Got Milk? (No.)

Sometimes, I feel like dairy intolerance is the story of my life.

Apparently, I had a dairy allergy as a child, as a result of which I ended up drinking some vile, soy stuff until I was three.

Luke had a dairy allergy, too. When he was tiny and grouchy, I cut milk and cheese and yogurt out of my diet and it improved the grouchiness to a certain degree. And then, when he was old enough to eat table food, he reacted to yogurt and milk, but was always okay with cheese and butter, oddly enough. So we avoided yogurt and milk until after he was potty trained and now, he does fine with dairy, though he does still regularly inform me that he likes ALMOND milk, not COW milk.

Weston. Oh, Weston. He has had issues with reflux almost since birth. I knew that reflux is common in babies with dairy allergies, so I cut down on my dairy intake. I played around with giving up milk, giving up yogurt, cutting down on cheese. None of it helped, not really. So I assumed it wasn't a dairy allergy after all, that he was just refluxy.

And then, at about 2 months, his skin started getting rashy and scaly and just overly sensitive. Red flag. Another sign of a food intolerance. At this point, I knew that I really SHOULD give up dairy altogether, but oh, that's such a difficult proposition. So I discussed it with his pediatrician and decided that as long as he was gaining weight and acting happy, I wouldn't worry about it.

And then, his weight gain started slowing down. Now, mind you, the child is still huge for his age, but my biggest baby-fear is to have to re-experience the low weight gain-low milk supply awfulness that we went through with Luke, so I decided to get serious about cutting out dairy.

Except. Do you KNOW what that means? No milk, no yogurt, no cheese. Obviously. No sour cream or cream cheese. Okay. No butter or regular margarine. A bit trickier, but still doable, especially since there are vegan margarines available that don't have any milk protein in them. But. BUT. Then, you have to start reading labels, and when you do, you realize that milk products are used in EVERYTHING. Bread. Salad dressing. Every prepared food ever, except for the ones that are specifically vegan. I mean, even our regular pasta sauce had lactic acid in it, for crying out loud. Pasta. Sauce.

We enjoy eating out at restaurants, but every time we do, even when I scour the allergen menu and order (tasteless, bland) things that the restaurant claims is dairy free, it sets off Weston's reflux again. The other day, I carefully chose my meal, but then absentmindedly picked up a piece of broccoli from Luke's plate and ate it...and then realized, a second too late, that it had been seasoned with butter. Weston spit up for a full 24 hours because of that.

The thing is, in general, his reflux is getting so much better. I mean, the fact that I can even say, "He spit up for 24 hours because of some broccoli," means that in general, he's not spitting up constantly, which he was for the first three months of his life. There's improvement, I know. But oh, when that improvement means that I can't have chocolate--not even a tiny taste--or a chai latte or a piece of cake or pizza or ice cream, it's frustrating.

Worse still: what if he continues to be this sensitive to dairy as he grows? What will that mean for us, in the future? Will we have to structure our lives around avoiding dairy forever? (Oh, please, no!) So much of what I feed Luke has dairy in it--how am I going to avoid those same foods when Weston is old enough to eat them?

On the slightly plus side, what this does mean is that I can have all the soda I want. Because (a) I've had to give up every OTHER beverage that brings me joy and (b) my goal has now gone from weight loss to weight maintenance. Since such a large portion of the calories and fat in my diet came from dairy rich foods, I've lost a good eight pounds in the past two weeks. Not really recommended while breastfeeding, so here I am, sipping a glass of Pepsi and wishing it were hot chocolate instead.

Calm as a Cucumber

Smell is the sense that's most closely related to memory and emotion.

When Luke was about five months old, I stopped sleeping. For a couple of months, I slept in fits and snatches when I just couldn't stay awake any more. I was convinced that if I fell asleep, if I let my eyes stay closed long enough, my world would spin to an end while I wasn't looking. Every morning, I stood at the window watching McMoose drive off to work and fought waves of nausea because I was convinced he'd be in an accident and it would be the last time we saw him. I sat and held Luke while he napped because I thought that if I put him down, he'd stop breathing and I wouldn't know until it was too late to help him. I don't remember if the anxiety came first or the insomnia, but they fed into each other until I felt like the universe was constantly on the brink of disaster.

