Mine mine mine, all mine

my spine's not the only thing that's crooked

So. My chiropractor - actually, that would be the chiropractor, as he's no longer my chiropractor - decided, after wasting approximately four hours total over three days of my precious time, and causing me to forego lunch two days in a row to meet with him, that he wanted me to sign a one-year contract with him and pay him $900 for his services - all up front.

My question here: Is he on drugs?

Hello? I do have health insurance here. Why am I being asked to shell out almost a thousand bucks before I even start any treatment?

Being the chiropractic virgin that I am, I thought, well, maybe this is just how it's done. But, as I am not completely stupid, I decided to ask co-workers, friends and family members who have seen chiropractors, just to find out if this was normal or not.

The responses, every single one of them, were, and I quote, "He wanted to charge you what?!"

Just as I thought. He's a crook. A crooked chiropractor. How ironic.

I thought about just scrapping the whole damn plan, but you know, my neck really hurts.  And why should I suffer because one chiropractor is greedy and unscrupulous? Surely they can't all be.

So, I got a referral from a co-worker for a different bone-cracker, and I have an appointment set up for tomorrow afternoon. I'm going to ask them up front how much they charge, and if they can't give me a straight answer, I'm going to leave immediately. I'm through wasting my time on these people.

On a brighter note, I ordered one of Drew's birthday presents today. His first birthday is less than a month away - I still find myself stumbling over that idea. I can't quite reconcile the fact that my tiny little baby boy is going to be a whole year old. When I see him pulling himself up and standing and trying to walk, I see a toddler, not a baby.

This is rather bittersweet. I'm happy to see him gaining more independence and mobility (the cat is distinctly displeased, but his opinion doesn't count, as we repeatedly tell him) but I also remember the days when I was nursing, and I miss that closeness that Drew and I shared.

I'm going to make myself cry. Either that, or I'm going to start pining for another baby, and that will give Charles a stroke, so in the interest of preserving my husband's sanity, I'll sign off for now.

moment of silence

Please, take some time during your day to offer prayers for the people of Mississippi, Louisiana, Florida and other areas of the Gulf Coast that were devastated by Hurricane Katrina.

umambiguously disgusted

In addition to expressing random, widely varying, often fickle, capricious and mercurial opinions about what he's wearing or playing with, Drew has come to the realization that he doesn't have to eat everything we spoon into his mouth.

So now he is working on developing insightful and discerning opinions about the quality, texture and appearance of his daily victuals.

Up until, well, yesterday, he would pretty much eat whatever - as long as it was the consistency of freshly cooked oatmeal. Carrots, peaches, pineapple, ham, chicken, cat food...whatever. (no, we didn't feed him the cat's food. well not intentionally. in fact, not at all, forget I said anything.)

But last night, I deposited him into his high chair and opened some nice, soft, gushy green peas. They looked like jarred snot. Come to think of it, I wouldn't eat it either.

Anyway.

He took one bite and screwed his little face up like I'd just squirted lemon juice straight into his mouth. Then, using a rather complicated tongue movement, he pushed the peas to the front of his mouth and spat, resulting in a torrent of gooey green running down his front.

Being the tenacious mom that I am (and not wanting to waste a whole jar of baby food, yes I know they only cost 99 cents thank you), I tried another, smaller, spoonful. No dice. This is definitely unpalatable.

So I switched to pineapple-glazed ham. And he scarfed down the entire jar. I mean, the food in the jar. He didn't actually eat the jar itself. He tried to, but I got it away from him in time.

So, I'm wondering if it was just the peas, or if he's going to be like his father and develop a general aversion to all things vegetable.

"If God meant us to eat vegetables, he would have made them out of meat," is Charles' philosophy on the issue.

words we know

Following is a list of "words" (words in this case meaning any sound that appears to have a meaning attached to it) that Drew knows, and their definitions:

1. Mama: Usually said while crying in the middle of the night when he wants to be picked up - he knows to target the most spineless of his two parents.
2. Dada: The parent who tosses him up in the air and catches him at the dire last minute, which he loves and which sends his Mama into hyperventilation.
3. Baba: This means either bottle or ball, depending on whether he wants to eat or play.
4. Bwa: As near as I can tell, this means "Stop trying to kiss me all over my face. That's yucky."
5. Nay-Nay-Nay: Generally uttered at the top of his lungs while we're trying to get him dressed, put on a bib or take something dangerous away from him, this obviously means "No way."
6. Aiiieeeee: Uttered in a high-pitched tone whenever he sees the cat, we think this means, "Wait 'til I can walk - your ass is MINE, furball."

OK, enough silliness. It's time for the weekend plan report - and let's all keep in mind that Drew is visiting the grandfolks. A whole childless weekend stretched out before us...nirvana...

