In the event of an emergency

Our weekend was good--not terribly news-worthy, but good.

For lack of a better lead-in, I did realize this weekend that there are some things at home that I am poorly ill-equipped to handle. That if T were to ascend to the pearly gates (wishful thinking? I kid, I kid.), that I wouldn't be able to do certain things.

They are:

1. Changing our furnace filter. I have a vague notion as to where our furnace is, and I'm pretty sure it's tucked in the even creepier part of our basement on the way to the washing machine. I'm also pretty sure that the furnace is near a squirrel, bat or spider that is waiting to eat my face.
2. Working our grill. This is really just folly on my part because I love grilled meats and if T were to die, I'd have to use some the life insurance money to buy a Designated Grill Man. Who might be mildly hunky. Just sayin'.
3. Operating our snow blower. It's huge, it has a gear shift, I am not good with gear shifts, it has ginormous tires, it makes T smell like exhaust when he's done using it. It's formidable and came with a booklet with tabs.
4. Fixing our internet. I have no freakin' idea what happens with our internet on a regular basis, but T swoops in and fixes things with our router and numbers and calling Comcast and ping-ing (what ever the hell that is) and then miraculously I can get on People.com again. It's maaagic!
5. Changing the lightbulb in our recessed lighting in our kitchen. It's really high and, well, I know there's a lightbulb up there and that it is currently burned out and I know very well how to harass T on the hour to change it...but that's all I know.
6. All of the passwords to our online accounts. Let's just face it, I'm screwed here. These passwords would, as the saying goes, go to the grave with him. Balls.

So that's where I stand in the scheme of things. But, you know, I'm not sure T would fare much better. He has no idea where the checkbook is (on my person, so if I die in a fiery crash, that's it for paperchecks, sir! So there, antiquated manner of paying for things!), what size diapers the kids wear (yes, T, they still wear diapers), where to buy kid's clothing, where the peanut butter is and how to use the washing machine.

Notice that a lot of these things deal with location. Ahem.

Anyway, T and I have job security with one another. Without him, I'm screwed during the winter months and with trying to pay our Discover bill online. Without me, Ezra and Iris would be pissing everywhere without properly fitting diapers and no one would be getting pb&j's.

That's love, folks.

It's a zoo out there

On Sunday we ventured to the zoo. At home, knee deep in the Post-Nap Activity Planning stages, this seemed like a good idea. It wasn't humid. No one was excessively pissy. All individuals had been fed. A trifecta of zoo trip perfection, if you will.

Flash forward two hours and we all were stumbling home a bit sweaty (the breeze was zapped once within the hills of the zoo), a little pissy (due to tiredness) and hungry (cue pizza delivery man).

Everyone doused themselves in Purell or a bath (or, in my case, both as zoos kinda heeb me out. Petting zoos--off the radar with the germ heebies) and went to bed early.

Trips likes reminds me how much I like being a family of four; having two small people in the backseat. Even more--I like being a family of four with four people at home; no one left behind at the hospital.



Iris generally digs her carseat now and passes right out. Ezra's new bff is his basketball which he will remind you, "I got it at Tarrr-gett." He even licks the darn thing. Yeah, I know. Needless to say, minus the car ride, it's an indoor basketball.

Baboon pressed all up on the glass. All of the other animals played hard to get except this character. It's like he was playing K, The College Years. Just kidding. I wasn't *that* easy.

Iris. It was hot and did I mention germy?, so she mainly hung out in her stroller under the awning. And stared at her hands.

Ezra calls all bears Baby Bear, so he about exploded out of his skin with excitement when he saw the bears.

When we first went into the zoo, T wanted to get Ezra a stroller. I was all tough as nails and told him, "Dude, he can walk. He's a toddler not a handicapper." Then T ended up carrying him a lot and sweating straight through his clothes. In T's defense, I think Ezra was a little overwhelmed by the crowds--but still. I personally carry no soul heavier than 10 pounds if it is hotter than 75 degrees. It's an algorithm I live by.

Iris wondering where the hell she is and why she's pressed up against some water bottles.

Wallabies. Looking hot. And sleepy.

"Holy snap, it's an alligator."

Alligator!

Nessie with Ezra wondering, "Wtf, mate?"

Ahoy from the shore.

Random useless tidbits

Workplace had an in-service today, and at the end we toured the Presidential Museum that is in our city. By this point Fanny and I had reached a definite Level of Unprofessionalism, so whilst staring at the wall of Cabinet personnel (Cabinet white men?) of this particular presidency--Fanny and I decided to pick out who we would sleep with.

Let me just say that among the men available on that wall circa 1971--the pickin's were BLEAK.