Recently, I've been trying to remember why I was that anxious. By that time, Luke was happy, he was eating well and gaining weight well, he was sleeping well. Objectively speaking, there was no real reason for it. And if it could happen out of the blue like that the first time, it could happen again, right? So I've been trying to remember what it felt like. And the thing is, I couldn't remember. It was like trying to remember what labor contractions felt like--when you're not there, you just can't recapture the feeling.

Except that smell is the sense that's most closely linked to memory and emotion. I used to drink this herbal tea constantly when Luke was a baby, but I hadn't had any since. Last night, I was rummaging through our half-unpacked pantry to find some tea bags and since I found a box of those herbal tea bags that I had left over, I decided to just use that. And the instant I brewed that cup of tea, my stomach knotted up and I felt like I was taking a trip back to two years ago.

As much as I didn't appreciate that particular, unexpected walk down memory lane, it was re-assuring to remember exactly how awful that anxiety felt because now, I know that all the little stresses I feel during the day? They aren't that. When I'm frustrated that Luke is moving at a snail's pace or annoyed because I'm sitting in traffic while Weston is SCREAMING from his car seat, it isn't that. And thank goodness for that.

Moving Like Molasses

We've been in the process of moving into our very first house (yay!!!) and oh, my what a process it has been. We had lived in the same apartment for three years, so I completely underestimated how different it is to move with two little ones around. Especially when one of those little ones likes to pull things out of boxes and the other one likes to be held. Constantly. So here's what moving with the two of them has been like:

-The stairs are such that our regular baby gates won't work on them, so we had to order new ones. The new ones will get here on Friday, but until then, there's a whole lot of bargaining with a two-year-old, which goes something like this:
Me: Luke, I need to go get something from downstairs.
Luke: Not right now.
Me: Um...I wasn't actually asking for permission. I need to go downstairs. Do you want to go with me or stay up here?
Luke: Ummmm........The trash can is green!
Me: Yes, it is. Do you want to stay up here or go downstairs with me?
Luke: I saw a lawnmower this morning!
Me: Yes, fine. Downstairs or upstairs?
Luke: I like to eat bananas.
Me: Luke! For goodness sakes, do you want to stay up here or go downstairs?
Luke: I will stay here.
Me: Ok. I'll be right back. Do NOT go down the stairs by yourself.
Luke: Ok!
Me: *RUN downstairs as fast as I can, usually while holding Weston, rummage around, get what I needed, and run back to the stairs, where Luke is trying to slide down the stairs.*

-The door on our apartment could only be locked from the outside with a key, so locking myself out was not an option. It's very much an option at the new house, as I found out last Friday. Luckily, I had both kids with me when I walked out the back door, pulled it shut, and realized that (a) it was locked and (b) the keys and my cell phone were sitting on the kitchen counter. I was pretty grateful that the weather was nice because sitting outside with two kids would've been far less pleasant a month ago, when the highs were regularly in the triple digits.

-Weston really enjoys his swing, which is downstairs. Weston also really enjoys the rocking chair which is--did you guess?--downstairs. Which means that upstairs is the least fun place ever for him, and therefore, for me. GUESS WHERE ALL OF LUKE'S TOYS ARE. (This will change. We just have to strip wall paper and paint the playroom before we can move his toys downstairs. And at this rate, that should only take, what, about a year?)

-I call it a good day if I manage to unpack half a box each day. Of course, we currently have oh, about eight-hundred-and-eleven boxes, so we should be all settled in by the time the kids are ready to go to college. At which point we won't NEED to paint the playroom, so hey, bonus.

Early Morning Rambling

It's 3:45 in the morning and I've been awake for an hour.

The fan clicks. Not always, not every night, but when it's in a bad mood, it clicks. Tomorrow, I told myself, I'll fix it tomorrow. Just ignore it for now. So I tried. Then, it began clicking to the beat of the song, Hey, Mickey. Have you ever tried to sleep with that song in your head?

The birds are awake and chirping. I know, I know. The early bird gets the worm. But dude. It's 3:45. The sun isn't going to be up for another 2 hours. There's no way these birds can even see a worm right now. Furthermore? Worms are gross and the early bird might get the worm, but the sensible, late bird gets to sleep in. I know which one I'd pick.

Every morning, at 3:30 am, McMoose's phone buzzes and speaks in a demonic voice. Apparently, some automated service sends him email updates at this ludicrous time of day and the phone feels the need to inform us of that fact.

Hopper is awake and rolling around, probably because he hears Hey, Mickey playing and he wants to join the party.

