Mine mine mine, all mine

olfactory assault

Well, I haven't written recently because I've spent much of this week covered in crap.

Literally.

Poo, doo-doo, stinky, feces, excrement, waste, dung, swill, ordure...you name it, I've had to change it, smell it, clean it, wash it off.

I'm so tired of the smell of poop that I could just rip my nose off my face and live happily ever after.

We can't blame this all on my dear child. Most of it, but by no means all.

Firstly, there's the antibiotic that the pediatrician gave Drew for his double-whammy ear infections. Apparently, this is the strongest antibiotic known to man or animal on the planet, because not only was it so powerful that they had to give it to him in a series of injections rather than orally, it also has the added benefit of completely tearing up his stomach.

Oh yes, the ear infections are gone. And our sweet little son has been mutated into a pooping machine. Every two hours, like clockwork, my darling child emits this pile of tarry, sticky and really exceptionally foul-smelling goo.

His father and I have almost come to blows over who gets to change the next one.

OK, so then our youngest greyhound Simon apparently started to feel a little left out. His keen powers of observation revealed to him that pooping merits a whole lot of attention, so he decided to grace us with a big steaming pile of his own.

Right in the middle of his crate.

See, Simon, what you don't get is, when Drew poops, we clean him up gently and carefully, we powder him and diaper him and then we hug and kiss him because he is a real, live human baby who can't help himself and not a smelly, full-grown attention-seeking dog.

Smelly grown-up attention-whore drama-queen dogs get hosed down in the backyard. That's right! You'll think twice before you do THAT again, won't you?

And as if all that wasn't enough of an assault on our senses, this morning our septic tank decided to get into the action.

I thought Simon had left us another present, until Charles opened the door to the downstairs bathroom and stepped, barefoot, into about an inch of water.

The toilet was backed up, the bathtub was backed up, the sink was backed up  - water was everywhere and it Smelled. Really. Bad. Two cans of Febreeze later, it still reeked.

Hey! Our house is still under warranty! Think that will matter? Let's take bets on how much, dollar-wise, we're going to get screwed over on this deal.

I left Charles at home to deal with it. I simply can't take any more kaka this week.

Edit:

As soon as I hit 'publish' on this post, one of my co-workers saunters by my office and says, "Did you see what happened to the women's bathroom? One of the toilets backed up and there's about two inches of running water in the hallway."

I. Am. Cursed.

highly caffeinated

It's about 12 degrees in my office.

At times, various handy-looking men in blue coveralls will walk by outside, poke their heads in my door, and say, "'Izzit steel cawld in heh?"

I think they're asking me if I'm still blue and numb or if I've thawed yet, but my teeth are chattering too loud for me to understand them.

So, it's the middle of June, it's so muggy outside that your clothes stick to your skin the VERY SECOND you step out of the air conditioning, but I'm having to drink scalding hot coffee to stay warm.

Nobody in this office drinks decaf - because decaf is for wusses and girly-men - so therefore only caffeinated coffee gets made. We HAVE decaf available; just nobody ever brews it. I suppose I could, but that would take five whole minutes, and I'm cold RIGHT NOW.

So, forgive me if I skip around a lot during this post. Certain synapses are firing way too fast.

My word of the day today is chipotle.

Chipotle chipotle chipotle.

This is because I got to eat at my favorite Mexican restaurant for lunch, even though Charles wanted cheap-and-easy Mexican - I convinced him to scale it up a notch and go for trendy Mexican.

So I got to have a veggie burrito with chipotle sour cream.

Then I proceeded to drive Charles crazy by using the word chipotle in as many sentences as I could:

"She's really pissing me off. She'd better have the chipotles to back that up if she keeps talking that way."

"Do we have enough chipotles to buy me some new shorts?"

"Wasn't Drew cute as a little chipotle this morning?"

Finally, Charles asked me what the hell a 'chipotle' was, exactly. And I regret to say that, while I think it's a great word and it just sounds marvelous rolling off the tongue and it makes even a horrifying sentence sound funny -(i.e. "your chipotles are on fire") - I have absolutely no idea what a chipotle is.

Now, I'm an educated woman, so I broke out my dictionary. (OK, I Googled it.)

And I discovered that a chipotle is a ripe jalapeño pepper that has been dried and smoked for use in cooking.

I thought it was something like that.

So, after the chipotle lunch, we had about 20 minutes left, so we decided to go shopping.

OK.

I decided to go shopping. Charles just tagged along for the ride, and to make me feel really guilty about actually wanting to spend any money.

He's really good at this, listen: he never tells me we can't buy something or that something is too expensive. Instead, he simply shrugs his shoulders and says, "Well, you're the CFO."

The hidden meaning here is, "You're the chief financial officer of this household, so if you buy that $60 pair of pajamas and then we don't have enough money to get an oil change and the car breaks down and we lose our jobs because we can't get to work and we end up broke, foreclosing on our house and living on the streets diving into dumpsters to find food, well, then it's all your fault and I absolve myself of any responsibility."

