Mine mine mine, all mine

in loving memory

Lucky Alexandria
Born September 10, 1993
Died September 30, 2005

Also known as Queen Alex, Alex-No, Her Royal Majesty and Your Grace, Alex was bold, fearless, impatient, highly intelligent and very snuggly.

She welcomed Drew into our home with a wag of her tail and lots of patented Alex sloppy-kisses.

She refused to chase a ball, fetch a stick or come when you called her, but she would roach at the drop of a hat and she could finish a doggie treat in 2.6 seconds flat.

We'll miss you Alex. Very much.

one year ago today

One year ago today, our lives changed forever when we gave birth to an 8 pound 9 ounce baby boy we named Andrew Bond, after his grandfathers.

Drew was born by C-section at about 9:30 a.m. at St. Francis Women's and Children's Hospital in Greenville, S.C.

He was red and wrinkly and wet and crying...and the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

I've learned more and changed more in the past year than in any year of my life.

• I've learned that it's not all about me
• I've learned how to change a diaper in 5.6 seconds flat
• I've learned that I can function on less than three hours of sleep per night
• I've learned that it's really not that hard to get mashed green peas off of a wall
• Unless it dries. Then you have a real problem
• I've learned to tell the difference between the angry cry, the tired cry, the hungry cry and the "I have no idea what's wrong I just feel like crying" cry
• I've learned that my husband, despite his fears, is a pretty awesome dad
• I've learned that my husband is much better than I am at getting Drew to sleep
• And I'm much better than he is at getting Drew to eat
• I've realized that Drew's laugh is one of the best sounds I've ever heard
• I've learned which restaurants don't really care if you drop Cheerios all over their floors, and which ones do
• I've learned how to do a whole lot of things with one hand while holding Drew in the other - make a bottle, sweep the floor, feed the cat
• If only I could learn to button a shirt with one hand...
• I've learned that it takes two pretty strong people to dress an infant who doesn't want to wear clothes
• I've learned that it is possible to love someone so much that you'd willingly give your life for them

Happy 1st birthday, Drew-bear.

on a happier note

Wow that last post was really depressing. I'll update everyone on Alex as I get more information, but for now, I think I need to try to relax and take it a day at a time.

For your reading pleasure, check out a new children's book that is climbing the charts - Help Mom! There are Liberals Under My Bed!

Author Katherine DeBrecht is coming under a lot of fire from the libs about this book. What a surprise.

Here's what she says about it: "Liberals have been foisting their ideological agenda on our kids for years, and now they’re beside themselves that someone would stand up to them. Evidently books about socialist fish and gay kings are OK, but a story about hard work and self-reliance is too extreme."

You go, girl. I'm thinking this is going on my list for Christmas presents for Drew.

Speaking of Drew, he loved the beach. I definitely have to get one of those tapes that plays ocean sounds, because that totally knocked him out.

I'll be posting pictures when I get them developed, hopefully today or tomorrow.

alex

Meet Alex.

She's a 13-year-old greyhound and one of the silliest and sweetest animals I've ever had the pleasure to know.

We think Alex has cancer.

Almost certainly she's not going to be with us much longer. She's lost the use of her back legs and she's in almost constant pain, even though she's on pain medication.

I can't write about it too much or I'll start crying again.

I'll post happy vacation pictures later on this week after I get them developed. I just wanted to take a few minutes to write about my silly dog, who has the best smile and gives the greatest kisses and, up until last week, acted like she was 3 instead of 13.

who the hell is murphy and why did he make this law?

Of course. It's the day before we are set to take off to the beach for our glorious, well-deserved and much-needed vacation. And our oldest greyhound Alex decides this would be a fine time to slip and fall on our hardwood floor and end up with a possibly serious back injury.

So this morning, I go in to work and start making telephone calls. First I call the closest vet I can find to my house. I tell them Alex's symptoms - dragging back leg, pain, possible hip displacement.

"Oh, it sounds very serious," says the receptionist (really? where's your DVM degree? huh? huh?) "You should definitely have that checked out."

Well, really? That's why I'm calling YOU. I didn't call you to chat or to hear your scintillating yet pointless opinions of my dog's back problem. I called to GET IT CHECKED OUT.

"Let me see where we can fit you in," she continues, obliviously, and then proceeds to put me on hold for about 10 minutes. I stay on, because I think I'm getting an appointment for my poor injured dog.

"Ohh, my, I'm sorry," she chirps. "We only have one doctor in today, and he's all booked up. Why don't you try calling this vet?" and then she gives me another number.