My rash is back. Of course it is. From what I remember, it started at 35 weeks last time and when I realized it probably wouldn't go away until the baby was born, I spent about an hour crying. Because the thought of living with it for the next 5-7 weeks was that horrifying. This time? 33 weeks and 4 days. That means that potentially, I could have to put up with up to eight-and-a-half more weeks of this torture.

Since this is the third night I've woken up at this ungodly hour, it would seem that I've entered that ridiculous phase of pregnancy during which one is constantly tired, but can't sleep for longer than three hours at a time. And I've entered this phase a good 3 weeks earlier than I did last time. Because...this time, I have a toddler running around, so not only do I need more energy, but I'm also less able to take naps whenever I'm tired. So of course, of course I would enter the insomniac phase earlier. Because that's the kind of thing that makes sense to my body.

Baby Steps

We've been trying to be more conscious of how we live recently. We try to buy organic and/or locally grown produce whenever we can. We buy milk in re-usable, glass bottles (which, by the way, tastes a million times better, too--bonus!) We recycle whatever we can. We bought some re-usable, cloth grocery bags so that we don't waste plastic or paper bags.

The problem is that all of this consciousness? It requires you to actually be, you know, CONSCIOUS of what you're doing. In other words, you have to PLAN AHEAD. I'm very much a stop-by-the-store-on-the-way-home-from-wherever kind of person and between needing to return the milk bottles and remember the grocery bags, I've had to do all manner of planning just for a quick trip to the supermarket.

It's taken a lot of work, but we're finally at the point where I remember to take everything with me about 80% of the time. (I know. 80% sounds low, but two weeks ago, it was 0%. Progress is being made.) This evening, I went to the store by myself. I remembered the bags. I remembered the milk bottles. I remembered the shopping list and the car keys and the cell phone. I was feeling oh-so-proud of myself.

Until I got to the checkout counter and realized I had left my wallet at home.

Oh, Frabjous Day

I need to get my windshield replaced because there are two very large cracks in it as a result of cows, trucks, and rocks. Don't ask. So I spent a little while on the phone getting quotes. As a result, I have some pieces of advice for people in the windshield-fixing-business.

1. The proper way to answer a business phone is "[Name of Business], how may I help you?" Or even just "[Name of Business]," if you're feeling a bit fractious. Not "Hey." Not "Huh?" Not "Yup." Because when you say "Hey," "Huh," or "Yup," you then put the customer in the place of having to say "Is this such-and-such company?" and if the customer is feeling peevish, that might just be enough for them to take their business elsewhere. GUESS HOW I WAS FEELING TODAY.
2. If you own a business, get a separate business phone. Seriously. Because if I call the phone number that you have listed as your business phone and you answer it AND THEN TELL ME YOU CAN'T TALK TO ME because you're closed on weekends, it's not going to do a thing to help my peevish mood. And also, on the excel sheet listing all the nearby companies and their price quotes, I'm going to write "Incompetent Jackass" next to your name. (That part did help my mood a little bit.)
3. If you put me on hold when I call you, you'd better be damn sure your phone is working when you take me off hold. Because if I have to sit and wait for you while listening to an annoying jingle for 5 minutes and then, when you finally come back to talk to me, your phone cuts off and hangs up on me? Yeah. Not helping the mood. Or your business, for that matter.
4. If I call for a quote on a windshield replacement, I EXPECT THAT QUOTE TO INCLUDE THE COST OF INSTALLATION. What did you think I was going to do, superglue the thing to my car?
   

Marching One By One

We have ants.

A seemingly innocuous statement--just three short, single-syllable words, and yet, if you've ever had ants, you know just how annoying this situation is for us. As an aside: I'm not fully convinced that anyone has ever HAD ants. I'm pretty sure that either (a) you HAVE ants or (b) you've never had ants. Because for the past week, we've tried everything, EVERYTHING to get rid of these stupid ants and yet, we find new lines of them every other day.

First, they were in the kitchen, so McMoose took some time out of the middle of his workday to spray them with bleach. (Luckily for McMoose, he was working from home at the time because I have zero desire to spray any living thing with bleach, ever, and if it had been up to me, we would have set a plate of crackers out for the ants and invited them to share in our bounty. McMoose flatly refused.)

