Embarrassing questions parents will one day have to answer

My son's will be...

"Why are all the tips of my fingers flat?"

How does one answer that one was an idiot and could not operate baby nail clippers?

Derek says that this is not all bad, my permanently marring my son's hands. He says that it will protect him from detection should he choose a life of crime one of these days. You know, no fingerprints.

I hate to point out that scarred fingertips, barring complete obliteration of the whirls and ridges, are actually a great identification source. I am too flabbergasted that a life of crime may be a possible occupation for the offspring that I labored 28 hours to bring into this world.

Maybe he was joking. I really hope he was joking.

Cultural diversity or pee?

I would really like to blog about my conversation with my BRAND NEW FRIEND that I met at Big Ray’s funeral today, but he was a bit stodgy about the whole blogging thing and practically made me swear that I would not mention him or any likeness of him that may be discovered by some random person in some random area of the world that will be brought up to him in conversation at a later date. For a person in a profession that requires a “look at me, look at me” attitude, I think I might even find that remotely refreshing.

I could also blog about the ants in my mother’s house because they are worthy of their own story/recognition. Right now I have the minutest ant running up and down my arm. I can feel him but he is too fast and I have wasted too much energy slapping skin unproductively.

I could blog about the little incident on the playground when an unidentified family member was so excited about being on the mile-high slide that he/she failed to go to the bathroom and just pooped in his/her pants. And then went down the slide, which led to an epic mess. After a long (and might I say VERY drawn out saga), the underwear ended up in the trash can. In case anyone is wondering, it was not me….

So I guess I’ll settle for last night’s drama. To set the story up properly, the Boo Boo Kitty, after a miserable time last week of “let’s-learn-to-sleep-in-our-own-bed-because-Mom-is-tired-of-having-you-plastered-to-her,” the Boo is living La Vida Loca because he is at Marmie’s house this week. Marm doesn’t have a crib and Mom decided she wasn’t going to lug one more thing on the plane, like a crib, so now he gets to sleep directly against Mom, like a Boo sandwich, all night long, GDI. In Mom’s bed from high school. Which sags toward the middle precariously for anyone in it since it is like 20 years old.

All was right with the world.

Until 3 am last night. When I awakened soaking wet in a pool of only God knows what. Oh my God, did I wet the bed? I don’t think I have wet the bed in around 30 years. I think. Anyway, I think Derek could verify that I haven’t wet the bed in the last year and a half, at least.

So I am soaked and there is so much damn pee that it had to have been me. Except that I have to go to the bathroom really bad. Wouldn’t I feel relief if I had already peed? I looked at the baby. He’s only 14 lbs. Could he have peed that much? I mean, really. There was so much pee that he would have had to, like, pee forever to wet this bed this good.

This probably wouldn’t have happened if I had just listened to my mother and used the bigger diapers she bought instead of being my cheap-ass, unemployed self, determined to use up every damn diaper I have, since I only have to buy around 6,000 more before this kid stops peeing on me.

If my BRAND NEW FRIEND, whom shall remain nameless, has found this blog, I hope he is thinking that our conversation today regarding American culture would have been a much more appropriate read than this and that he knows that this is all his fault.

OK, not true. I would have written about the pee anyway. It was a life-altering experience.

Bodily functions and how someone else's is grosser than your own

I'm done with it. I realize that nobody wants to hear it and that I was determined to not be one of those mothers that spends a lifetime discussing bodily functions, but I don't think I can do it anymore. The pee, the poop and above all others, the spit up. It is so nasty. And why does it seem like I'm the only person that is grossed out so utterly and completely by my child?

Today I spent the day with my friend Adrian and her family to celebrate her graduation from GMU School of Nursing (you go, girl). Her aunt Renee was desperate to hold E.

KH: But he'll spit up on you.
R: I don't care.

What do you mean, you don't care? How can you not care that there will no longer be one inch of dry clothing on your body when you finally hand this child back to me?

Today he spit up Matrix style. As it came out of his mouth, I was so stunned I could not move. It made an arc to the side and then, wonder of all wonders, angled back and landed right in my cleavage. All 2 ounces. He smiled sweetly, but it didn't matter.

But I think that the best is yet to come. Yesterday I experienced something that can possibly be even grosser than E's neverending spit up.

