Fire! Fire!

How do you know when it's going to be a long night?

When you just get settled down to sleep (on a Monday night) and one of your smoke alarms starts chirping (the battery is going dead).

After trying to ignore it for an hour – you get up and get a broom to beat the crap out of it.  This does nothing except wake the baby who is sleeping and cause the dogs to bark because they think someone is knocking on the front door.

You decide you are going to have to take it down.

You have 12ft high ceilings.

You call your husband – at work – your brother – who lives a few miles away – and your dad who’s an old man who can’t hear very well and lives about 30 minutes away……and it’s almost midnight.

The only one who can/will come is your dad.

Me:  Dad – my smoke alarm keeps beeping because the battery is going low and we can’t get any sleep around here.  I’d unplug it, but the ceiling is too high to reach. 

Dad:  You’re smoking what?

Me:  No – my smoke alarm is beeping.

Dad:  'S' – what’s a coke charm?

Me:  NO – MY SMOKE ALARM KEEPS BEEPING!!!!

Dad:  Oh – the batteries are probably going dead – just unplug it.  (Note:  Go back and read the very first thing I said to him.)

After repeating myself a few times and pleading with him – he agrees to come over.

He comes over – with his painters ladder that’s sounds oh, so quiet being drug across my tile.

The whole time he is mumbling:  I mean it’s almost midnight for crying out loud and you’re telling me you can’t sleep with a  little chirp.  I’ve been here five minutes and it aint chirped once.  And what’s the point of having 12ft tall ceilings and putting your smoke alarms there if you can’t reach them.  Your brother should be coming over here – he lives right down the street…..and so on and so on.

So – he reaches the alarm and apparently it’s a lot newer kind than what most of us had in our house growing up.  It is wired in, in addition to having a battery.  It also has a clip in the lid – so it doesn’t just screw down.  Luckily dad read the part about unplugging it before you take the battery out – so you don’t shock yourself – right before he almost killed himself.  He’s also trying to balance himself on the top of the ladder and mumbling the whole time:  I mean, what kind of alarm is this – I can’t work this stupid thing.  And I sure as hell can’t read all the writing that’s on it.  Now, I have to go get my glasses and a flashlight – I mean I can’t see crap.  This is just ridiculous; I mean, your brother should be coming over here.  It’s midnight for crying out loud….and I still aint heard this stupid thing chirp yet.

About 15 minutes later, he gets it unhooked.  He gets the battery out and is fixing to leave when we hear the chirp again….but it’s not coming from the alarm that’s dismantled on my counter.

Dad:  'S'!  You don’t even have the right damn alarm!  I told you that thing hadn’t chirped since I got here.

So, then he walks around for a few minutes staring up at the ceiling trying to determine which one is chirping.

He locates the dying alarm and drags the oh-so quiet-ladder across my tile to do the second one.  And here is mumbling again:  Don’t you have a husband?  I mean, I live 30 minutes away and who’d ever thought of coming over to fix a smoke alarm at midnight.  And I spend 15 minutes unhooking the wrong alarm.  You better have some ear plugs because if this is the wrong one, I aint coming back over.  Your brother lives right down the street – he should be doing this.  I’m leaving my ladder here because if another one starts chirping – you fix it!

So – before he left, 2 smoke alarms lay dismembered on my counter and I swear five minutes after he was gone – they both chirped!

I just said, “F-this” and closed my bedroom door and went to sleep.

About an hour later………..

'A':  'S' – I can’t sleep.

Me:  Why not?

'A':  There’s a ghost in the house that’s chirping like a bird.

Me:  It’s the smoke alarms – there’s something wrong with them.  Just close your bedroom door.

'A':  Maybe there’s a fire.  I mean, that’s why smoke alarms make noise.

Me:  No – there’s no fire; just go back to sleep.  (It’s about 1:30am.)

'A':  Are you sure?  I think I smell smoke.

Me:  'A' – THERE IS NO SMOKE, THERE IS NO FIRE, THERE IS NO GHOST.  JUST SHUT YOUR BEDROOM DOOR!

'A':  Ok…………SLAM!

Now the dogs are barking and the baby is crying.