Tonight, despite Charles' attempts to convince me otherwise, I have no plans other than vegging out, playing on the computer, watching TV and reading a book. If he wants to go out, he's more than welcome to - just stop bugging me about it.

Tomorrow, we will sleep until at LEAST 9 a.m. At the very very least. Then we shall slowly arise from the bed and lounge around in our pajamas until at least noon, at which point we shall finally shower and dress and go outside.

We plan to go shopping for clothes for our upcoming trip to the beach, but I may feel like it's too beautiful of a weekend to waste getting depressed about how I look in a swimsuit.

In the late afternoon, we will be meeting our friends Jack, Liz and Nancy and going to watch The Brothers Grimm, which looks entertaining enough to justify spending the outrageous amounts of money that movie theatres demand.

Then it's across the street to Wasabi, where we all will gorge on sushi and sake.

On Sunday, we will again sleep until at least 9 a.m. We may or may not attend church, depending on a number of different factors, and if we don't go that doesn't mean that we are godless heathens. Then, probably suffering from severe Drew withdrawal at this point, we shall meet my parents, who will reluctantly return him to us.

i'm falling apart

My new chiropractor is a very gentle, very personable Indian man who has this very soft and gentle way of telling you that your body is all screwed up.

As I lay face-down on the padded table, I listened to him dictating to his assistant as he prodded and poked at my spine.

In his thoughtful and soothingly accented voice, he used such disturbing words and phrases as "edema", "muscle spasming" and "subluxation."

"I am speaking to my assistant, but you are listening, yes? You hear what I am saying, yes? You understand?"

Yes, yes and absolutely not.

At one point, I stood in front of a full-length mirror while he stood behind me and pointed out that my right shoulder rests a full half-inch higher than my left shoulder, and my right hipbone is at least half an inch higher than my left hipbone.

"The posture, it tells us much about the spine and its problems," he explained helpfully.

That's great. I'm Quasimodo the Hunchback and he's spouting off to me from his Chiropractics 101 textbook.

"This is tender here, yes?" he asked as he dug a knuckle into my lower back.

Well, duh. Get your hands off it and it won't hurt. Quit trying to drum up business. You sold me when you pointed out the shoulder thing.

So, after much jabbing and nudging and a few X-rays, the chiropractor sat down across from me and explained that I needed to come in next week to discuss his findings and "then we decide if we accept you as a patient."

Oh great. So now my spine is auditioning for treatment.

I guess he saw the look on my face, because he hastened to explain that he wanted to make sure he could help me before accepting me as a patient. Oh. How benevolent. My insurance company would thank you from the bottom of its heart, if it had a heart, which it most assuredly does not.

So, I didn't actually get any adjustments (which is what they call it when they whip your spine into shape - I guess it sounds better than "bone-crunching"), and what with all the manhandling, my vertebrae are quite sore.

Maybe that's their way of ensuring that you'll actually come back. Tricky people, these chiropractors.

oh but he'll sleep in the car

pondering

Some questions I'd like to throw out into the blogosphere.

1. Why do managers insist on holding staff meetings during lunch? Do they think we have nothing better to do at lunchtime than socialize with our co-workers, who we already see for 40 hours every week?
2. Why will my son sleep peacefully and soundly as long as he's in my arms but as soon as his back touches the mattress of his crib, he acts as if I've dunked him in battery acid?
3. Why don't daycare workers realize their job is to keep my son safe and happy until I come to pick him up, not to tell me how to raise him?
4. Why does my neck keep making this funny crackling sound, as if my bones are grinding together, whenever I turn my head?

As to the last question, I finally quelled my many fears and made an appointment with a chiropractor. My mother assures me that they're not all bone-crunching quacks who couldn't get into a real medical school, so I'm going to give it a shot despite my understandable apprehension about anybody messing around with my vertebrae.

The real good news du jour is that my benevolent, kind, fabulously intelligent and amazingly gorgeous parents will be receiving a visit from Prince Drew this weekend. This despite the fact that they know he's not sleeping at night. (I'm an honest daughter - I gave them full disclosure and every opportunity to back out)

You know what this means; a weekend of sleeping-late-going-out-to-movies-eating-out-at-restaurants-without-screaming-baby bliss.

Lalalala happydancehappydance

some days you're the pigeon

and some days,  you're the statue

Drew is on a sleep strike. He so far has refused to name his demands and all negotiations have met with hostile resistance.

All indications are that this strike will continue into the foreseeable future.

we can't take him anywhere

Well, we had a good run of it - almost 5 months of being able to take Drew out to a restaurant without embarrassing ourselves.