I call that number and go through the facts again.

"Oh, it sounds like she hurt her back! That's serious!" exclaims the receptionist.

Is it really? Maybe that's why I'm CALLING A DAMN VETERINARIAN. What, are there a lot of pet owners out there who are total hypochondriacs who call their vets every time their dog sneezes, coughs or pukes up all the lawn grass he just ate? There must be, for all these receptionists to get all excited about my dog's injury.

"Unfortunately, we only have one doctor in today, and she's all booked up," she continues.

Huh.

Now I'm starting to get irritated.

I call the third number on my list. Yada yada yada, we only have one doctor in today and no appointments.

Well, screw your one doctor and his appointments with Fluffy the ugly wonder mutt who can get her damn rabies shots any damn day of the week. My dog is injured here. And where are all these damn veterinarians who are supposed to be working today but are mysteriously absent?

So I shoot off an email to Nancy, which says something like: "can't find an appointment. all vets booked. I'm bawling here. about to have nervous breakdown. Help."

Nancy has like 50 greyhounds (OK, maybe not quite that many) so she's on the installment plan with a vet, I'm sure. She's got the inside track, so she was able to pull some strings and, being the goddess that she is, procure Alex an appointment this afternoon, after which she called me and told me to take deep breaths until I calmed down.

Did I mention she's a goddess?

My poor doggy. I just hope it's nothing serious. All the receptionists at every vet office in Pickens County seem to think it is, though, and hey...they would know.

coagulations, as they say at the blood bank

Charles got a job! A real, live, direct-deposit-enabled job!

Don't get me wrong. He hasn't been some unemployed slacker sitting around eating Ho-Hos and watching daytime TV. He's been working. But he's been working through a temporary service, which, although it is employment, doesn't pay all that awesomely, offers no benefits and, worst of all, doesn't use direct deposit.

Direct deposit is one of the most wonderfully terrific inventions of mankind - rivaling electricity, flat-screen monitors and Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls.

With direct deposit, we never again have to use our lunch hour to go pick up his paycheck and then wait in line at the bank's drive-through window. The money just magically appears in our checking account - ready for spending! Err, saving. Whatever.

Anyway, so, the company he was temping for offered him a permanent position - with a nice pay raise and benefits, and a much better schedule, which means he'll actually be home at around the same time as me and Drew. So, yaaaay to Charles!

Speaking of His Royal Crankiness, in the past three days Drew has been asserting his newfound toddlerhood by hurting himself in a variety of creative ways. He's been hit in the noggin by an errant soccer ball, bonked the back of his head on the floor and cut his lip when his feet slipped out from under him and he fell against the sliding glass door.

Each time, one of us would swoop down and scoop up our crying child, who, once he was cuddled for a minute, would decide he was ready for round two.

I get the feeling this is part and parcel of being the mom of an active baby boy. I guess I should invest in Band-Aids and Bactine.

cartoon culturalism

Having a child has allowed me to re-introduce myself to the joys of weekend-morning cartoons - and inevitably I find myself comparing Drew's cartoons to the ones I watched when I was a child, simply in the interest of observing how much things change.

When I was a kid, we watched cartoons such as Superman, Wonder Woman, GI Joe, Scooby Doo and Bugs Bunny.

Notice anything...um...culturally speaking, about this lineup? White superhero, white superhero, white soldier, buncha white kids with a big talking dog and various animals who talk to white people like Elmer Fudd. Nothing but white people.

Today's cartoons, however - major multiculturalism!

We've got Dora the Explorer, who can teach your kids (and you) how to speak Spanish, and we've got Pacific Islander Lilo and her frankly appallingly scary-looking sidekick alien Stitch.

We also can see blacks and whites living together in harmony and happiness in Higglytown Heroes.

And then, when we're tired of that, we can watch the children's version of a Gay Pride parade.

I have to admit, though, rather sheepishly, that my new favorite cartoon is The Doodlebops, which is sort of multicultural because they're all different colors (even if those colors are orange, blue and pink) but mainly I like it because the guy who plays Moe is totally cute.

Hey now. If I have to watch morning cartoons, I might as well get some enjoyment out of it, too. Why should Drew have all the fun?

---------------------------

When I wasn't watching cartoons this weekend, I was doing laundry. Mountains and mountains of laundry.

I always tell myself if I'd just do a load or two twice a week, I wouldn't have this problem, but I tell you, there's a distinct lack of motivation on my part until I run out of underwear. And I have a LOT of underwear. Enough so that I only have to do laundry once a month. I really think the solution to this is obvious.