An hour after that – everyone is asleep again……but me.  I cannot sleep because somehow the chirping smoke alarm sounds are able to come through my closed bedroom door and walls.

Later on – early that morning – Hubby comes home…….

Tommy:  'S' – why are the smoke alarms lying on the garage floor and whos ladder is that in my hallway?

Me….mumbling:  It was midnight for crying out loud.  Had to call my dad – you know he’s almost deaf.  And you know he wasn’t happy.  And here I have a husband….and for what?  My own brother wouldn’t even come over and he lives right down the road.  You think I don’t have to get up and go to work too?  And I have kids waking me up all hours of the night.

I think before I go to work tomorrow – I’m going to hide those smoke alarms in the bedroom somewhere – while he has to sleep during the day.  J

The Griswalds join the Cub Scouts

I have been trying to get the boys (my 6 & 7 year old) to join some sort of sport or organization or something for a few years.  I just wanted them to belong to something that would teach them discipline and teamwork and responsibility; basically everything I have been trying to instill in them, but have had very little luck in up to this point.

So far we've tried T-ball, which might have been okay, but we just couldn't find a very good team.  And by good - I don't mean a winning team.  I mean a team where the coaches were organized and the parents actually came to practice- instead of just using the team as a babysitter-and there was not all the drama with the grown-ups.

So, this year, it's Cub Scouts.  Let me preface this by saying that my kids had no idea what Cub Scouts were.  I thought it might be a good choice because 'D' - the 6yr old - hasn't been very successful in contact sports.  His first T-ball game, he close-lined a player on the other team when they caught the ball that he hit.  He rounded second (after they already called him out at 1st), took out the Short-Stop, stole the ball, ran home with it, and then spiked it on the home plate.  'A' - the 7yr old - was actually pretty good and a real fast runner.  He also has a small case of  OCD and ADD and would occasionally zone out - as the ball rolled right into his shoes.  It would take the coaches and the entire stands shouting his name before he would look up and say, "What?"

I thought, "Maybe my boys are not athletes; I know!  Maybe they are Cub Scouts!"  It's perfect!  They get to wear uniforms and be on a team - sort of - and there is no physical contact and what better place for an OCD - but a place where you get to practice tying knots, over and over again.  Perfect!

Tonight was our first meeting.  I told the hubby that we would leave as soon as I got home from work and to make sure 'D' kept his clothes on when he got home.  Yes, 'D' is a nudist and he drops all of his clothes with his backpack by the front door when he comes home every day.  So, I came home and asked the hubby if the boys were ready.  He smirked and said, "Sure."  I called the boys and as I saw them I said, "Ummm, 'D' - we are actually going somewhere tonight; do you think you might want to wear something different?"  "Oh yeah, mom I know; I also need to put my hat on."

So, here is what we rolled up to Cub Scouts tonight with 'D' looking like.






When 'D' saw the other Cub Scouts - in their uniforms - he said, "Hey, mom look!  I'm wearing boots just like the rest of them!"  (They were wearing hiking boots or some variation of that.)  "Ummmm, yeah 'D' - you fit right in."

'A' actually said then, "Hey, I'm the only one not wearing a uniform!  Even 'D' is wearing is one!  I look stupid."

I'm just staring at the two of them wondering how neither of them could not notice that 'D' looked like a Dallas Cowboy/Cowboy.  So, of course 'A' sees everyone staring at them and thinks they are staring at him because he's not dressed up for Halloween and 'D' knows everyone is staring at him but thanks it's because he looks so awesome and the hubby is hiding because he doesn't want anyone to think he's with us.  I think he stood by another kid and tried to pass him off as his son.

So, 'A' was feeling really self-conscious and of course his little outgoing bro had to make his big bro feel better............so for the next half hour 'D' walked 'A' around to everyone and said, "Hey, watch what my brother can do.........'A' - flip your eyelids inside out."

It's a good thing that the Boy Scouts of America can't really turn you down.

All Activity Levels my f-ing ass!