When he was younger than six months, I didn't like to take him out because I was still exclusively breastfeeding. Yes, yes, it's natural and all that, but I'm just not comfortable whipping out my boobs in a public place. If you are, that's great, I am filled with nothing but admiration for you. But I won't even wear a bikini at the beach.

After he moved on to the bottle, we had a damn-near idyllic period of a few months where we could take him out to a restaurant and he'd sit in his portable seat and drink his bottle and go to sleep, leaving us to savor our meal and smugly congratulate each other on what a picture-perfect family we were.

Then, once he learned to sit up, we had a period of a few more months where he'd sit in a high chair and cheerfully munch on Cheerios throughout the whole meal, leaving us to savor our meal and pat each other on the back about how well we were raising him and how well-behaved he was.

We shouldn't have done so much patting and congratulating. I think God saw this, and He was displeased with our complacent overconfidence, and He threw a big old curve ball at us.

Our once-mannerly son, in the short space of a few days, has turned into a bossy, demanding demon child spawned straight from the smoking pits of Hell.

Our first indication that our son might no longer be appropriate to unleash on an unsuspecting public came on Saturday, when we went with our friend Nancy to the city Literacy Association's big book sale.

Drew first decided he didn't want to sit in his stroller. This wasn't that big of a deal, as Charles could carry him easily and the stroller made a great carrying case for all of our books.

After we finished buying our books, though, we decided to press our luck by going out to lunch. We chose a nice, quiet little Indian restaurant. Quiet, at least, until we arrived.

Drew deceptively behaved himself until after we had placed our orders, thus irrevocably committing ourselves to the meal, at which point he began to yell. At the top of his lungs. He wasn't angry or crying; he was just yelling, presumably just to hear the sound of his voice. It wasn't until we both shushed him that he got angry and started to yell in earnest.

Now people are starting to turn around and stare. There's a couple across the aisle from us who also have a baby - a quiet, sleeping, three-or-four-month-old baby. This couple looks at us, looks at each other and smirks down at their perfectly quiet angel of peace and harmony, as if noting the stark contrast from our hellspawn screamer.

Yeah, yeah. Don't worry. God will get you, too, just like He got us.

Now Drew is turning purple. The Cheerios aren't appeasing him, neither are the bottle or the rattly toy - everything we hand him gets hurled to the floor. My friend Nancy looks sympathetic, but everyone else in the restaurant looks like they're gearing up to form a lynch mob.

Charles finally pulls Drew from his high chair and takes him outside while Nancy and I finish up our meals and pay. I could swear I heard applause as Charles exited the building.

So. You'd think we would learn our lesson, but actually, we figured that was just a fluke. Drew must have been teething. Yeah. And that made him cranky. Teething is a wonderful thing to blame pretty much everything on - drooling, crying, waking up at 4 a.m. and not going back to sleep, throwing up, diarrhea, acting like a brat in public...I think we feel more in control (and less like the world's most incompetent parents) if we have something to which to attribute all of this behavior. It's not that our son is inherently cranky, poopy or drooly, he's TEETHING, so all is well. When he's not teething, he's a perfectly adorable child, the very picture of propriety, a veritable cherub. So, OK, lately he's always teething, but I mean, come on, he has a lot of teeth to grow - from scratch. That can't be easy.

So, on Sunday, after church, we heard glowing reports from the nursery staff - Drew was just precious - entertaining, happy, smiling, chuckling - a little ball of pure joy. There's the son we know and love - the son who makes us look like we're decent, responsible parents who know exactly what we're doing.

So, we figure, what the hell. He's obviously in a good mood. Yesterday, well, he was TEETHING, and today, apparently, his molars are on a break, so let's go out to eat!

Yes, we are this stupid. It just comes naturally. We don't even have to practice or anything.

So, there we are, in the restaurant, and I should have realized that it wasn't going to work out when he grabbed the crayon that the waitress offered him, bit off a hunk of it, hurled it to the floor and then started banging his open palms on the table, all the while yelling "Daaaaaaaa. Daaaaaaa. Daaaaaaaa."

"He's calling you," I said helpfully to Charles, who was shaking his head in despair.

People are starting to stare, and we haven't even gotten our order yet.

Charles took Drew out of his high chair and placed him on the booth seat next to him, I guess hoping that proximity to one of us would calm him down enough for us to eat, if not actually enjoy what we were eating.

Drew, not desiring to sit, pulled himself up by the back of the booth, reached out and grabbed the hair of the child sitting behind us.

Oh, very nice. Now our son is assaulting the other patrons.

I tried to take him, but within a few short minutes he had climbed up my stomach and was holding on to my hair with one hand and my nose with the other, while leaning over trying to see who was in the booth behind me. As his feet are digging into my sternum, Charles smiles and says, "You want me to take him back?"