****

This evening Ezra hit his head on the faucet of the tub while bending down to pick up a toy whom we call Mr. Motorcycle. Through tears and after I asked him what happened:

"Mama, I bonked my melon and it's making me have tears!"

I laughed. And then gave him hugs.

****

At this very moment T is out purchasing key lime pie and I may have called him my "pie bitch."

Update: Looks I will only be having one slice because T only bought the pie by.the.slice. Sigh. Who does that?

****

We went to the zoo this weekend and Ezra can't stop exclaiming about the ba-BOOOONS.

****

Iris' developmental pediatrician called on a Saturday afternoon. A Saturday afternoon, people, a doctor called. To talk. About a concern she heard that I had. Lands.

Anyway, she gave us a clear plan--as for now--to start Iris getting more and more used to taking food by mouth.

I still can't believe that she called me on a weekend.

****

Ezra and I both have colds. All of Ezra's daycare classmates have colds. T has a tickly throat. Iris continues to gaze at all of us with a perplexing mixture of cold suspicion and happy amusement.

If any of us get her sick, we may have to sleep with one eye open for fear that she'll shimmy out of her crib and shank us.

****

Lastly, a picture of nothing in particular:

Thumbs up to Q & As!

Well, well, well...who likes to answer questions? You do!

And enjoyed reading each and every one of them? ME!

I so plan on doing more of this because what I find the number one fun thing about blogs is reading about another person's daily lives. I mean, I love when someone spills a good story...but mainly I love the, "This morning I ate Cheerios and then my boyfriend and I had a fight and then my child ate cat hair." That's the stuff I love.

Mainly because I'm nosy, that is.

And before I start answering my own questions (because not only am I nosy but I also like to talk about myself...ahem...that's why I have a blog), let me just say at how utterly shocked and disappointed I was to read about your general love and at least tolerance for broccoli. People, it tastes like ass anyway you cook it. Stop trying to mask it in ranch, cheese or a warm tempura sweater (cough*Lilianarenee*cough). Just sayin'.

Anyway...

1. I feel like I'm using a crapton of hair products which is why I asked you all this--for validation--but that seems to have backfired as it seems many of you have got a very nice streamlined process going on. As my hair gets longer, it's turning more and more special needs. Besides shampoo and conditioner, I use a volumizing gel, two heat protectants (one for roots, one for ends) and hairspray. I'd like to combine the heat protectants but they both have their niche.

2. I exercise nevah. The desire is there, the time is not. If I were to swap out time, then sleep, laundry and time with kidlets would have to be sacrificed and those things can't be sacrificed right now. So, we use our gym membership for the indoor and outdoor pools and for T to work-out after work. Also, thankfully, I've been able to kind of keep my eating under control and up the time spent running after Small Fries--so the weight is staying down.

3. I get up at about 5:45am, do hair, wake up T at 6:30am, do makeup, get Iris' food and meds together, T gets Iris up at 7:00am, get Ezra up at 7:15am and have him watch a bit of tv on our bed, get myself dressed, get Ezra dressed, J the Nanny arrives at 8:00am, Ezra and I leave to get coffee, drop him off at school and I'm at work by 8:45am. It's becoming a smoother running machine, but there is no slacking off and any deviation in the schedule (Looking in full length mirror, "This outfit is crap!") puts everyone behind.

4. I believe I've made my feelings known on broccoli. It is Evil.

What I'd like to know from you...

1. How many hair products do you use when doing your hair?
2. How often do you exercise?
3. What time do you get up in the morning and what time do you have to be at work?
4. What are your true feelings on broccoli?

That is all.

Big girl undies status: ON

Our evenings are a big ol' back of Nuts. And while I thought things were crazy before I was at work, they're nuttier now. Not bad, just nutty.

Making sure everyone gets attention and smooches. Making sure Iris heads to bed before she goes off the reservation with hunger and sleepiness. Making sure Ezra gets some playtime with the parent not wrangling Iris (T and I try to alternate). Eating dinner. Cleaning up from dinner. Putting Iris' meds away. Cleaning up the playroom. Stuffing Ezra into the tub. Making sure the paci is in place (see previous post). Getting things ready for the nanny the next day. Getting dinner set for the next day. Laundry. Returning phone calls. And perhaps sitting on the couch for a hot minute for T and I to share a few sentences before I head to bed.

My ideal would be to try and also make a lunch and maybe iron my clothes for work, but I've decided that I just need to be realistic and cut myself some slack. Scrap the making lunch and at least have a mental outfit at the ready in my head.

I have a feeling it'll become smoother once Iris goes to bed later; it won't feel so divide and conquer. Or perhaps once we're more in a groove of our current schedule. In the meantime, I'm trying hard to dial down my inner Anal Annie but it's hard. I like a smooth running machine and I'm finding that there's something about introducing more kids that operates in the direct opposite of Smooth. Oh well.