As I stated in my last post - it's time to lose a few.  Where I work, there is this service that is offered to all the employees where everyday there is a different exercise opportunity offered that is free.  Like, on Mondays it could be a Yoga class and then Tuesdays - it's walking, etc.  I decided that this might be the perfect way to work out because it's free, it's a different class everyday - so I won't get bored, and best of all - I can do it during the day and not lose anymore time in the evenings I don't have anyways.

So, the first class I did was the 'Stairclimbers' class.  I brought a change of clothes to do this in and because I do not work out on a regular basis and because I am quite a bit heavier than I was the last time I attempted to work out, my 'workout' outfit consisted of a pair of velour pants (that were about two sizes too small, so they kept rolling down below my gut and when I pulled them up over my gut, they gave me a camel toe) and one of my husband's ratty T-shirts (to cover the camel toe).  I looked at the class description on our company's intranet and it said that the class was for 'all activity levels'.  'Good', I thought.  I was hoping that meant that most of the people attending the class would be similar to me and that we would be starting off at a slow pace.

I walk over to where the class was supposed to meet and thought it was a little odd that we were meeting in the stairwell.  I also noticed that there was this group of young, skinny, barbies with fake boobs also waiting in the stairwell.  I was wondering what they were waiting for when the skinniest of the boobie brigade said, "Okay, everyone - let's get started!"  And no joke, she also clapped her hands and started trotting in place, while the other girls trotted up behind her, two by two, and started to climb the stairs in the stairwell.

HOLY SHIT!!!!!!!  So, not only am I going to be working out with the cast from 'Baywatch' but we are climbing the stairwell of this building.

I told myself, "Okay - so it's not what you thought, but suck it up!  You can do this!  You used to be a dancer for crying out loud (not the erotic kind) and even though the last time you climbed stairs was to get to the vending machine on the 3rd floor - you can totally do this!"

I started up after the group and did my best to try and only be about two flights behind them.  And when I said they were the cast from Baywatch, I wasn't joking.  They were all wearing these matching outfits - which were these skin-tight red fitted Ts and either black yoga capris or black tennis skirts.  They marched up two-by-two and I noticed that none of them were even wearing their hair tied back.  Their hair and makeup were all perfectly done and not one of them was even breathing hard and their breasts were riding high as they filed  up the stairs - looking like a bunch of plastic surgery Hitlers.

I, on the other hand, was not faring so well.  As we approached the 5th floor, my heart was pounding and my breathing was labored and my legs started to feel like lead.  I started to lean on the railing for support....but still I soildered on.

At the 7th floor, the leader actually jogged back down to where I was (which at this point was about three flights behind) and asked how I was doing.  Actually, she more like sang it....,"So, howwww are weeeeee doinggg hereeee?"  I just smiled and gave the 'thumbs up' sign.  Since, it had been at least 2 flights since I'd had any oxygen; I couldn't make my mouth say anything and I was afraid if I did, than the only thing to come out would be drool since the left side of my face was numb - probably from the stroke I was having.  And then Pamela Anderson actually jogged back up the stairs to catch up with the rest of the group and take her place at the head of the pack.

Floor 10.  I'm hallucinating.  Everytime I get to the landing for the next floor - I look at the window and the street is spinning below me.  I also can't hear above my own heartbeat, which is screaming with every pulse, "WHAT THE F DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING TO ME?!!"  I'm zig-zagging up the steps and stumbling.  I'm actually pulling myself up the stairs by the railing. I look up and see the tail end of the pack.  I yell up to the last girl, "Hey, how many flights are there?"  Only, it came out like, "Haaaaaay, ho nny its (cough, gasp, choke) arrrrrre there?"  She looked at me like, 'Ewww - who let that thing in here?'.  I had to repeat myself and then she merrily sang, "Oh - just fourteeeeeeeeeen."  Holy, Jesus - Mother of God.