The next day, there was another line of them in the guest bathroom, where they were gladly helping themselves to the cat food. The cats were not pleased. McMoose attacked those ones, too. Then, there was a line of them above the door. McMoose climbed on a half wall and nearly killed himself trying to get rid of those. Then, they were back in the pantry. McMoose emptied the entire pantry, threw away everything that had more than 5 ants in it (because 5 is apparently the critical mass of Ants Allowable In Food Items, as per McMoose), and sprayed not only clorox, but also wasp killer in the pantry. Because, ya know, THAT'S what you want in the place where you keep your OPEN BAGS AND BOXES OF FOOD. In fact, a full week later, the stink of Death Chemicals still wafts out every time I open the pantry door.

But still, the ants kept coming back. So we moved the pet food bags out to the deck. Then, we switched to new dog and cat food--food that's individually wrapped and costs, oh, a FORTUNE, so that there wouldn't be open bags of pet food sitting around. And then, we moved the cat food from the guest bathroom to the tub in our bathroom because the enamel is too slippery for the ants to climb. Yellow Cat, in particular, is Very Unhappy about this development because the tub usually has left over water droplets from baths and showers and such, so he now spends much of his time wiping his wet paws on my pillow to express his displeasure.

So I've been researching how to get rid of them once and for all and after learning way more about ants than I EVER wanted to know, I've come to the conclusion that really, we're just going to have to move.

Relaxing Vacation Fail

I was going to write about our train ride today. But then, today went wildly off-course, so instead, I'll write about how I lost my purse this morning.

Did you know that most mistakes happen when you stray from your routine? So since we're out of town, we have, of course, strayed far from our routine. This morning, I set my purse on the hood of the car while I strapped Luke into the carseat and then, I got in, turned the car on, and drove off. Without ever retrieving the purse from the hood of the car. End result: after several minutes of panic and backtracking, the purse is gone. Along with three debit cards, a passport, a checkbook, a day planner, my driver's license, my social security card, and my green card. Oh, and $100 in cash. (I'd like to point out that (a) I never EVER carry cash and (b) up until this morning, my purse and wallet were in two separate places, but I put them together in order to "Make life easier." If I had just left well enough alone, I would've been out the cash, but I'd have everything else. Sigh.)

As a result of all this foolishness, I spent the morning on the phone with various banks, canceling debit cards and putting up warnings on my accounts and closing out old accounts and opening up new accounts. Did you know that you could do all that over the phone? Because I certainly didn't. And then, I filled out an online police report...did you know you could do that online? Again, it was news to me. (Did you also know that the list of items that you could choose from for the report included such things as "Keepsake mementos," "Mobile home," "Tree," and "Food items--meat?" I mean, really? Who's going to steal your meat? How's someone going to walk off with your TREE? *Shakes head in consternation*)

And since I lost my driver's license, I can't go anywhere and the thing that bothers me the most of this situation is that before I lost the purse, I was on my way to Target to get a bicycle pump to blow up an inflatable pool for Luke and now? He doesn't get to play in the pool. The rest of it--the lost bank account information, the lost social security card and related potential for identity theft, the fuss and bother of replacing all this nonsense--I can deal with all of that, but the loss of the pool is about enough to make me cry. (Ok. So I might not be fully rational at the moment.)

Mama Will Gladly Buy You a Mockingbird If You Would Just GO TO SLEEP

Luke is a good sleeper. Was. Luke was a good sleeper. First of all, I should qualify that statement by saying that in my book, good sleeper = a child who falls asleep easily and who wakes up at a decent hour. He didn't sleep through the night until close to his first birthday and I was fine with that. He has never put himself to sleep without help of some kind (nursing, rocking, patting, whatever) and I was fine with that. Because up until last week, I could nurse him, and then put him in the crib and pat him and within about 15 minutes, he'd be asleep. And I could do this at 10 am, 2:30 pm, and 8:30 or 9 pm and expect him to take 2 90-minute naps and get a total of 10 hours of sleep (even if it was somewhat interrupted) at night. All of these things were fine. All of these things worked.

Then, we traveled last weekend. Now, we've traveled before with him and he has done just fine, but last weekend, there was no crib and the bed in our room was kind of tiny and so we thought, "Hey, we have a good sleeper. Let's just put him on the floor." Ha. Hahahahahahaha. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

So all weekend, he kicked and yelled and fought sleep. And then, he got a cold when we got back home, so he kicked and yelled and coughed and fought sleep some more. And now, he seems to be over the cold, but the kicking? The yelling? The fighting sleep? Yeah, that's still happening.