We need to hire a housekeeper.

Yeah yeah, OK, back to reality.

I got a lot of things checked off my to-do list, including ordering Drew's birthday cake! The bakery assistant at Publix didn't seem nearly as excited about this momentous occasion as I did.

"Yeah, you're all set. Ya can pay for it when ya pick it up," I believe were her exact words.

We also managed to mail off the party invitations, buy some new shoes for me and Charles, clean out the refrigerator, where we were growing some nice science fair projects, and start packing for the beach.

We're totally ahead of the game here.

overwrought

This morning, my husband kindly pointed out to me that I seemed more than a little distracted the last couple of days.

To which I responded, "I'm sorry...what did you say? I wasn't listening."

My brain feels like a hamster in one of those little round exercise spinny things (that is the official term for it, yes) - it just goes around and around in circles and never really gets anywhere.

Here's what's going through my brain, right this very second:

I have to get the dogs their rabies shots because they're way past due but finding time to get them to one of those mobile pet labs is a huge pain in the ass because Charles doesn't get home until almost 8 p.m. during the week and I can't take them by myself because I can't fit two greyhounds and a baby into the backseat of a Mercury Sable, it's just not physically possible also I have to order Drew's birthday cake from Publix because we're going on vacation next week and it has to be ordered before then so it's ready in time and I can't do it online you actually have to be at the store in person which is crazy, you should be able to order cakes online, and I have to buy my mother a birthday present because we'll be celebrating her birthday while we're at the beach, and the cell phone, power and cable bills are due today don't forget to pay those, and did I pay daycare yet this week or not? Also, I need some flip-flops and Charles needs some new sneakers and we have a whole bunch of laundry that needs to be washed, dried and folded so we'll have clothes to wear on vacation and won't be running around naked or dressed in smelly filth and I feel like there's something else that I'm forgetting, oh yes, Drew's birthday invitations have to be mailed out so we need to go to the post office during lunch today.

So, of course, being a man, Charles tries to fix it by telling me to "stop worrying." Which is like telling the wind to stop blowing or the sun to stop being so damn bright.

I guess it doesn't help that I kept forgetting to refill my Lexapro prescription. This is my brain without antidepressants - worry, fret, stress out over something really ridiculously minor, cry and then lock myself in my room and pull the covers over my head.

Yes, I got the prescription refilled yesterday, so nobody needs to nag me. It's all under control. I SWEAR TO GOD IT IS REALLY.

Anyway.

Did I mention we're going on vacation?

Next Thursday, we'll be cruising down the road headed to the beautiful Isle of Palms - off the coast of South Carolina near Charleston.

We'll be staying in a house right on the ocean, along with my parents, my sister Jenn and her husband and my other sister Laura and her boyfriend.

Look at that picture. It makes me want a big fat daiquiri with a cute little umbrella floating in it.

If I can just make it to Thursday, I think everything might just be OK.

just spreading the love, man, just spreading the love

I get a telephone call this morning from my mother, who proceeded to tell me that she, my father, both of my sisters and my brother-in-law all have succumbed to gastrointestinal distress (i.e. random bouts of puking) within the past 12 hours.

My mother, being motherly, does not directly blame me for this catastrophe, but there is an implication of my personal accountability.

I am a modern-day Typhoid Mary.

Well, except that I'm not just a carrier, because I became ill, too. Also, I'm not a cook and I don't live in Manhattan. But other than that, we're just the same, Mary and I. Cheerily spreading disease whereever we go.

Based on my extensive experience with this strain of pukiness, I was able to say to my mother, "Well, it only lasts 24 hours. So, cheer up, you're halfway done!"

You may be wondering what happened to my husband - the person who spent the most time the closest to me during my illness and who, therefore, should have become ill first, before any of the rest of my family.

Well, I'll tell you. He didn't get sick. Not even a mild stomach cramp.

So, I killed him.*

I mean, obviously, he's an alien lifeform and he needs to be dissected and studied. His immune system, if properly harvested, reproduced and bottled, could provide the cure for cancer, AIDS and the common cold.

*Legal disclaimer: Mrs. Brennan did not kill her husband, nor does she have any intention of doing so in the future, and all claims to the contrary should be regarded as the deranged ramblings of an unhinged mind.

miscellaneous from the digital camera

I think this picture captures the eternal motion that is Drew.

We don't need expensive toys. A couple of plastic bowls will keep him entertained for virtually minutes!

This is why we really need to get on that childproofing thing.

This baby is up to no good.