesomeosity, that when this video finishes and that little list of YouTube inspired suggestions pops up, the same production team who brought you this fine specimen offers another nursery rhyme called "Goosey Goosey Gander." We watched it after the very first viewing of this video because hey - it's a nursery rhyme! Says so right here! I don't really know nursery rhymes, American or otherwise. I'm sure there was a part of my life that was absolutely full them, but that was like 25+ years ago, so you know... I don't know any nursery rhymes.
Anyway, "Goosey Goosey Gander" is an Indian nursery rhyme about an old man and a goose. The old man decides not to say his prayers, so the goose grabs his leg and throws him down the stairs. Twice. The end. That was just a freaking excellent way to bounce back from the sad cheese incident.

Toploftical

Aside from being cranky, large, constipated, cranky, tired, and cranky I'd also like to announce that I am smug. Okay, not really, but this clip is too funny not to share (you've probably already seen it before, but watch it again anyway). Also I happen to know what tomorrow's musical offering is and trust me, you're going to want something awesome really nearby to cleanse your brain of the numbing repetitiveness that is the um, agronomist in the ravine.
I told Grandma K. the other day that when I find out the sex of the baby on Monday, I will tell everyone except HPD (who has been asking me if I know the sex of the baby yet every day since she saw the calendar which clearly states the date of the appointment as MONDAY MAY 23RD). Blah. Anyway, I plan to tell HPD that we know the sex of the baby, but we're not telling anyone. I giggle every time I say that.

FBK is officially a kicker or a dancer or like, a future color guard champion or something. Don't think I don't feel you tossing that little fake wooden rifle around in there, kid! I am not afraid to ground a fetus! There is historical precedent here! Anyway, s/he is very active, traditionally after meals and through the entire night. Yayyyy. This is the destined dream-sleeper child, so I'm glad s/he's getting all that activity out now. Gotta be prepared for all that sleep that's going to happen. Allll that sleep. Yeah....

Jovian Heavy

I'd like to think that I am particularly in-line with Thursdays in general. I am drawn to them. I am of them. I have always loved them. Thursday is my day.

FBK is due on a Thursday. My half birthday and Thanksgiving fall on the same Thursday this year. Iris was born on Thursday, February 26th, and I have been convinced all day that today is definitely Thursday. This pregnancy hits 20 weeks this Thursday, and conveniently enough, Iris Music Thursday! usually happens on Thursdays, mostly because it happened to be Thursday when I came up with the idea.

The contemporary name Thursday comes from the Old English Þunresdæg, "Thunor's Day." Somewhere along the line the "n" was dropped and we got "Thor's Day" out of that mess. A lot of other changes happened over the ages, but mostly we need to know that Thor is the god of Thunder, and his name from the Romans is Jupiter (Latin: Iuppiter, Iūpiter) (also called Jove). In Vedic Astrology, Hindu astrologers named the planet Jupiter after Brihaspati, the religious teacher of the gods, and often called it "Guru", which literally means the "Heavy One."*

Jupiter is a gas giant with a mass slightly less than one-thousandth of the Sun but is two and a half times the mass of all the other planets in our Solar System combined. Jupiter is primarily composed of hydrogen with a quarter of its mass being helium; it may also have a rocky core of heavier elements. Its shape is that of an oblate spheroid (it possesses a slight but noticeable bulge around the equator).*

Being that I am so full of Thursday-esque properties, it is extremely accurate to state that I am a massively heavy oblate spheroid, a thunderous gas giant if you will, with a rocky core. Watch out.

And now, here is a random picture of Katie Pants for No Reason At All (tm)!!

{Pants has the funny in her brain.}


* I ripped off all sorts of information from Wikipedia. In the words of the great Mike and Em: "Look it up."

Somebody buy me this book

I will say that I shamelessly ripped off this information from a co-worker (thanks, J-Bo!), but it was too beautifully fitting to pass up. I mean seriously. SER-I-OUS-LAAAAAY. I need this book. See fantastic CNN article here. Obviously I'm never going to actually read it to the children, but I figure that Kyle and I can take turns holding one another, rocking gently and reciting lines from this book, the hold-ee of course depending on who was in charge of bed time that night (ahem: me).

FRICK.