He's appealing to my sense of fiscal responsibility, which really sucks when I see a cute pair of pajamas with little green horses on them and I want them so badly that I can taste it but I just can't force myself to spend $60 on a pair of PJs that hardly anyone will ever get to see me wearing when we still need to buy groceries, get a tuneup for the car and other equally boring things.

I'm a sucker for pajamas, by the way.

I absolutely LOVE pajamas. The first thing I do when I get home from work is rip off all my work clothes and put on a pair of soft, cuddly, cottony pajamas.

I saw this pair at the store downtown today that was SO CUTE - as I mentioned, it had little green horses, and little green cowboys riding the little green horses - like a rodeo of Martians or something. It was precious. And cottony soft.

And they wanted $60 for the pants and the tank top. Sixty. S I X T Y.

Yes, that's American dollars.

I think that's just craziness. For lounge pants and a tank top? I mean, come on. Have a heart, people. How can I keep feeding my pajama addiction with these kinds of prices?

Drew had his nine-month well-baby checkup this week. Here's the rundown:

1. He weighs 20.5 pounds, which is in the 60th percentile. This means he weighs more than 60 percent of baby boys his age.
2. He is 29.5 inches long, which is in the 85th percentile. This means he is taller than 85 percent of baby boys his age.
3. He is recovering well from a recent ear infection.
4. He can say "Dada", "Mama" and "Baba", so he's on track vocabulary-wise. (so sayeth the doctor, even though I told her I don't think he knows what he's saying half the time because he'll look at me, grin and screech, "Dada!")
5. He has a recurring rash on his chin that's caused by him drooling and puking all the time. This is perfectly normal and I should just keep using the ointment they gave me the last time I complained about this.
6. He's just as cute as a little button. The doctor informed me of this, and, well, she is a doctor,  and a pediatrician to boot, so I figure she's well-educated in degrees of cuteness. I'm sure she doesn't say this to every baby she sees. Probably just mine, actually.

So, that's it for now, because I've run out of coffee.

I think just a little tiny bit of separation anxiety wouldn't be uncalled for

There's this kid at Drew's daycare named Jake.

I know Jake's name because every morning when I drop Drew off, I watch Jake, Jake's mom and the Daycare People go through the dance of "Distract Jake so Mommy Can Leave" - which involves frantically waving various gadgets, blankies and brightly-colored objects in front of Jake's face in a desperate effort to deter him from screaming his fool head off at the thought of his mother leaving him in this wretched torture chamber.

Jake is a little bit annoying.

However, I have to say I am the teensiest, tiniest, just a little tiny bit, mind you, jealous of Jake's mom.

Because Jake, as loud and red-faced tantrumy as he is, obviously loves his mother so much that the thought of being away from her for EIGHT WHOLE HOURS is unimaginable, unbearable and unacceptable in any sense of the word.

On the other hand, there's Drew.

We enter his room at daycare, and he immediately bestows a tremendous, gummy, love-filled grin upon the Daycare People. I place him on the floor and, he does not spare another glance at the woman who bore him for nine months while her ankles swelled up like inner tubes and she still can't fit into any of her old clothes and she still can't get a full night's sleep.

No, he is a very busy baby. There are many toys upon which to drool and many other babies at whom to stare and many Daycare People upon whom to lavish love and affection.

I am dismissed. And dammit, I don't mind saying that sometimes I'd like to see a tear or two.  Some understanding of the fact that it pains him as much to be left as it does for me to leave him.

And then I berate myself for being selfish.

One day, when I'm prying his chubby little arms from a vise-like grip from around my knees while he turns varying shades of purple and red, I will probably long for the days when I could slip out of his daycare room unnoticed.

My son obviously loves his daycare, and his Daycare People, and his toys and his classmates. So, I'm blessed, right?

Right?

oh god, he's such a boy

Drew has discovered something this weekend.

He has a winkie!

I take off his diaper to change him, and he reaches down and grabs his whole package. He grabs on tight, and won't let go for anything. I've tried begging, pleading, cajoling and prying...it doesn't matter. He has discovered a new toy, and by god, he will not be diverted.

Charles said, "I wish I could tell you it gets better as he gets older, but really, this is just the start of a lifelong obsession."

soon, he will be completely mobile, and I don't think I'm ready

When you realize that your once-helpless bundle of baby is about to become mobile, suddenly everything in your house seems like a tremendous source of danger, just waiting to pounce on your vulnerable youngling.

Drew isn't crawling yet, but he is doing this sort of scootchy, inch-worming, rolling thing that, surprisingly, can propel him quite a distance from his starting point.

Now I can't just plop him on the floor and expect him to stay where I left him.  Not only that, but he is showing disturbing signs of being quite an intrepid explorer. Baby toys are a fun diversion, sure, but the REAL FUN is whatever it is that we're trying to keep him away from.