Last night, he went to sleep at midnight, after 2-and-a-half hours of the kicking and the screaming and the fighting. So I thought, okay, maybe that means he'll sleep until 9 or 10 this morning. People, he was up at 6. And then, I thought okay, maybe THAT means he'll go down more easily for his morning nap. People. He kicked, screamed, and fought for over. an. hour. And I tried EVERYTHING. Nursing, rocking, singing, patting, bouncing on and exercise ball, putting into baby carrier and walking around. In fact, I tried everything TWICE. And still, he kicked. Screamed. Fought. And I'm pretty sure that at one point, the fool bit my shoulder.

I'm totally thinking of skipping his second nap today and pawning off bedtime to McMoose, just because the thought of doing this TWICE IN ONE DAY is enough to make my soul want to shrivel up and die.

Don't Come Preachin'

Every couple of months, Mormons come to our door to try to witness to us. It annoys me ENDLESSLY.

The first few times, I just told them I didn't have the time to listen because I was always rushing off to school just as they knocked on the door. But since having Luke, I've actually come to enjoy their visits. Not because I like being preached to by random people at my doorstep, but because it provides some unexpected entertainment in the middle of the day.

The last time they came, I told them that I had a personal belief in Jesus Christ and that he talked to me frequently, but that he told me that I wasn't supposed to tell anyone else what he said to me. They looked confused. Then, they tried to tell me about their prophet. I told them that if talking to God makes on a prophet, then I'm sure there are lots of prophets since prayer is a way of talking to God, right? They left.

They came back again yesterday. I told them I was Hindu. And to my chagrin, they started asking questions about Hinduism. So I dug down to all the things I remember from the stories my grandmother used to tell me and I told them about Hanuman (a giant monkey) and the blue baby Krishna who swallowed the entire world. Again, they left.

Next time, I might tell them I'm wicca. I'd better start researching...

Flab-solutely Terrific

I don't like to exercise. At all. Ever. I mean, given the option between exercising and having someone poke me in the kidney with an icicle, I'd be hunting down the nearest icicle. And up until now, I really haven't had to do much in the way of dedicated exercise. I am used to being a thin person, the kind of person whose BMI is always on the edge of "underweight."

So you can imagine my unhappiness when, almost a year after having a baby, I still have a pooch. I very honestly thought that all the baby weight would just kind of go away on its own. And truth be told, the baby WEIGHT has gone away, but apparently, the distribution of skin and, um, poochiness on my body is forever changed. So I've been exercising.

So far? I see no difference. Now granted, it's only been two weeks, but here's the thing. Not only do I not see any noticeable difference when I look in the mirror, but when I step on the scale, I've actually GAINED a couple of pounds. McMoose tries to make me feel better by saying that it's because I'm gaining muscle, but let's be perfectly honest here. It's not muscle. It's the extra slice of cake I justified by saying "Oh, I work out now. I can have two desserts!"

Be Veeeery Quiet

It's naptime in this apartment right now. There are two sleeping babies and they both sleep like babies, which is to say that they wake up at EVERY NOISE. All those idiot parenting book authors who say "Just go about your day making a normal amount of noise and eventually, your child will sleep through it," all those people are LYING. (Or maybe when they say "eventually," they mean "In 12 years, when you WANT your kid to wake up because otherwise, they're going to miss the school bus.") Because I've tried making a normal amount of noise and you know what happens? TWO BABIES WAKE UP. Because apparently, the beeping of the microwave sounds exactly like an alarm to sleeping babies, even from behind closed doors. So right now, the normal amount of noise in this apartment at naptime is zero. NO noise allowed. I shushed the Dog a few minutes ago because he breathed in a snuffly way.

Of course, the Universe likes to thwart me at every turn so in the past 90 minutes, SEVEN trains have gone by, each blowing their horns. Two ambulances with lights and sirens. Five barking dogs. A car alarm. A fire truck, also with lights and sirens. A very loud plane. A UPS truck, which induced the Dog to go into a hysterical bout of barking. The babies, amazingly enough, are still asleep. My nerves, on the other hand, are completely SHOT.

Angry at Insomnia

It's two in the morning. It's two in the morning and I'm awake. And I have been for the past two hours. And? I fell asleep somewhere in the neighborhood of 11:30. Which means that it's two in the morning and so far tonight, I have had a whopping 30 minutes of sleep. And people, I'm angry.

