Mandajuice

"My achoo is not coming!!"

Alex has been a sick little monkey this week.  In fact, I can't remember him ever having had a worse cold, particularly one with such a dreadful cough.  He's handling it like a champ, though, aside from getting up every few hours to magically appear on my side of the bed and surprise the living crap out of me.  Since I witnessed the first fit of coughs on Sunday, I've been taking bets as to when I'll get this lovely cold myself - double your money if you can guess the exact date when the cough finally causes me to lose what little control of my bladder I have left.

Yesterday, I was up at five AM worrying about money.  Isn't that the most fun thing to worry about after only four solid (albeit interrupted) hours of sleep!  I know it's my favorite.  We're not having problems per se - it's just general anxiety about pouring a butt-ton of money into our condo while simultaneously paying both the mortgage and rent.  We spent Monday driving from one uber home renovation store to the next, poor Dave unloading box after box of heavy floor tile into the garage.  And I couldn't be prouder of my tile conquests.  We found granite for under four dollars a square foot.  GRANITE, people!  I'm so stoked that now I feel like I'm competing with myself on that stupid Property Ladder show.  HOW FAST CAN SHE RENOVATE AND MAKE A BUCK!?!?!?  I know the suspense is killing me.  Particularly at five am.

But I digress.  What I'm really trying to say is that in spite of the Evil Cold of Doom, Alex was generally well-behaved while we bickered about floor tile.  I could give you all the reasons why, but Rachel says it with so much BRILLIANCE in this post that no one with a two year old boy should miss.  Here's a hint:  YES WE CAN!

Is everyone else as excited about Christmas as I am?  For a total heathen on whom the entire religious significance is pretty much lost, I sure seem to be really into it this year.  I had to drag Dave practically kicking and screaming to the Christmas tree lot on Saturday because I couldn't wait to get started decorating.  He still insists that it's insanely early to have a tree, but for the first time since I was a kid, I want to enjoy Christmas for as long as possible.

And I'm just LOVING the whole Santa thing.  Can you believe it didn't occur to me until JUST THIS YEAR that all of those times my parents warned me that I was going to get a stocking full of coal if I didn't behave, that those threats?  THEY WERE ALL COMPLETELY EMPTY!  That even when my brother Dan stole my Dad's Lincoln Towncar and drove it around town during the Strawberry Festival even though he was only fifteen, SANTA STILL FRICKIN' CAME.  It had just never occurred to me that most parents would no sooner keep Santa from coming than cut off their own limbs.  We love the whole thing just as much as the kids do.

I also absolutely adore Christmas music with, like, every fiber of my being.  Don't laugh.  Some time before Thanksgiving I bought Diana Krall's new Christmas album at Costco and we've been listening to it in the car (it sure beats 'Little People Sing Construction Songs').  Anyway, her rendition of The Christmas Song (Chestnuts roasting on an open fire...) sends chills down my spine - I highly recommend it.  Unfortunately (more for him than for me), Dave's comment on the new CD was "Christmas music doesn't really work well as jazz."  Which made me want to punch him just a little bit and launched me into a tirade.  Not for jazz?  Christmas music IS jazz, practically by definition (Christmas standards) and this is the one time of year when, whether they like it or not, everyone gets a little bit of it in their system and it helps drown out all the Snoop Dog.  Perhaps that's why I love it so.

Another piece of good news is that Alex seems to have finally weaned himself.  Two nights ago (or three, I've been working on this post since Monday morning) he took a small sip, made a funny face and declared, "Boob tastes yucky.  You tell me a story instead."  (I swear I'm not taking any liberties here - the child said "instead".)  The next time he asked me for it, I reminded him of the yuckiness and he totally dropped the subject.  He hasn't asked for it since.  I had heard that pregnancy could change the taste of breast milk and not in a good way, but I thought it was an old wives tale.  Thank god I was wrong! 

In quick (ha!) baby news, aside from a ticklish jolt during Thanksgiving dinner (which frankly could've been gas), I haven't felt the baby move yet.  I've been trying to, but the beebster isn't cooperating.  I'll be sixteen weeks on Friday and I really honestly thought I'd be feeling it pretty often by now, especially because they say you feel the second baby sooner than you do the first.  I'm not worried yet - it's still early - but it's BUGGING me!

Hello. I'm tired.