Yesterday, while he was rolling about on his play mat in the living room, I took my eyes off of him for approximately 17.34 seconds - long enough to run into the kitchen and grab a soda.

Upon my return, I discovered that he'd managed to find the one object on the floor that was not an infant-safe play toy. It was, in fact, an old copy of Reader's Digest that had somehow migrated under the couch.

My son, who was literally surrounded by baby toys, made a tremendous effort to stick his arm up underneath the couch to pull out this magazine. He was not distracted by the rattles, the balls, the brightly-colored choo-choo trains. He wanted to see what was under the couch.

Now, an old magazine is not a lit keg of dynamite, nor is it a bottle of liquor, a loaded gun or a crack pipe. It is, however, a choking hazard, as Drew tends to like to rip up any paper substance into smaller bits of paper and then shove them into his mouth, whereupon they turn into mushy, gooey glue-like muck.

The day before that, he discovered the electrical outlet on the wall. Hoisting himself up on his elbows, he stretched out a questing hand and began grabbing and poking at it.

"No, Drew," I said, sternly.

He spared me a glance, dismissed me, and turned his attention back to the outlet.

"Drew. I. Said. No."

This time he didn't even bother to look at me. And even after I got up and pulled him away from the outlet, he still struggled to get back to it until I covered it with a pillow.

Thank goodness he hasn't quite grasped the concept of object permanence. If he can't see it, it isn't there. Once he figures out that's not really true, we're going to be in a lot of trouble.

So, I guess it's time to start really babyproofing the house.

Problem is, other than the basics like outlet covers and stair gates, I'm so far out of my depth here...I don't have a clue what perils are posed by my house. I always thought it was a pretty safe house, but apparently rogue Reader's Digests are just laying in wait for my child.

I've also never really noticed until this week how many things have sharp corners. And how slippery our laminate flooring can be. And how steep our stairs are. And how hot our stove gets.

Where do I start?

Where?

Should I just cover everything in the house with bubble wrap and hope for the best?

you want to put hot wax where?

So,  my sister got hitched this weekend.

As a matron of honor at this blessed event, it was my job to look pretty, stay calm, keep her from stepping on her train and, apparently, to get something done about my eyebrows.

The morning before the Event, we all - meaning me; my Sister Who is Getting Married, Jennifer; my Other Sister Who is Not Getting Married Yet But Probably Soon, Laura; and my mother - went to this lovely little salon to pamper ourselves with pedicures and manicures.

I had not had any type of -cure, pedi or mani, since before Drew was born, so this was very nice and luxurious.

The -cures were handled by a quartet of Vietnamese women who appeared to be related in some fashion and who seemed all aflutter about the impending nuptials. Either that, or they were high on nail polish fumes.

During my pedicure, the stylist peered critically at my face and told me, in no uncertain terms, "We do eyebrows next."

I raised said eyebrows, and responded in alarm, "Do what to my eyebrows?"

"We do eyebrows. You need." Followed by an emphatic nod, as if it were all settled.

I shrugged as she returned her attention to my feet, figuring she'd probably forget all about my brows when she saw the deplorable condition of my toenails.

However, when I moved to the manicure station, a different stylist again peered at my face, frowned (that's never good) and said, "You need eyebrows done. We do them next." These people are not asking me. They are telling me. I am going to have my eyebrows "done", and by God I had better not quarrel with them about it.

OK, now I'm intrigued, and starting to get a little self-conscious. Apparently my eyebrows, which frankly I never spared much thought for, are completely unacceptable. I'm surprised I've never noticed this before. I always thought that as long as I had two distinct brows and not a unibrow, all would be well and I would be able to go out in public and hold my head high.

Have people been pointing and laughing at my unwaxed brows all this time? Have I been the butt of eyebrow jokes? Am I a hideous hairy-browed monster!?

Clearly, something has to be done.

That "something", it turned out, involved having hot sticks of wax pressed above and below my brows and covered with thin strips of paper. This felt rather warm and pleasant, actually, other than the fact that I was somewhat concerned about having hot wax so close to my ocular region.

That warm fuzzy feeling was quickly dispelled when Little Miss Perfect Brows grabbed the paper and YANKED it - pulling off most of my face and popping my eyeballs right out of their sockets.

I felt sure that she'd pulled out every single eyebrow hair I'd ever had and that I would be left looking like a cancer victim in the last stages of chemotherapy.

My eyes were watering and the skin around them was bright red and splotchy and little bits of wax were clinging to me, making it look like my skin was sloughing off.

BUT! My eyebrows were a work of art.

Seriously. They were smooth and soft and shapely and my eyes looked 10 times bigger. (and redder)

Why, this is marvelous. A few minutes of searing, horrific pain is quite worth it; I now have socially acceptable brows.

I was fine until Laura informed me that I'd need to have that done every few weeks. I don't see how anything could grow back after that torture, but it seems that eyebrow hair is quite resilient and not easily intimidated.

The wedding was beautiful.  I feel certain my brow job contributed immensely to the event.