I'm angry at Yellow Cat, who has spent the past 4-and-a-half years trying to sleep between my feet and annoying me to death. I'm angry at the Dog, who snuffles and snorts and paws at the carpet in his sleep. I'm angry at Black Cat, who never makes any noise in the night, but who lives in my apartment and breathes up all my oxygen. I'm angry at McMoose, who takes up half of my bed and tosses and turns and snores AND DOESN'T HAVE TROUBLE SLEEPING. I'm angry at Luke, who still wakes up at least once--and usually more like two or three times--a night and expects me to FEED HIM and CUDDLE HIM and BE NICE TO HIM. The gall.

I lie here, awake, almost in tears, feeling sleep slip farther from my reach. I lie here thinking that in under five hours, I have to be awake, knowing that even if I fell asleep RIGHT NOW and the baby miraculously slept through until 7 am, I'd still wake up exhausted. I lie here imagining what it would be like to grab my keys and my wallet and sneak out, get in my car, and just drive away from the cats and the dog and McMoose and the baby and all the things that I am currently angry at for keeping me awake. (A very small, rational voice reminds me that even before I had the cats and the dog, before I met McMoose, before I was a Mama, I still had trouble sleeping, so maybe it's slightly unfair to blame them for this particular problem.)

This is a problem. This is a problem because until a few days ago, I could at least take a nap with the baby, but now, there are two babies here in the morning and if I nap in the afternoon, it makes the next night harder. This is a problem because the anger that I feel at night is seeping into the daytime hours and making it harder for me to be loving and patient. This is a problem because more and more, there's a constant pit in my stomach, a constant feeling of adrenaline rushing through my system. This is a problem, but I'm just too tired to see the solution.

In Which I Write A Letter

Dear State Of Virginia,

As much as I enjoyed my 4 years of living within your borders, it has to be said that I NO LONGER LIVE THERE. Haven't for several years, actually. So please, stop asking me to pay vehicle and registration fees to you.

I mean, okay, I get that there was some error that made you believe that I still lived there in 2007 (you were MISTAKEN, but I can see how it might happen.) And I understand that the first two times I called to get this cleared up, the people I talked to might have been completely inept, which is what led you to issue all kinds of threats and warrants and levies last week. If I try really hard, I could probably forgive all of this.

BUT! After I called you the THIRD time and talked to the MANAGER of some county office (where I was directed after many, many "Could you please hold"s, by the way), AND faxed documents that CLEARLY SHOWED that I lived in North Carolina in 2007, I was hoping we could put all this behind us. In fact, I even called again the next day, just to make REALLY sure that we were over this mess and was assured that everything was fine and we could go back to being on speaking terms again.

So surely, you can imagine my surprise when I get a phone call from someone from the county office AS I'M TRYING TO PUT THE BABY DOWN FOR HIS NAP to tell me that if I don't pay the bill in 3 days, my account is going to be sent to the collection agency. And then, when I explained YET AGAIN what had happened, all the woman has to say is "Oh. Yes. I see that your account was resolved."

REALLY? You SEE that my account has been resolved? SO WHY ARE YOU CALLING AND ANNOYING ME?

Sincerely,

Highly Frustrated In NORTH CAROLINA.

Good-Bye, February.

Generally speaking, January is my least favorite month of the year because (a) it's hard to come down from the holiday-high and (b) it's dark and cold and cabin fever sets in about halfway through the month. This year, we got through January with amazingly few instances of "Oh, this month is going to last FOREVER and it will NEVER be warm enough to leave home without a jacket, EVER AGAIN!" (Yes, I actually say those exact words multiple times during the winter.)

I was excited that January went by so quickly and I had pretty much decided that having a kid meant that I no longer had to dread winter because hey! Winter is fun when you have a baby to entertain you! And then....February happened. Seriously, those were the longest 28 days OF MY LIFE.

Apparently, having a kid might delay the onset of cabin fever, but it will surely not prevent it altogether. I am so grateful to be done with February because now that it's March, I can look forward to longer hours of daylight and warmer temperatures and more chances to get outside.

Of course, as I write this, we're trapped inside because it's cold, dark, and rainy out there.

Anatomy Of An Illness

Luke has been sick for the past two days, which doesn't seem like a long time until you're sitting there at 3 am on the second consecutive night of getting Very Little Sleep with a baby who is on HIS second consecutive night of getting Very Little Sleep and who, as an added bonus, has a 103 degree fever that WILL NOT respond to medication. I was wondering when his first real sickness would happen and I am so, so glad that it was now and not when he was younger and--let's be perfectly honest here--generally grumpier.