Floor 14.  I made it.  Well, I actually crawled up the last set of steps.  I kind of had to roll out of the way though - because the Spandex Squad was about to trample me as they immediately ran back down the steps - all the way to the 1st floor.  I thought, 'Surely walking down is so much easier and it will give me time to recoup.'  Well, here is a law of physics that I learned when I took my first step down.  When you've been draggin a whole bunch of weight uphill and then suddenly you reverse and go downhill - it takes a while for your legs to realize that it no longer has to push forward; that there is gravity helping you out and thus not a lot of force is needed.  What I thought I was doing in my brain - which was walking lightly down the steps - I actually saw my body propel me forward with the speed of a ninja.  Only, my feet couldn't keep up and I ended up looking like some invisible force was yanking me down the steps.  I think I even hollard out, "Whoa, whoa!" - like you do a horse who wants to giddy-up a little too much.  I never could quite regain control of my legs or my speed and somehow ended up catching up and then passing everyone and actually had to throw myself into the wall on the first floor just to come to a stop.

After everyone gets to the floor - the only sound you hear is me gagging.  I sounded like a dog that has been taken for a walk on a leash - for the first time in it's life - and has had to be constantly restrained the whole time.  I'm bent over, head between my legs, gasping, staggering......and everyone is just staring at me like, "Oh, poor fat lady.  But good for her - at least she's a fat lady who's trying to do something about it."  Miss Spanx walks around - still trotting - and clapping her hands.  "ALRIGHT EVERYONE....GOOD JOB!  NOW, LET'S GO AGAIN."  And back up she goes - where everyone falls in line, two by two, right behind her.  F THIS!  I decide there is no way in hell I'm doing that again.  I don't even think I can walk back to my office.  If I would have had my cell phone, I would have called someone to come get me.  I try to open the door out of the stairwell.........and it's locked.  I try it again and no budge.  I realize that it has to be opened with a mangnetic card.  And now, it's dawning on me that the only person who has such a card would be the evil set of silicon jaunting up the stairs.  I look up and see that she is already up to the 3rd floor.  I can't even hollar out; I have no breath.  I can either run up to catch her (and probably die in the process) or just wait until they come back down again.  I tell myself, "Just run up and catch her - you can do it!"  I go up a few stairs and then think, "Who the F am I kidding."  So, now I'm on the 2nd floor.  I decided just to wait for her, but then tried to handle on that door just to check.......and success!  Door was unlocked!

I bust through it and stagger out in front of some offices and someone actually says to me, "Oh God!  Are you okay?  Do we need to get some help?"  I barely made it back to my office and was sick to my stomach the whole day.  Then I spent the next week (a full seven days) in complete pain and walking like I'd had a hip replacement.  So, as I was walking to my office the next day and hobbling and wincing and cursing everything, it dawned on me, "Oh God - that was my moment!"  If you read my previous blog, than you know that everytime I need to lose weight, there will be a moment where something will happen that will embarrass the fat right off of me.  And that day in the stairwell was definitly my moment. 

It's time.

I've been dreading this day ever since I found out I was pregnant this last time.  I knew this day would come and I knew it was going to be painful and shitty and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

I knew that one day it would be time to lose weight.

In high school and for most of my young adult life, I was pretty tiny.  I'm also short - 5ft even - and have a pretty small bone structure.  I also have four kids and a full-time job.  You'd think I'd be one of those women other women hate - who are wearing their old clothes a month after having a baby and say things like, "I'm just so busy; I forget to eat."  I hate women like that.  For some reason - no matter how busy I am - I can always find time to eat.  And I can also eat when I'm depressed or stressed.  Those are other times that skinny women seem to lose their appetite.  Lately though, it's been over 100 degrees here for like thirty-something days straight and I've heard stickly women say that the heat also affects their ability to eat.  Not me.  I might just be eating ice cream, but I will still be eating.

I tend to gain a lot of weight when I'm pregnant.  I mean a lot.  I gained 80lbs with my daughter and 50lbs each with my two sons.  Did I also mention I gained 20lbs with each husband?  I always manage to lose the weight, but unfortunately not because I work out and eat right.  I was a single mom when I had my daughter and I was going to work full-time and college full time and every other weekend that she went to her dad's, I also went out.  I was also a lot younger, so it was pretty easy to get back down to my pre-pregnancy weight.  I lost the weight I gained from my first husband and the weight I gained with my first son with my first divorce.  It's funny how good the 'divorce diet' works.

But, here I am again - with the 20 lbs I gained after getting married this time and the 30lbs I have left after having my second son and I'm not sure my husband would be cool with me leaving him temporarily so I can lose this weight.