Normally, I'm a huge to-do lister - I LOVE making lists and then crossing things off and that head-swellling sense of accomplishment, but lately mine is a bit too long to enjoy.  Not only is Christmas rapidly approaching (a fact about which I'm more than a little excited), but I'm trying to sell my old car, remodel and sell our condo, settle into the new apartment and unpack AND I'm having the added joy of doing all of these tasks while pregnant and anemic and chasing after a two year old boy.  Thank god I'm not working anymore or heads would be flying.

Amazingly, all seems to be going well.  I shouldn't really be complaining and I guess I'm not.  I'm just discussing it.  That's all.  I'm just discussing how hectic my life is right now.  I know I have a lot to be grateful for and now I will shut up about my to do list.  At least I'm not working!

Of course Alex is as happy as can be.  Lynne (Dave's brother's girlfriend) was good enough to offer us her son Christopher's race car bed and it has been THE hit of the year.  And just in the nick of time - I was starting to worry that Alex would still be in the crib when he graduated from high school.  I even tried warming Alex up to the idea of the new crib several days before Uncle Johnny delivered it, but the boy kept telling me, "I will sleep in my crib.  The baby can sleep in the race car bed!" 

But then he took one look at it and was instantly sold.  That picture speaks a thousand words, but here are a few more because they're so cute:  On our way to Thanksgiving, I told Alex that Christopher might be there and we could thank him again for the awesome race car bed.  His instant response was "Christohper (which sounds more like Sistopher) is my BEST friend.  I love him SO MUCH!"  Later, after we all ate turkey, Alex chased him all around the house, begging "Chris! (Sis!) Pick me up!  Carry me!"  It was like Alex was in the presence of a god.

I wish I could say that the transition to the race car bed had been just as adorable, but I can't.  The first night, he fell right to sleep!  Dave was so shocked, he totally couldn't believe it.  But then I had to eat my "I told you so" when the boy proceeded to wake up and climb out of bed no less than ten times in a row.  Last night was better, but he's still getting up.  I figure that five nights of this will be worth it in the long run, right?  We need that crib for number two!

Evidence

His excuse was that he thought he heard a "bullbozer" and he just HAD to look out the window.


"I'm a fork-lift driver man"

"Mom, I need a give you a snuggle"

I look exhausted.  Dave blames iron deficiency.  I blame lack of makeup.  Or sleep.

I warned you my bump wasn't round!  Keep in mind that the baby is all of four inches long at this point and most of that belly is just the result of my inability to suck in my gut anymore.  Apparently that first baby does a number on your stomach muscles even if you really didn't think you had any in the first place.

I wish

The scale broke today and the first three times I stepped on it read 145 pounds.  I haven't weighed 145 pounds since I was in the eighth grade.  It totally made my day.

When I stepped on for a fourth time, it read 174.5 pounds, my actual weight.  I haven't managed to actually gain anything yet, but I still should've just quit when I was ahead.

"I was a boozer, a user, and a loser."

So I was wrong about my ass - it was only the cheap Target maternity sweats I was wearing yesterday.  But when I asked Dave if my hips looked bigger, he said, "Seriously? You almost look like Jerry Blank."

What I don't like

I don't like that this place has a washing machine that's roughly the size of my Quisinart.  It means at least three times the loads I was doing before, which was already a godforsaken amount.  I'm planning to bitch and moan about this CONSTANTLY because then it will be that much easier to convince my husband to let me invest in a fancy (RED!) front-loader when the time comes.

I also don't like it that my body is changing.  Of course my belly is getting bigger, I'm not complaining about that (although my dually-tire belly only expands and never becomes that lovely round pregnant bump - I know I owe y'all a belly pic), but my hips appear to be widening too.  I haven't been on the scale since we moved, but as of a week ago I still hadn't gained anything yet.  It'll be just my luck that after a week of busting my ass packing and hauling crap around and basically getting more exercise than I've had in months that I will have gained five pounds, all five of which are undoubtedly attached to my ass. 

PS - I haven't barfed in FIVE DAYS

We now live within PERILOUS proximity of Krispy Kreame. I seriously used to think their donuts were overrated, mainly because I’d always bought them at Target and never eaten them fresh before, but I WAS WRONG. Woh boy was I wrong. Now if I want to go ANYWHERE, I literally have to drive within whiffing distance of that delectable sugary smell. I swear they waft it out onto the road just to tempt me and my crazy pregnant nose. And as if that’s not bad enough, 100 yards down the same road is a friggin In ‘N Out Burger. I swear I’ve never been more grateful for my gastric bypass.