And as a person who has had more than her fair share of colds, I was very surprised that baby illnesses are so different from, you know, normal PEOPLE illnesses. Basically, the last two days have gone something like this:
-Coughing.
-Sneezing.
-Not sleeping.
-Spiking (what I would consider) high fevers.
-Not sleeping.
-Nursing incessantly, then refusing to nurse, then nursing incessantly, then refusing to nurse, repeat, repeat, repeat.
-NOT SLEEPING.
-Refusing to eat anything except processed Baby Junk Food.
-And did I mention the not sleeping?

Here's hoping that he doesn't get sick again for, oh, at least another 18 years.

My Ick Factor

During my second year of college, I had this nightmare that I had a pimple on my cheek which started glowing red and then turned into a piece of wood and by the time I realized what was happening, I had turned into a tree. Even before this nightmare, I was predisposed to be highly suspicious of any skin things, but afterwards, it was MONTHS before I could pass a tree without shivering. To this day, I hate looking at the brake lights of buses because it reminds me of the red glow from the dream. And I really, really dislike plants.

Specifically flowering plants. I'm okay with flowers. I'm okay with plants that grow really slowly, so you can't really tell that they're growing. But things that actively bud and flower? Yech, *shiver,* bleh.

My stepdad bought us an amaryllis bulb in a vase for Christmas. It was a sweet and thoughtful gesture and I was very excited to bring it home and water it and watch it grow. And then? It started GROWING. Right now, it's tall and bud-like and every time I look at it, I nearly hyperventilate and then, I consider feeding it to a goat. This plan would, of course, require me to find a goat, which might be hard to do here in suburbia.

I wonder if there's a name for this particular phobia/neurosis.

Thank You, Captain Obvious

I love advice. Especially unsolicited advice. ESPECIALLY unsolicited advice given by people who have no experience with the topic that they're giving you advice about. Yeah, that's the BEST KIND. Today, for example, I had a meeting and as usual, little Bug went with me. The person I was meeting with has no children and very little experience with other people's children. As usual, the talk turned to whether I missed school (I wholeheartedly do NOT), whether I wished I were working (again, a definite no), and whether I was happy being home with Luke (very much yes).

Apparently, my answers were less than satisfactory because she then informed me that at some point, I would have to "let go" because I couldn't be attached at the hip him when he's 18. Wow, REALLY? Gee, I had no idea.

It seems to me that everyone who has any advice to give about this whole parenting endeavor feels the need to follow it up with "or else, he'll be doing that FOREVER!" Really? Forever? If I rock my 6-month-old to sleep, I'll have to move my rocking chair into his dorm room? If I don't put him in daycare by the time he's 1, he'll be living in my basement when he's 43? Because if that's the case, I'd better start teaching the kid how to drive, lest he expect me to chauffeur him to his doctor's appointments for the rest of his life.

Technology: 391, Me: 0

Between the two of us, McMoose and I own a total of six computers. Six, for crying out loud! One is McMoose's work laptop, so needless to say, it's at work with him. One of them (his) has a problem with the power cord, I think, so it has been out of commission for as long as I can remember. Another one (mine) works great, but the monitor is mysteriously unresponsive and since it's a laptop, that poses a pretty big problem. So for all intents and purposes, it too is out of commission. Yet another one of mine recently found itself victimized by a hyperactive dog, so it no longer works. And the desktop that has been my lifeblood for the past month or so has just today decided to join its compatriots and no will no longer let me log on.

And this is why, in a household with six computers, I'm sitting hunched over on the floor like Quasimodo because the ONLY COMPUTER THAT ACTUALLY WORKS lives underneath the desk.

Carded...for Orajel???

Dear Cashier at the Pharmacy,

Thank you for your dedication to your job. I appreciate that you're probably not paid too well and if I had to stand behind a counter for 8-12 hours each day, I'd be grouchy too. However, I would not give someone grief for trying to buy baby orajel. And? When you tell them that they have to be 21 to buy baby orajel and that person says "Um...I'm almost 25," I would not glare at them for 30 seconds before scanning the darn box.

(Could I take this moment to point out that baby orajel does not have alcohol in it?)

(Could I also point out that even if it DID have alcohol in it, minors are allowed to buy mouthwash, not to mention rubbing alcohol, both of which DO have alcohol in them?)