Mine mine mine, all mine

road trip sunday

As promised, a plethora of pictures of the road trip we took on Sunday.

This weekend's journey was to EdVenture - the children's museum in Columbia, S.C.

First we ventured into the World of Work, where Drew got to don his fireman's coat and drive the firetruck.

Some snotty little kid kept telling me to get Drew out of "his seat" - but I told him I didn't think he was fireman material and that maybe he should go check out the Trailer Park Manager room.

Drew enjoyed the firetruck, although I think the sirens got on his nerves.

We decided to try a line of work that involved a little less bluster and fanfare....

Driving a John Deere seemed to suit him fine. He is a country boy, after all.

There were a lot of levers and gears and pedals for him to explore on the tractor - it took a lot of strength to keep him from hurling himself from the seat in his efforts to reach everything.

I would have had his Dad hold him while I took pictures, but every time I attempted to use the digital camera, it grew claws and teeth and tried to bite me. (which sounds better than saying all my pictures were mysteriously, blurrily out of focus for no discernable reason.)

Leaving the World of Work, we decided it was time to relax a bit in My Backyard - an area of the museum reserved for children under 3.

When Drew is placed in unfamiliar settings with all sorts of new and exciting objects, his pointing finger is always at the ready, just in case it's needed.

I told Charles we need one of these fake stumps in our living room. We could plop Drew in it and leave him there while we played computer games. More fun, and sturdier, than a playpen!

(don't look at me like that - if you have children, you know you've considered something like this, too.)

I don't recall what room this was, but Drew made us take him on this slide approximately four hundred and thirteen times.

I lost count at some point. It could have been less.

Towards the end of our adventure - in the Goldilocks and the Three Bears area, Drew decided this little chair was just right.

Tag, I'm it

I got tagged by Carla, of Sappy Chick's Ramblings!:

3 Names You Answer to:
Amy
Mama
Dada (when Drew gets confused)

3 Parts of Your Heritage:
I have no idea - I was adopted. :)

3 Things That Scare You:
Spiders
Driving
Trying on swimsuits

3 Everyday Essentials:
Caffeine
Kissing Drew somewhere on his face
Chocolate

3 Things You’re Wearing:
Black wool Express pants
Light pink Old Navy sweater
Black loafers

3 Favorite Songs:
"Closer to Fine" - Indigo Girls
"Bad Moon Rising" - Creedence Clearwater Revival
"American Girl" - Tom Petty

3 Things About the Opposite Sex That Appeal to You:
Emotional maturity
The ability to be silly
A nice, round, tight butt

3 Things You Want in a Relationship:
A lot of laughing
Emotional support
A nice, round, tight butt....?

3 Favorite Hobbies:
Playing The Sims 2 (so sad, but so addictive)
Reading
Scrapbooking

3 Things to Do Before You Die:
Travel out of the country
Write a novel and get it published
Spoil my grandchildren

3 Places You Want to Go:
Greece
New York City
Ireland

3 Ways You’re Stereotypically Female (or male if you’re a guy):
I cry at sad movies
I jump on chairs and squeal when I see a spider
I love the color pink

2 Truths 1 Lie:
My picture has been in the National Enquirer
I'm missing a toenail on my left foot due to a freak accident involving a very heavy door, a cup of cafe mocha and an impending wedding
I once jumped out of a plane and had to deploy the reserve chute because the main one didn't open.

3 People You’re Tagging:
Nancy
Liz
Candace

it makes me tired just reading about it

So, I was going to post all sorts of adorable pictures of us on our day trip to the children's museum in Columbia, where we went on Sunday since it was rainy and gross outside and we were bored, but for some reason my email ate the pictures.

Charles downloaded them from the digital camera, and then he sent them to me at work, not that I do such non-productive things as updating my blog at work...oh heavens no. I was just going to...um...look at them while I was at work and...um...mentally organize my blog post...yeah...so that I could update it when I got home. You know. On my own time. Not company time. Yes.

Anywho.

So my work email apparently took objection to being sent large batches of digital photographs. It didn't regurgitate them; it just...digested them. I don't know where they are. Floating about in cyberspace somewhere and hopefully not in the hands of any pedophiles.

The originals are still on my computer at home...er...wait. That makes it sound like I'm updating my blog from work, doesn't it? Which of course I'm not.

Anyway. Pictures to be posted tomorrow. They're cute. It'll be worth the wait, I promise.