Marelle's 18 month old, Elijah, is getting a couple of molars. With his teething came a cold.

MA: His snot is not green, it's yellow. I promise.

Guess who was looking through rose-colored glasses?

But the color wasn't what was so fascinating about Elijah's snot. It was the fact that his snot ran from his nose like Angel Falls. Just when you thought there could be no more fluid in his little body, the snot would run over his lip and down to his chin. In his parent's defense, they were on top of the situation as much as possible. His father Eliot followed him for the entire 4 hours he was here, and went through what seemed like at least 7 rolls of toilet paper, wiping that poor kid's nose.

No end in sight. I thought that maybe a wet/dry vac might be an option, but it seemed cruel in retrospect and probably could have ended a 20 year friendship if I had suggested it.

I hate vomit, but I'm guessing I'm going to hate boogers more.

Whose idea was this anyway?

SHE'S BAAAACK (and just in time to almost burn the house down)

I have decided that 18 days is a sufficient mourning period for the loss of one's occupation/career/identity. Byegones.

I decided yesterday to bake some chocolate chip cookies. I am an unemployed housespouse now so I figured I should act accordingly. That and I make bitchin' cookies. In fact, my cookies are so good that I would sell them and probably make a million dollars, except for the fact that there are all those zoning issues and you have to let a county inspector into your house to look around. I don't think the inspector could get past the mound of dog hair by the front door. Of course, it's not like I am letting the dog make the cookies (or even lick the spatula midstream in the process) but you know how these damn government types are....

So I got really inspired when it looked like Derek might be thinking about making beer in the kitchen. He left for a second and I had the mixer humming. Touche. Beat cha, beat cha.

Well, the cookies take like a million years to cook and I got inspired to go to Costco to get food for dinner with our friends Eliot and Marelle that night. Derek came with me (which was great because I lost my Costco card about 3 days after I got it, which was around 2 years ago). An hour later, Derek opened the door to a plume of smoke and the smoke detector going "BEEP, BEEP, BEEP" incessantly.

Probably shouldn't have left that last batch of cookies in the oven before we went, huh?

just when you thought life couldn't get any better

i used to think that getting a tick bite and ending up in urgent care because you are sure you are going to get lyme's disease could be one of the worst things that could happen in a day.

and then i lost my job...

ELT's Passport photo. We should have used one of the crying pictures, because that's how he'll probably be after a 10 hour flight. 

one man's brilliance

I'll have to say that my husband has always astounded me with his knowledge and intelligence. I remember sitting in law school, listening to him tell the aged professors that they were wrong about some arbitrary legal theory. Back then he was just the blond guy at the end of the row that used to lean back when I walked by in order to cop a cheap feel. I usually agreed with him, but it was certainly never anything I could have come up with off the cuff.

But he has taken to new levels.

Today he came home from the podiatrist's office with a doctor's note saying he could not, and I quote, "mow the lawn." That's right. I was breathless. The brilliance of it practically took me off me feet.

So there I was, mowing the lawn tonight.

Giddy from the silence

Everyone is in bed. Even the damn dog. Everyone except me.

Today was one of those days that Ethan kept "eh, eh, eh"-ing and I couldn't get anything done. A little research on the computer and a trip to the post office to get a box application for the new business and two passport apps--a new passport for Ethan and a renewal for me. That's it.

Not too efficient a day since I then had to turn 8 lbs. of tomatoes into "gravy" and I was still at it at 9:45 pm. Not to mention the two loads of laundry. I think I would have an easier time explaining to Derek how I can't get anything done with this monster around that we have recently acquired if I didn't have this little sunburn that I got from being outside for two hours. Ooops.

Did I mention that I have the cutest baby in the world? And not even in that "mom" kind of way that every baby is so beautiful. Sure he crapped on me. Twice. And did I mention that he saturated me with urine as well? It's OK, because I have tons of clothes that fit my fat ass these days. About that laundry...

But now he looks like a cherub and I take back all the evil things I said (during the first and second crapping incidents).

You know you are a bad dog owner when ...

There was a little incident with Zinni yesterday for which I am probably going to Dog Owner's Hell.