So - it's time to lose the weight.  I always know when it's time to lose weight because I will have a moment where something will happen and I will realize I'm part of the 'fat girls club'.  You know, all women think they look fatter than they are and usually people will tell you that you're crazy and you look great - but inevitabley, there will come a moment when there's no one disagreeing with your self-assessment and you just know.  It's time.

Which brings me to the last time I can remember having that 'moment'.

I was married to my first husband and had gained 20 lbs since we got married.  I was in denial about it.  My wretched sister-in-law - at the time - was getting married.  I was not in the greatest moods about the whole thing.  For starters, I had had a miscarriage recently.  I was 8 weeks pregnant when it happened.  My in-laws had me and my husband over for dinner and I thought it was a gesture on their part as a way of trying to cheer me up.  Wrong.  Right when I get there, my MIL says to me, "Well, I guess we are going to have a baby after-all."   Huh?  "Yeah, Trish (my wretched sister-in-law) is pregnant."  (Well, that's good!  I mean, I'm so glad we are going to have a baby after-all.  I realize I almost messed that up by having my miscarriage, but thank goodness Trish saved the day by getting knocked up by her boyfriend of all of two months!)  In the next breath - Trish goes on to tell me that she wants me to be her Matron of Honor.  Oh yipee.  Not only is she pregnant, but now I can't even avoid her - seeing as how I'm going to be helping her plan her wedding.  But, of course it gets better.  You can't have a Matron of Honor without also having a Maid of Honor and who else would be the best choice for that - but my husband's ex-fiance, Becca.  I have to stress that she told me all of this (the baby, the wedding, and the ex-fiance), before I even took my jacket off.

Before we went home that night, my SIL told me that she wanted all her bridesmaids to meet in the next month or so and go shopping for their dresses.  I mean, we had to chop-chop; after all, having a wedding dress altered for every trimester can be a bit challenging.  At that time, I had never met the ex-fiance.  So, one Saturday I meet my SIL, MIL, and the rest of the wedding party at a bridal store.  At this point, my SIL was almost five months pregnant - and still skinnier than me I might add.  I was introduced to Becca - who (and I'm not joking) was probably 100 lbs.  I can't be 100 percent sure on that - but I do know that when the sales lady brought her out a dress to try on, she said, "Well, the smallest size we have is a 2, but we can at least get an idea of what the dress will look like on you; we can always order a smaller size."  Oh goody; I mean, I was just going to sit at home and be sad about not being pregnant and growing an extra chin, but this is so much better.   This is what was missing in my life; a Saturday of bridesmaid dress shopping with pregnant wretched SIL and Miss Ex-size 0.

When the sales lady came to me and asked me for my size, I just couldn't bring myself to tell her what size I needed.....so I lied and gave her a size about 2 sizes smaller.  Now, don't ask me why I did that.  I think I was distracted by the ribs sticking out on Miss Ex-size 0.......on her back.  And did I also mention that I was the last girl to try on her dress?  So, there I am - hiding out in the fitting room - with a dress I know is not going to fit and a room-ful of people waiting on me to see how it looks.

So......I decided I would just try and see if I could get it on.  I mean, it's a dress and it wasn't form-fitting, so really I just have to get it over my upper body, right?  After much sucking in and heaving and ho-ing, I managed to get it on and it looked ok.  I came out of the dressing room and the sales lady says - while everyone is standing there - "Yeah, maybe a couple of sizes bigger."  So, I turn right around and have a fight with the curtain on the fitting room trying to get back inside as quickly as possible.  I swear it's jumping from right to left - blocking my way and laughing at me.  I get back inside and am trying to get this stupid dress off......and it gets stuck.

I don't mean a little stuck - like I have to manuever around for a few minutes and make some wierd noises to get it off - I mean, it's stuck like there is no way in hell I'm going to get this off without help.  And of course it's stuck on me in such a way that my arms are raised up in the air - half bent - and the neck is over my head and I can't move to even pull it back down to where it was.  I have no choice but to step out and ask for help.  So, after I wrestle with the curtain again - which is even harder to do when you can't see - I humbly and pitifully ask my MIL to help me.  She tries, but no luck.  So, we have to call the sales lady to come help too.  She was kind enough to leave the curtain open so that everyone could witness what is probably the greatest moment in my whole life.  I mean, it's right up there with accidentally farting in class in the 8th grade.