I'm currently reading this book called Outlander - which you can see from the "On my Bedside Table" column over there ----->

It's decent so far - but my main gripe with it is that these two main characters seem to be doing nothing other than having sex every other page since they got married on like page 92 or whatever. I mean, it's set in 17th century Scotland, so there's the occasional sword fight or attempted witch burning and the like, which is very interesting, but then the next thing I know, these two are pawing all over each other again and making coy references to "a different kind of swordplay" and so forth until I kind of just want to retch.

It's very disconcerting. I'm not a prude, by any stretch of the imagination, but I mean, really. Who has this much sex outside of the porn industry? Did 17th century Scots really have nothing else to do? Didn't they have to, like, raise cattle and grow vegetables just so they could eat and stuff? It's not like they can have sex all day and then just hop down to the corner mart to buy some Chef Boy-Ar-Dee.

The whole book is making me very tired, and I'm only halfway through it. I keep reading it in the hopes that Jamie will contract testicular cancer or something and be forced to actually stop having sex for a few pages so we can move along with the plot.

die pottery barn...die

In our house, we have a den.

It is directly across from the dining room. It is not the living room, where we have the fireplace and the TV and the sofas and we do all of our...well...living. It is simply a medium-sized room with an open entryway that we are currently using to store all of my books, our greyhound's crate and everything else that we haven't bothered to find another place for yet.

In other words, it's a very ugly and cluttered den.

My dream is to turn this den into a playroom for Drew. In my dream, this is a comfortable, warm, inviting space filled with cushy beanbag chairs, soft rugs, toy boxes and trendy, hip pictures adorning the walls alongside clever corkboards artfully displaying his crayon drawings.

In my dream, this is what Drew's playroom would look like:

Look at those children. They look so happy. Almost freakishly happy. I'm convinced it's because of Pottery Barn Kids. How could one not be happy when surrounded by such opulence? How chic! How urbane! I must have this room! I am positively delirious with anticipation.

After doing some quick work with the calculator, I am brought roughly and bruisingly back to reality.

To own this room, in all its magnificent boyish beauty, I would have to shell out $1,597.88.  That's not including the paint job for the walls.

OK. So...on our budget, I figure we can afford an inflatable deer head and some fish-shaped pillows. Yeah. It'll be sort of an outdoor-wildlife theme, with just a dash of trailer park thrown in for good measure.

a cry in the night

Drew had a nightmare last night.

I'm sure it's not his first one, but it was the first time I really knew that he was actually having a nightmare, as opposed to waking up crying because he's wet/hungry/thirsty/spoiled/cranky/wanting to torture his parents.

I know it was a nightmare because his cries sounded scared. Don't ask. If you've never heard a scared-baby-cry then I can't help you out much here. Just trust me.

OK, so...Charles scooped him up and we let him snuggle with us for a few minutes before he dozed back off and we could dump him back into his crib.

But what I was wondering the whole time, and am still finding myself perplexed about, is this: what does a 16-month-old toddler have nightmares about?

I have nightmares about losing my job, going broke and ending up homeless spending my nights eating cold french fries out of McDonald's dumpsters. I have nightmares about something awful happening to Charles or Drew. I have nightmares about giant man-eating spiders.

What, in his mere 16 months on this earth, can have stressed him out so much that his subconscious feels the need to regurgitate it at night?

Does he have nightmares about something happening to us? As in, "what would I do if those big people who take care of me suddenly disappeared?" Does he have nightmares about losing his favorite book? Being forced to eat green beans? Is there a monster under his crib?

It's times like this when I wish he could talk. I certainly don't want him to grow up too fast, and his little baby babbles are just precious, but man, I'd really like to know what he's thinking sometimes...and not just when he has nightmares.

Like, why was grilled cheese OK to eat yesterday, but not today? Why do you sometimes go for days eating nothing but applesauce? What exactly do you want when you point off into space and start crying for no apparent reason? Did you see a ghost or what? Why is Baby Einstein so mesmerizing? Why do you point to your forehead when I ask you where your nose is?

However, the day will come when he, like his father, will feel the need to tell me every single thought that crosses his brain, and I'll probably ask myself why I ever taught him to speak.

wherein i discuss my breasts in unnecessary detail

There are certain ages that are landmarks for us because of privileges they impart or just due to societal mores.

Age 13 - the first year of teenagerhood. A really sucky age, if truth be known, but at the time, it seems like a major accomplishment

Age 16 - the driver's license. Ah, the freedom of the open road. The bliss of driver's education. The joy of no longer having to drive with your dad sitting in the passenger seat yelling, "Slow down, dammit, slow down!" or your mother punching a hole through the passenger side floor by repeatedly attempting to slam on a brake that only she can see. (but I'm not bitter, no sir.)