Because who doesn't like eating raisins without pants on?

Panic at the disco / crib

So in between trying to make sure I'm not knifed at work (I kid...it's not that bad. I think.) and that everyone has pants on by 7:59am (the nanny arrives at 8:00am), we have thought very little about Progress with the Paci--not to be confused with Pilgrim's Progress.

But it turns out at that at school--without our wizened and well-researched intervention (and by that I mean Googling "how to wean from a pacifier and have your toddler not freak the hell out and disturb the sleep you'd then sell your toddler for")--, Ezra thinks pacis are for chumps. Granted he's not sleeping as long during his naptime at school because he is now sans paci, but that's cool because that means we can put him to bed earlier at home. Win-win, folks.

The ousting of the paci at school was a deadline we were kind of sweating because they aren't down with the paci in the early preschool room--a move that happens at 2 1/2. Kind of like kicking the bottle, going down to one nap, not being swaddled--if it weren't for daycare benchmarks, T and I might've been releasing a freak into the world.

So feeling big for our britches, or my britches (T being unawares), I bought a new paci at the store to be the Final and Last One ever purchased for home, thought I'd toss the two old manky ones and call it a day.

That night Ezra spotted the new pacifier in his bed when we put him down, turned it all around like he wasn't sure what the hell it was, I mean it sure looked like something he liked but yet it didn't (kinda like a turkey burger), he popped in his mouth, literally spat it back out it, threw it over the side, shouted, "I no LIKE IT!", looked for his other beloved pacifier, couldn't find it and since I was already out in the hallway with the door closed as all of this occurred--started shrieking. Like in terror. And sadness. With fatty tears.

Clearly, we're not ready to cut the cord.

I was on the phone with *Starr Fish so T rushed back in the room since it sounded like Ezra was being cut by ninjas and I asked R to wait while T and I figured out what happened.

"I NO LIKE THAT PACI!"

Me: "Balls. Hold on! T, rock him a bit!"

I then went back to the garbage, rifled threw and dug out the old pacifier, washed it off with Dove soap and hot water and popped it in Ezra's mouth.

I didn't even sterilize it. That's how dire it was. Homeboy, got a dumpster diving paci.

It's not something I'm particularly proud of--but, oh well. I kind of cringe if I think about it, but it's certainly not the grossest thing I've done while having kids. Digging in noses; helping ease constipation in onerous ways; the number of times I've been thrown up on, crapped on and spit up on--it falls into the same camp. Gross but necessary.

So we're back to square one of figuring out how to kick it home except now we're armed with a particularly useful bit of information: No Imposters.

Back to school cooties

So The Nonsense From Work occupied most of my brainspace Friday evening and all of Saturday. Although, it didn't keep me up at night during sleepytime on Friday so I guess I was able to shelve it a bit. To miss out on sleep with a baby and a toddler, I'm thinking dramatics have to actually reach Armageddon-type proportions.

In one of the more internal dramatic moments I started likening myself to Michael Douglas in Disclosure (minus the "forced" bj from Demi Moore): all paranoid and unsure about where the hell I stand. Or...like the situation Whitney continually finds herself in with Olivia. I mean, Olivia is all doe-eyed bitchiness while Whitney just wants to work and do well. Boo.

I then continued on the Path of the Dramatic and started thinking about what advice would Kelly Cutrone give Whitney and I think it would be this: Address the bitch and her underhandedness and don't put anything in writing.

Of course, all of this is moot as I'm not simply going to do anything besides try to work and hope desperately that the people trying to undercut me aren't those I truly enjoy at Workplace. The rest can kiss my grits as I try to remain small talk-y and normal. And watchin' people like a mutha.

So, my clothes are ironed for tomorrow and I've already popped a few Tylenol PMies to make sure I sleep well. I got a manicure and pedicure and Ezra and I went swimming. Five loads of laundry have been done and put away and I balanced my checkbook. I gave Iris lots of extra smooches today and hoped I don't miss her too much tomorrow.

I guess it's now or never.

Well, eff me

Today has been mostly a good day.

J the Fabulous Nanny has been hanging out with Iris all day here at home and they've been loving on each other and laughing lots. I was able to spend tons of time out in the garage and yard tidying things up--which does my Type A heart good.

And then I talked to my boss's boss. The Dean.

I thought perhaps he was just calling to check in and see how I've been doing and if I was ready to go back to work on Monday. And he was--kind of.

The conversation then took a turn. They kind of turn that started with, "Well Your Immediate Boss and I debated whether or not to call you and talk to you about this. It's nothing you've done, but we want you to be aware of what's been going on."

Balls.