"Nooooooooooooo," I groan breathlessly. "Why?"

"Well, it looks like he's kicking your ass."

Needless to say, this adventure ended with us ordering our food "to go" and marching Drew and our boxes of cooling food out the door. I swear I heard applause this time, too.

"We aren't taking him out to a restaurant again until he enters high school," Charles said.

"Yeah, then he won't want to be seen with us."

"That's what makes it so perfect."

"Oh yeah, true. We can take him out and then we can throw our food on the floor and yell at him and embarrass him in front of all his little high school friends."

"That's a date. I'll put it on the calendar for August, 2021."

he's too young to have this many opinions

How, in the space of only 11 months of being alive in the outside world, can he have developed so many opinions about so many different things?

It used to be that we would hand him a toy and he would play with it, simply because we handed it to him and that's what we expected him to do. Or we would feed him and he would eat. Or we would put him down and he would stay there.

But now he feels the need to express his notions, his beliefs, his judgments and his sentiments about pretty much everything - from the food we try to feed him to the toys and books we offer, lovingly, into his tiny hands.

Last night, we were snuggling on the couch together, just Drew and me, him nestled gently and cozily into the crook of my arm, and we were reading Dr. Seuss. It was a great Dr. Seuss book, full of pictures and hopping and popping and balls and walls and fights and nights. We read about 10 pages of it when Drew snatched the book from my hands, bit off a corner of the page and hurled the book to the floor.

I fetched it and attempted to continue to read it, but he kept slamming it closed on my fingers.

OK, so, we're done with Dr. Seuss, I get it, I get it.

At this point, he was squirming and twisting in my arms while letting out grunts of discontent, so I put him on the floor, which caused him to spin around on his tush, crawl to the couch and pull himself up directly in front of me, at which point he held his arms out and cried.

OK, so, we don't want to be on the floor. I get it.

I picked him up. More contortions and crying.

I make him a bottle. He takes one sip and then pushes it from his mouth onto the floor.

OK, so, we don't want milk. I get it.

I hand him a big red plastic block.

Yep. That was what we wanted. For a while, anyway.

So, the day before that, I was bathing him in the kitchen sink. He was dutifully playing with his bath toys - a rubber duckie, a wooden spoon and a small orange cup. Yes, these things are entertaining to 11 month olds. And, probably, mental patients.

He decided to mix things up a bit by filling the small orange cup with bathwater and dumping it out on the kitchen counter.

"Drew. That's a bath toy. It stays in the bath."

Frown. Glare. Very deliberately, he fills the cup with water again and, while making full eye contact with me, dumps the water out on the counter. And smiles.

"No," I say with my best stern-Mommy frown (which is hard to achieve when you're trying not to snicker), while removing the cup from his hand and putting it back in the sink.

"Guhhrrrrr," he responds smartly, dumping more water on the counter.

So I take away the cup, which daunts him not at all as he proceeds to use the wooden spoon to splash water onto the floor.

OK, so we want water everywhere. I get it!

Guess it's time to make the back-breaking move to the tub.

I can't get angry at him, though. For one, he's really cute when he's being dogmatic. His eyebrows draw down into a V, his lips purse and he gets a little frown-line between his eyes.

For another, I think he's a musical genius.

This morning in the car on the way to work, he shook his rattle in exact time to the Rolling Stones song on the radio.

"If you start me up..." *shakeshakeshake*

"If you start me up I'll never stop..." *shake* *shake* *shake*

"If you start me up..." *shakeshakeshake*

You know how temperamental those artistic types can be.

OK. Now for the weekend plan update:

Saturday we will be expanding our minds and our wallets by attending

after which we will gorge ourselves on ice cream in a bacchanalian celebration of summertime. Drew can't have any. But we'll bring him some Cheerios as a consolation prize.

Upon our return home, I shall amuse myself by nagging Charles repeatedly to mow the lawn. One would think that any redblooded Southern-American male would knock over anyone in his way to get a chance to sit on what is basically a Jeep with blades attached to it and putt around the yard swilling beer. One would think I wouldn't have to nag a man to do such a thing.

Then on Sunday, to atone for our orgiastic revelry of the day before, we shall attend church. After years of godless paganism, we have decided to give organized religion another shot. Having kids suddenly makes you think really long and hard about the kinds of people you're hanging out with and how you don't want your kid to come up to you one day and ask you why he can't run naked around the bonfire under the full moon. (not that we did that...but...never mind. we were drunk and that's all I'm going to say about that...)

After church we most likely will continue our fellowship over hummus and gyros at the Acropolis in Clemson and then we will return home, where I will gaze in dismay at the 12 piles of laundry that need washing and then tell myself I'll do them later and go play The Sims 2 on the computer.