In the end, they had to rip the dress off of me.

So, this last weekend, we had a 'Sales-tax free' weekend in my state.  The hubby and I spent all day shopping for the kids and ourselves.  We're at the store and my husband asks me if I'm going to buy anything.  I tell him, "I don't know; I'm not sure what size to get right now."  He says, "Why don't you try some stuff on?"............................Um, yeah - that's ok.

I may not be anymore fatter than I was the last time I had a baby, but I am definitley a lot smarter.

Yep - it's time.

           

Back in the Saddle Again

Today was my first day back to work after being on maternity leave for the last 9 weeks.  Dropping my new baby off at daycare was the 2nd most traumatic thing that had already happened to me before 7:30am that morning. The most traumatic event was discovering I still needed to wear maternity clothes to work; nothing else fit.  Added to that was the fact that most of the maternity clothes I had were actually borrowed from a good friend I work with.  So, yes I'm showing up to work too fat to fit into anything and no, I can't give you back your clothes that I've had for almost a year, but you can still see them everyday......as I wear them around the office.

Driving to the daycare to drop my baby off, I was thinking, "Wow - it sure is hot already......I hope W is getting enough air back there.....well I guess he is; he's not making a sound so he must not be uncomfortable......OHMIGOD!.....WHAT IF I'M SO TIRED IN THE MORNING BECAUSE I'M STILL NOT GETTING ANY SLEEP AND I FORGET TO DROP HIM OFF AND JUST DRIVE TO WORK AND FORGET HE'S IN THERE AND SINCE I HAVE A VAN, I CAN'T JUST GLANCE IN THE BACK AND SEE THAT HE'S THERE AND THEN I GO ALL DAY AND HE DIES FROM HEATSTROKE?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!.....you know just the typical stuff all new moms think about.

So, I finally made it to work and was able to quit crying for most of the drive there.  And I was even able to make it to 8:30am before I called and checked on him.  Work was work for the most part - only now instead of having to pee every hour and eat every two hours - like I was 9 weeks ago - I'm now getting up every three hours to pump.

That in itself is such a process in the workplace.  For starters - the room where I can pump is not located right by my office and it is also an empty room that anyone can use.  Therefore I cannot leave anything in it and so I must take luggage with me every 3 hours to this room.  I also have to walk right by my supervisor and her boss and quite a few other people to get to this room.  I might as well put a cow bell around my neck and moo all the way to the room; that's basically how inconspicuous I am every time I go there.  It wouldn't matter though if no one saw me go to the room or not; they would still know what I'm doing in there.  The walls are pretty much made out of thick, insulated...paper and my pump sounds like a snow blower, so there is no mistaking what Elsie is doing behind that door.  And guess who's office is just on the other side of this room?  My Director - my boss's boss.  I know when I'm in there I can hear him talking on his phone - so I'm pretty sure he can hear me lactating.  I can just picture him on the phone saying, "Hey - can I call you back; I can barely hear you over my coordinators boobs."  Or worse - what if he goes home at night and his wife asks him how his day was and he says, "Oh....I have such a headache from all the noise; my coordinator must have put a new battery in the pump."  The straw in that milkshake is that when I'm done, I have to take my pump parts to the bathroom to rinse them out.  I always try to hurry and not be seen because I either get the uncomfortable, grossed-out look or the, "Oh, how sweet - she's sustaining life with her ta-tas" look.

I called the daycare one more time that day to check on W.  He did fine at daycare; I was the who didn't handle the day very well.

Tomorrow's a new day.

I wrote my self a reminder on a post-it note to remember to check the back of the van when I get to work in the morning.    

Nair for your hair

My daughter is 10 - going on 18.  She is at that wonderful age of being way too old for her age (having been exposed to the music and movie stars of today) and way too naive (having been held on tightly to by her mother and father and everyone else who adores her).  What you get with this combination is a girl who wants to wear bootie shorts and hooker boots -but then stinks to high hell because you can't convince her that she needs to wear deodorant.