Hey, remember that awful woman I work with? She's the one with the problem of accidentally asking her co-workers to physically harm her with her non-verbal cues? Let's be real subtle and give her the pseudonym Histrionic Personality Disorder, just for confidentiality's sake. Well, old HPD recently revived her attentions towards me, and I fear I have only myself to blame.

{Anna Nicole and HPD share similar value systems and fashion-senses}

Two days a week, I work at 6:30 in the morning, as does HPD. Yesterday I managed to forget my office keys, so I had to actually summons HPD from her desk to let me into the office. This of course, opened the gates for conversation (con-ver-sa-tion, n: 1. oral exchange of HPD's sentiments, observations, opinions or ideas 2. instance of such exchange wherein only HPD may speak). I had actually experienced a lovely HPD-free streak of good fortune for going on about six months there, but yesterday's dumbass keyless situation just threw that era right out the window. An obnoxious, but surprisingly short by HPD standards conversation ensued, and then we went to our separate corners to work.

So OF COURSE, this morning when I attempted to get to my seat and begin my work day unmolested, I was unsuccessful. HPD was at my desk in under five minutes. I hadn't even logged on to my computer yet. She had some fake reason for needing to stop by, like asking my opinion of something without actually attempting to solve the problem on her own before contacting me. I answered her question quickly - which of course annoyed her - and that's when she began making up reasons to stick around.

She told me about her car and her horses and her boyfriend's dad's pituitary gland tumor, and some other stuff I probably don't care about, but I wasn't really paying attention. This is the part that amazes me about HPD; I can literally turn my body away from her and start working on my computer, and she just... keeps talking.

Anyway, it is at this point that my dumbassery really comes to bite me in the ass. HPD spies the calendar that hangs behind my head, the calendar upon which I write personal appointments (i.e. non-work-related appointments, not like personal, personal appointments), and she sees the "20 week ultrasound" note scheduled for May 23rd. Please let me note at this point that I am one day away from being 19 weeks pregnant. I OBVIOUSLY look pregnant, and I have for a few weeks now. I'm not trying to hide anything here, and though I never made a grand announcement of pregnancy to the office, it's clear to everyone that I am pregnant and the knowledge is widely accepted.

Well, ol' HPD takes one look at that note and starts squealing. Like, peel the paint from the walls, jumpy-clappy dance, squealing. She begins this weird loop of questions in an attempt to get me to engage with her: "Are you EXCITED?!?! How far along are you? I bet you want a boy! I bet KYLE wants a boy! ARE YOU EXCITED????" Ahem: Yes. 'Bout halfway. Don't care. He doesn't care either. Yes.

Let's just say that HPD is... interested in pregnancy. She wants to be pregnant. I'm not sure if she actually wants a baby so much as she wants the attention that you get when you have a baby, you know? She is obsessed with all things pregnancy and to a certain extent, baby-related.

A co-worker of ours (lovely woman, too nice for her own good, very sweet lady) had a baby about a year ago. HPD got this woman's phone number from the internet (wtf?? can you do that???) and texted/called her while she was in labor 20+ times before lovely co-worker woman shattered her phone on the hospital wall as a result of all of the HPD attempts at contact. After a day or so of labor, lovely co-worker was rushed to emergency c-section. Two hours post-op, HPD shows up in her hospital room. Lovely co-worker and HPD are not friends. Lovely co-worker did not tell anyone in the office a) the name of the hospital at which she planned to deliver, and she certainly did not share b) her actual room number (or PHONE NUMBER, OMG). She did not invite visitors, and HPD was clearly unwelcome.

As hospital staff were escorting HPD out of the hospital room, she attempted to goad Lovely co-worker in to allowing her to visit them at home, once discharged, so that they could visit uninterrupted. Um, she said no.

I'm afraid this does not bode well for my future. Actually, I'm just afraid. Human Resources is aware of the situation, and I am to notify them immediately if anything even remotely close to the level of stalking that Lovely co-worker endured happens to me. I consider that level of attention to be normal for someone who does not know the difference between right and wrong. This is someone who might not necessarily understand what is wrong with trying to walk out of the hospital with someone else's baby.

Looks like the game is afoot. You want to mess with my hormones right now? You want to mess with MY CHILDREN? REALLY?? Bring it, nut-job.