We had to take an unexpected 1 1/2 hour car ride yesterday and in order for ALL of us to go, we had to take the sedan. Derek wasn't giving his seat up beside the baby and Ethan was in the middle of the seat. The other side of the car seat is very small.

You got it. Zinni got to sit in the front seat beside me.

So he is moaning and groaning and turning around and around to get comfortable. The day was a gorgeous 70 degrees and grant it, he was in the sun but it wasn't so bad, even for a black dog. All the while I am CHEWING his ass out because I will not be mouthed off to by a DOG, for God's sake.

Derek was laughing in the back seat, and I was getting more and more bitter. He was probably right. I should have gotten the Volvo station wagon and then Zinni could have had his own spot. I just couldn't do it. To me, getting a station wagon would be the equivalent to sending up the white flag.

In his squirming, Zinni pushed the button that released the headrests in the back seat.

BAM!! Poor Derek.

In my ranting, I looked down and there it was highlighted. Zinni's seat warmer was on High.

Cookie and E on the steps at Gram's house (Pop is rolling in his grave if he can see this lawn) 

Some parking spots have better views than others (Lancaster, PA 4/24/2005) 

Marmie made me wear this coat 

WTF is up with the farmer in the dell

You know all those other posts where people are deep thinkers? Not so much here.

The Farmer in the dell has been bugging me now for 72 hours. After catching myself humming Led Zeppelin to quiet the baby down, I thought perhaps I should use "age appropriate" music. You know, get into the groove of this whole baby crap.

I'm not sure where it came from (the depths of hell in retrospect) but I began singing the Farmer in the Dell to Ethan the other day. I didn't quite get through the first line before I became disturbed.

"The farmer takes A wife."

Where is he taking her? Matuba for her favorite Millenium Rolls or Spicy Toro Rolls?
Citronelle for the Chocolate Three Ways? Paris, because she has been so nice and gave him such the sweet baby that he always, always wanted?

And is the taking necessarily of HIS wife? It just says "a wife." Does he get to shop around all the area wives, looking for the one that won't talk back or take the credit cards out of his wallet and cut them up? (ten bucks says at least one reader is, right now, frantically reaching for his wallet in his front pocket and scanning its contents)

How about the child picking the nurse? Who would trust their kid to pick his childcare provider? "You, you with the bottle. You look good enough."

And last, but certainly not least...

"The cheese stands alone." What does THAT mean? Other than that you were the last asshole to be picked in this stupid game where the popular kids get to be people, the less popular kids get to be animals and the unpopular kids are food products. This is what I think of when I hear "the cheese stands alone."

I wish I had a click-the-button system like they have on Outlook so everyone could weigh in on which line is the worst? Having to choose would be tough though.

Derek and I had a long discussion (longer than 2 minutes, which is a long conversation for me these days).
But here it is. The comment of the hour....drum roll please....

DT--Why can't the farmer take a wife AND the nurse? Then he can have that menage a trois he has always wanted.

Way to take a really disturbing song and throw it right off the cliff there, big guy.

My work here is done

I woke up in the middle of the night to Derek putting the comforter back on the bed because he was cold.

As I opened my eyes, I could see him staring intently at the comforter before putting it on, trying to make sure that the bamboo stems were facing the bottom of the bed and the leaves were facing the top of the bed.

Gotta have faith

Keep your heads up, progessive Catholics. Benedict XVI could be to the Catholic church as this man was to the Supreme Court. Some people will say anything to get a job.

You think my mother could wash my hair and cut the damn tag out of my shirt. 

Benedict XVI

The world has a new pope.

B and I had a running joke that Pope John Paul II (or JP2, as the college students in St. Peter's Square apparently like to call him) actually died about 8 years ago and that he was "Weekend at Bernies." If you looked really close you might even see the strings helping to move his arms. I personally blame this on the Vatican, because they forced him to speak at the window all those years and his lips never moved once.

My theory was dashed however when an old friend, personal photographer to this man, told me that he actually shook the pope's hand last year at a state visit. And got a Pope Medal, whatever that is. I told him it was lost on a boy raised by two jewish parents.