Age 20 - out of teenagerland and into 20-something land. Almost as painful as age 13 and you still can't legally numb yourself with alcohol.

Age 21 - now you can.

Age 25 - those nasty car insurance rates go down. Magically, you overnight become a much more responsible driver. It's a miracle!

Age 30 - Nothing really good happens here, but it's not bad either. It's just...30. This shouldn't even be a milestone, really.

And then we hit 35.

At age 35, we women get to experience the joyful sensation of the "baseline mammogram." This is the mammogram by which all future mammograms will be judged, my OB-GYN told me.

Wow, thought I. That's a lot of pressure on my breasts, whose biggest job heretofore involved nourishing my young carnivorous son. What should I do to prepare them for this momentous occasion? Should I buy a new bra? One that will lift and separate? Should I go in for the boob equivalent of a manicure? A boobicure?

In the end, after briefly considering quick breast enlargement surgery, I decided to do nothing and just let my breasts succeed or fail on their own merits.

Feeling not a little bit ancient (I mean, come on, mammograms are for, you know, my mom. my grandma. women older than me.), I entered the women's hospital and signed in.

The very pleasant radiologist asked me all sorts of personal questions about my boobs, and then made me take off my shirt and drape myself in a tiny little hand towel.

She then proceeded to make me feel a whole lot better by saying, "With younger breasts, we take a few more scans, because you tend to have more glandular tissue."

Or something like that.

All I heard, really, was, "younger breasts."

That's right! I have young breasts! Positively glowing with youthful radiance! Supple! Perky! Non-saggy! I may be 35, but my breasts can't be any older than 20!

She ruined it a bit later by explaining how she has to position people with "smaller frames" in order to get a clear image.

Hmm. Smaller frames. That's a polite way of saying "tiny boobs." Suddenly my young supple breasts are tiny nubs of a miniscule amount of flesh topped by a nipple.

Whatever. This woman probably sees four hundred pairs of breasts in a week. Mine can't possibly be the smallest she's seen.

Can they?

I'm struck with the overwhelming urge to ask her.

Fortunately, I manage to restrain myself.

Overall, it wasn't an entirely awful process. I'd heard horror stories about women getting their breasts squished flat like pancakes and enduring all sorts of agony, but it was really very painless. It wasn't, you know, fun or anything, but it was more pleasant than a trip to the OB.

I really think there should be a more exciting event to mark turning 35, though, other than a potential decrease in fertility and a trip to the mammography lab.

Maybe I'll make something up - some kind of ritual or coming-of-age-but-not-old-age-just-kind-of-still-young-but-not-too-young age or something.

Yeah.

I wonder how much plastic surgery costs?

Two Year Quitaversary

Two years ago today, I crumpled up half a pack of Marlboro Lights and started on the long and arduous journey to becoming an ex-smoker.

My husband quit with me - and I honestly don't think I could have done it without him. If you are trying to become an ex-smoker, I definitely recommend enlisting the help of a spouse or significant other or close friend. Their support can be invaluable.

This is another really good resource to help you go cold-turkey:

WhyQuit.Com

I found that using a QuitMeter provided me with a lot of motivation.

The people on the Quit Smoking Support Forums were the greatest when it came to encouragement.

And of course the 12 Steps of Nicotine Anonymous were inspiring and motivational.

According to my QuitMeter, I have not smoked 25,585 cigarettes and I have saved $3,198.12 that I would have spent on cigarettes.

Happy two-year quitaversary to me and Charles!

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

And just for fun - thanks to Nan for the linky:

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Amy!

1. There are roughly 10,000 man-made objects the size of Amy orbiting the Earth.
2. The International Space Station weighs about 500 tons and is the same size as Amy.
3. A Amyometer is used to measure Amy!
4. If you cut Amy in half and count the number of seeds inside, you will know how many children you are going to have.
5. Koalas sleep for 22 hours a day, two hours more than Amy.
6. It can take Amy several days to move just through one tree.
7. Amy is incapable of sleep.
8. If you chew gum while peeling Amy then it will stop you from crying.
9. You share your birthday with Amy.
10. Amyolatry is the mindless worship of Amy!

I am interested in - do tell me aboutherhimitthem

We should all participate in Amyolatry.

on the ride to work

Charles: Wake up. Start a conversation with me.

Me: (opening one eye) Wha?

Charles: I feel like I'm always doing all the talking.

Me: You are always doing all the talking.

Charles: Have you run out of things to talk about with me? After only six years of marriage?