The short of it is this: Shortly before I left on maternity leave, a co-worker (there are only 8!) complained to my immediate boss that I was receiving preferential treatment for my schedule--comp time, personal leave time, make-up time, what-have-you. We have some flexibility to create our own schedules, but it all needs to be pretty well documented and approved. My schedule from November to May was wonky and, well, this person didn't like it. This person then thought my immediate supervisor didn't handle it at all, so he/she went to my boss's boss and complained. And mentioned that at least two other people share her feelings and may be prepared to quit over it. He was/is appalled and let her know why.

I have a strong suspicion as to who it is and it makes me want to vomit. Vomit because my workplace is small. Fight or flight? Flight. I want to quit.

I asked my boss's boss if I should expect a confrontation and he said "no," so at least I have that going for me.

I think what makes me most tense is that the complainer alluded to others feeling as if I was being given preferential treatment, but I can't think of anyone else who has been anything but nice and concerned over these past months. Should I assume then that someone was being concerned to my face but grouse-y behind my back?

So, I was totally looking forward to going back to work on Monday but now I just want to bury myself in the sheets.

Munch munch

So Iris has decided that she kinda likes swallowing and swishing things about in her maw.

She had a swallow study done a few weeks ago--wherein she swallowed barium on x-ray film to make sure everything went down the right canal--and as it turns out, she swallows fantabulously.

A huge thing that was mildly scaring the pants off of us because her ability to swallow effectively or efficiently was not something we could just assume. Having had so many invasive tubes down her throat in her short life as well as never really taking anything by mouth, it could've been a task she was not up for. Which there's only one word for that scenario: Eff.

But! She's swallows great, it heads down the right path and she can work her mouth and tongue just so.

So we've been giving her a few meds by mouth rather than by tube, and just 2 mLs takes a bit of time. Cereal is fine but she's not a huge fan which I can't really blame her--it kinda tastes like paste. Applesauce territory is being ventured into this weekend. She and I practice the spoon and eating a few times a day for I am determined for her to get rid of that g-tube as soon as humanly possible.

If I think about it, I'm always kind of surprised at all the skills Iris practices and slowly masters in her own time here at home. It seems that nothing about Iris' development is something we should take for granted for everything is that much more amazing when she accomplishes it.

Meant to be a heartwarming photo of her in her chair, instead she just looks fearful and like I probably clobber her on the regular. I promise I don't; she gets lots of smooching. I think she just doesn't like the camera.

How about a thumbs up for polka dot pants, though? Size 3 months, suckas, and almost too small.

What's up, Woodchuck?

For the love of Pete, now I know what my mom meant when she yelled one day, "Why can't I have anything nice around here?!"

For apparently Ezra's been sharpening his chompers on our cherry bed.

I'd recognize that gap between the two upper teeth anywhere.

Because everyone loves a firehat

Hat courtesy of Sara...

Wherein I have visitors and a bird dies

So yesterday was a pretty fabulous day. Sara and Sam came to visit (holla!), I managed to have pants on just in advance of their arrival, water was spurted due to laughter over a good poo story and we had ice cream.

Also, funny side story: in seeing my parents today over lunch, my mom asked me what we did yesterday. "Oh, some friends of mine, Sara and Sam, came to visit. They live in the Chicago. I met them online." Instantly, my mom--ever the social worker hyping "make safe choices!"--said, "Online?" Kinda suspicious like. "Yeah. I read their blogs. They read mine. They're totally lovely and we chat a lot." Perhaps oversimplifying things, but that's it in a nutshell. "Hmmmmm," she said.

Now back in the day I once tried to explain MySpace to my mom (who is only 52, people, and has a real cell phone not the Jitterbug) and it truly befuddled her. "Why would you want to be friends with Craig Ferguson? You don't even know him. And your friend Amy you can talk to in real life. Just pick up the phone! Why would you send her messages! I just don't get it."

Lordy. I think my mom has the suspicion that making friends on the interwebs is only for Creepy Petes and pervies. We haven't even gone there with trying to explain Twitter. Our respective heads might explode.

Anyway, over lunch the three of us (Sara, Sam and I--no mom) heard a crazy loud thump! in the glass front door. Through the dining room window I saw a morning dove flapping around looking stupid and kinda like, "Wtf, mate?" Assuming it was he who thumped the window, we laughed (we also laugh at people who trip and fall) and kept on talking.

Later on, as Ezra came downstairs after his nap and looked out the front door--we saw this:

Apparently that morning dove was flapping about spastically because his FRIEND HAD JUST DIED. Our Saturday afternoon was infinitely better, mind you.

Also, for the record, it was Sam who took this picture and emailed it to me. The caption? "Birdie sleeping (forever!)."

Snort.