 The other night, she very casually says to me, "Mom - I want to start shaving my legs."  Before I shout out the obvious - "Are you crazy!" - I try to remember when I started shaving my legs.  I don't recall when I started, but I know I was already shaving by the time I was in sixth grade and she is going into the fifth.  I also know I didn't even ask my mom if I could - so I suppose it was good that she was at least asking me.  If I would have asked my mother - I might have been spared some of the painful life lessons of the lady bic.

So - to just put everything right out on the table - I said.....

MOM:  Now - you know, the only part on your body you can shave is your legs.

DAUGHTER:   Oh, I know - gross!  I realize she thinks I mean her lady parts.

MOM:   No - I mean, you can't shave your arms or stomach or anything like that.  (One of the things I wish my mom would have told me.)

DAUGHTER:  You can't?  (See what I mean by the maturity/immaturity combo.)

But I forgot to even elaborate on that because my mind is stuck back on her reference to shaving lady parts.  I'm thinking, "How does she even know you shave lady parts?  What trash on TV has she seen now?  Or, what if her friends are already shaving their lady parts?! Wait a minute -  she doesn't even have hair on her lady parts - does she???  I think when I saw her change the last time she didn't, but maybe in two days she's sprouted a full bush!  OH GOD - I'M NOT READY FOR PUBIC HAIR!"

DAUGHTER:  Well Kelly (her step-mom) says I can just use this stuff you rub on and then use this mitten-like thing and buff it off.

So - I told my daughter my Nair story.  I was a little older than her and decide to give the old Nair a try.  I don't really remember if it worked or not on my legs.  What I do remember is that I thought I would see if it worked on my upper lip.  I now know why they make Nair for the face - because if you put regular Nair on your face, it will melt the entire first layer of skin right off.  I ended up with a chemical burn, across my lip, in the shape of a mustache.......that turned into a nasty green infection.....that turned into impetigo.....that spread all over my body.  Good thing I got that peach fuzz off my upper lip - I mean, that's embarrassing for a girl in Junior High to have!

So, I think that story pretty much covered the topic of not shaving anything but your legs.

To this day - when I tell anyone else that story - I tell people that while I was putting it on my legs, I accidentally got some on my lip.  :)

7 weeks after birth of 4th child

My son is 7 weeks old.  When he was born he was sick and had to spend a week in the NICU (which traumatized me by the way).  I swear I came home from the hospital with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.  When he was sleeping I studied his chest thinking, "He's not breathing!"  And then thinking, "He's breathing too hard!"  When my husband put him to sleep in his crib, I practically hit him upside the head with my Boppy pillow and screamed, "How can I see when he quits breathing if he's not right here with me?!"  I should point out that my son was only sick for a short time and his problems were completely resolved by the time he left the hospital.  He didn't have to have to be on any medication or come home with any monitors, so my husband wasn't completely off base when he looked at me said, "You need to ask your Dr. for a pill for that or something."

So......it only took my baby about 2 weeks to totally train me.  After the crib incident with my husband, I decided it was best just to sleep with my baby.  ( I had a C-section and couldn't even bend over to wipe my own ass, let alone roll over, so I wasn't real worried about smothering my child.  In fact, I still couldn't get up into our bed, so I was still sleeping on the couch.  But.....I'm sure no mother ever thought they would smother their baby, so I worked it out where I slept sitting up - leaning on the arm of the couch - holding the baby in the crook of my arm.  7 weeks later, here we still are.

I'm also breastfeeding and thanks to the NICU who obsessed over how much my baby was eating and made me believe that unless I nursed him for an hour he wasn't getting enough - I study his fat rolls everyday, just to be sure they are getting fatter.  My husband can't get out of the shower without me saying, "Hey- would you weigh yourself and then hold the baby and weigh yourself again?"  I basically have had a boob in his mouth since he came home; I don't even bother wearing a shirt anymore.  I'm guessing it's okay for your baby to double their weight by the time they are 7 weeks old?

The ironic part is I am not a new mother.  I have 3 other kids!

And yes, before you ask......I meant to have four kids.