I called B a few weeks ago to discuss the obvious consequences of the pope's illness (i.e. he was gonna die, assuming he hasn't been dead since the mid-90's) and asked her how she was feeling about the end of the world approaching, what with the pope knowing the whole Miracle of Fatima prophecy and all (http://paranormal.about.com/library/weekly/aa070300b.htm) and B's insistence for our entire friendship that the world would end when JP2 died. B explained then that if the pope actually TOLD someone else, whatever that means, that the world wouldn't end.

So I got to thinking about this. What if the pope gave a little insider trading information to his confidant Joseph Ratzinger. Think about it. You in the conclave, sitting on the stone stairs, staring up at the Last Supper, thinking maybe your last supper might be soon, what with the world ending and all.

In walks Cardinal Ratzinger. "Guess what I know that you don't know?"

I don't think there is any mystery as to the speed with which the cardinals sent the white smoke up the chimney ("Is it white? No, I think it's gray. No, it's WHITE). Consider it a gift to mankind.

Phone conversation with Ginny about the pope and why you should NEVER bear big news on a cell phone.

My mom can't get news at her office. Unauthorized access of the internet or receipt of non-work emails is punishable by death. So I called to tell her about Benedict XVI.

GH--So, were you surprised that this one was picked?
KH--Well, he was the pope's bitch.
GH--The pope's snitch?
KH--The pope's BITCH.
GH--Pope's snitch?
KH--B-I-T-C-H.
GH--Oh, Kristen. You are so bad.

Come to think of it, the pope's snitch is probably fitting as well.

Oh, it's a plot against me

You know what they say, it's not a conspiracy theory if it is actually happening.

Derek called from his conference today, asking about our lunch plans. Baby E was down for the count, so I dropped his ass into his car seat, grabbed a bottle for the inevitable scream of hunger, and we were out the door. The cry started quicker than I thought, so there I was on 395, with my arm stretched across the seat trying to keep a bottle in the screaming baby's mouth.

We ended up meeting at the lovely Restaurant Murali (http://www.muraliva.com/) for a little Eye-talian cuisine. I have come to the stark realization that I too, along with my husband, think that money is growing on a tree in our backyard. Bygones.

So Derek gave Ethan the rest of the bottle and carefully bounced him on his leg, taking care that should Ethan spit up, it would not happen on his best law firm suit. Then it's my turn. Not two minutes pass and I have an ounce of milk, running down my arm, over my shorts and onto the floor.

DT--I don't know how this always happens to you.

Bitter, I handed him back. Once again, bouncy, bouncy, polite burps and generally obnoxious cooing at one another.

My turn again, 15 minutes later. He didn't even give me 60 seconds before he had taken out the other side of my black shirt.

Waiter--Madam, madam, do you need some soda for your shirt? Did you get sauce on it?

Soda for my shirt--SOB, I was wearing a cheesy t-shirt, not silk. Don't remind me that I am currently in the running for the Sloth/Slob of the year contest.

KH--That's fine. I have BABY all over me, not my lunch.

I hate the little bastard.

Babies and bars

First it was happy hour on Thursday. A dear friend was leaving the madness of the Fed and was leaving for a real job at another agency. We decided to celebrate at an outdoor restaurant/bar in DC, a couple of blocks from the office. I told Derek that I would drive into the District, pick him up from work and he could take Baby E to Caribou Coffee while I got loaded up at HH.

Well, Derek decided to "swing by" HH to wish Dave well in his new job. The guys all asked him to sit down for a drink. Two hours and God only knows how many pitchers later, we are all sitting in a big circle outside, baby in tow. It was about that time that I glanced around and noticed two women in their 50's, giving me the nastiest looks.

I brought out my favorite southern drawl for the occassion, "oh, my God, who takes a baby to a bar???"

I prefer "outside cafe, with alcohol libations"

Then there was the brew pub in Alexandria. http://www.shenandoahbrewing.com/
When we walked in the door at 7:15 on Saturday night, a guy belly up to the bar said, "Well that'll drive the average consumer age down in here." Good beer.

Finally was baby's first trip (outside the womb) to a Virginia vineyard. OK, so it isn't Napa, but we are doing the best we can here. With a great lunch packed, we threw the baby into the car and were off to visit Pearmund Cellars. http://www.pearmundcellars.com/

We stumbled onto their barrel tasting event and the rest is history.

I see a pattern here that may be cause for concern.