Me: (sigh)

Charles: I want to have a conversation and I want you to start one.

Me: OK. Um....Barbecue. Mustard-based or tomato-based? Discuss.

Charles: I don't like the topic.

Me: I prefer mustard-based myself. It's tangy.

Charles: Start over.

Me: You know...there's a lot of pressure on me here to be witty and charming and interesting. It's 7:13 in the morning. I'm barely awake.

Charles: I didn't say you had to be witty or charming or anything.

Me: But the implication is there.

Charles: I know you spend all day talking and listening and I know you sometimes just don't want to talk.

Me: OK. Can I go back to sleep now?

Charles: No. I want to talk. What are you thinking right this minute?

Me: I'm thinking I really don't like the idea of you crawling out of the second story window to clean out the gutters. I think we should buy a ladder.

Charles: I don't need a ladder.

Me: We're homeowners now. We should have a ladder. It's just what one has when one owns a home.

Charles: How am I going to get a ladder home in this car? It's not big enough.

Me: Don't they fold up?

Charles: I don't want to talk about this any more.

Me: You asked what I was thinking.

Charles: What else are you thinking?

Me: I'm thinking we should have another baby.

Charles: Oh hell no.

Me: Not right now or anything. Just some time in the near future.

Charles: Maybe after I finish my degree.

Me: That's like two years from now. I'll be too old.

Charles: This isn't the 1800s, Amy. Women can have children well into their 40s.

Me: I'm going back to sleep.

but i just love a man in uniform

Charles re-enlisted in the state National Guard, and his first drill was this past weekend.

It's probably a crazy time for him to be re-enlisting, you know, what with being in the middle of a war and all, but he only has nine years until he can retire, and we decided he'd be foolish not to get the retirement after having spent so long in the military, both active duty and in the guard.

So, yes, I'm a little bit nervous about the possibility of him being deployed, but if he was sent off to Iraq, I'd be very proud of him as well, as I'm sure Drew would be too, when he got old enough to understand.

Plus, and this is really the main thing, he looks good in uniform.

Drew is on another sleep strike this week, but Charles and I have just about figured out the formula.

Diaper change + warm milk + snuggle X3 + replacing in crib = crying X2 + sleep.

On a good night, we'll only have to do that once. On a bad night, we'll have to do it three or four times. On a great night, we don't have to do it at all. On an awful night...well...I'd rather not discuss it. I'm still traumatized by the last one.

In the Brennan household, the breakdown of good vs. bad vs. other types of nights goes something like this:

So, as you can clearly see from this scientific analysis, I have too much time on my hands and I suck at making pie charts.

Christmas picture time!

In my world, it would go straight from New Year's Day to summertime overnight. January, February and March have very few redeeming qualities that I can think of.

But anyway, here we are, and the holidays are over, and I have pictures!

Drew's favorite part of Christmas this year were the lights. He toddled around, pointing at every Christmas tree we passed, saying, "lie, lie."

He was very good about not grabbing ornaments off the trees. He would very delicately touch them and then yank his hand away as if they were hot. I'm not sure where he learned such good manners.

I told my parents and everybody else that they could just find some old boxes, wrap them in shiny paper and give those to Drew for Christmas. He can entertain himself for an hour just by putting objects into boxes and taking objects out of boxes. However, they insisted on buying him actual toys. And just to be spiteful, they bought him lots of really small toys that hurt when you step on them in bare feet - such as Legos.

Fortunately, they didn't give him any particularly loud toys, although my dad says a drum set is in my future. Joy.

But seriously. Drew did get a lot of presents, and they're all wonderful and he's having a great time with them. We rotate them around on different days so he always thinks they're brand-new. God bless him for having no short-term memory.

Drew's newest trick: when you say, "Do you have a headache?", he does this:

Charles said he learned that from me. To which I responded that, yes, I very often do have a headache and maybe he should be asking himself why.

And speaking of what a wonderful person I am, remember me mentioning that I had given my husband the gift of a hunting trip for Christmas? Here's the aftermath:

No, Drew didn't go hunting with him. We may live in the South, but we still think 15 months is just a bit too young to be handling a firearm. We're going to wait 'til he turns two.

This is Drew enjoying The Big Cookie. He took four bites out of it and then crumbled it up and threw it on the floor. But it was fun while it lasted.

Look. A picture of us without Drew in it! Who knew such a thing was possible?

And a final closeup of Drew at the end of Christmas day. Sensory overload complete. Sleep sequence commencing.

I hope everybody had a great Christmas and a happy happy New Year!