I have not been the most stellar parent as of late, but I’m grateful for two things: 1) Alex is too young for the trauma of this move (and hopefully this entire pregnancy) to etch itself permanently on to his memory and 2) my bad mood hasn’t kept Alex from being an angel. After 48 hours of backbreaking efforts to pack up our whole house while he attempted to unpack our whole house, we moved just the TV and the computer to the new place so the cable company could hook us up before the weekend. Of course that meant we were outside-world-less for the final 24 hours we lived in our condo AND most of the toys were already packed up ready to be moved the next morning.

THIS WAS ENLIGHTENING.

Instead of crapping out in front of the TV exhausted at the end of the day, we were delightfully entertained for TWO STRAIGHT HOURS with Alex’s rendition of “NIGHT AT THE IMPROV: FEATURING THE MUFFIN TIN”. We heard every possible twist on the making of muffins, the singing of the Muffin Man song and even OUCH these muffins are hot, don’t burn yourself! The grand finale was when the muffin tin was turned over, placed on the boy’s belly and magically transformed into ROBOT BUTTONS. I just wish I’d had the video camera set up.

Dave and I instantly decided to begin limiting evening TV, which, DUH, we’ve known we should do all along. Of course this still hasn’t translated into actual practice (or I wouldn’t be able to blog right now), but it’s a nice goal nonetheless. We had no idea we were missing out on so much.

The new place isn’t half bad. It’s an apartment, even a fairly decent one, but it still has that distinctive apartmenty smell that reeks of poverty and brings back the memory of just HOW BAD the tap water was in the city of Davis. I keep wondering what causes the smell. It’s not fresh paint or recently cleaned carpets or anything else I can put my finger on. But Dave and I agree, it’s there and it’s totally nostalgic.

I do love the fact that this place is a single-story. Mark my words, I will never purchase another two story home as long as I live – no matter how long that means we’ll need to look when we move up to Washington. It’s not that I’m lazy, it’s just SO MUCH BETTER having everything on one level. Actually, I am lazy, but STILL. Alex also has his own bathroom and we’ve already found him a step stool that reaches the sink, so he’s spending his free time “getting heal-fy” by brushing his teeth and washing his hands. (That boy has seen one too many episodes of Caillou.)

And the big news is that the dog finally pooped. Last night. After FOUR DAYS of holding it in. And since we have a paved patio with no pooping area, I’ve got to walk him several times a day and pick up after him. I thought this would be my least favorite part of living here, but so far I don’t mind. Normally I would’ve completely missed last night’s full moon.

And now I have an important question: Are other couples physically capable of being nice to each other while moving? Because nothing seems to bring out the ire I have for my husband more. As far as I’m concerned “packing” and “moving” are synonymous with “yelling” and “screaming”. Is this temporary lapse of marital sanity unique to us or is it par for the course? Just curious.  For now the worst of it seems to be behind us, but I am NOT looking forward to moving again next year.  The dread is already beginning to build.

This is your brain on speed

Beebster good.  Fast whoosh-whoosh like happy horse gallop.

Mommy's blood pressure LOW LOW LOW.  Must eat chips.

Found rental.

Signing lease Friday.

MOVING SATURDAY.

SATURDAY!!!

Must pack.

PACK.

PACK.

PACK.

Also?

HEMORRHOIDS!

2 year old man-child, speaks English, good station-pointer-outer - No reasonable offer refused!

I am in a REALLY bad mood this morning. I’m just now getting some computer time because my husband is a hog. I haven’t had any coffee yet – even though I’m on my third pod. I put too much milk in the first cup, the second cup went cold while I was ironing Dave’s shirt and this third cup better be good because I ONLY GET ONE. AND! Earlier I baked a batch of pickled peppers, wait, pumpkin muffins, and even though I reduced the time by 25%, THEY STILL BURNED. I hate my oven.

Which brings me to my next topic: WE’RE MOVING. Well, as soon as I find us a place we are. We’ve been busy looking for a rental and we’re going to sell this money pit as soon as we can. Hopefully we can get it on the market by December 1^st. We’ll see. At first I was all freaked out about having to pack, but then it dawned on me that most of our stuff is still in boxes in the garage. This place may have come with a price tag, but it sure as hell didn’t come with any SPACE. I’m actually looking forward to renting, as crazy as that sounds. We’ll finally get to SAVE money again and whatever we rent will be larger than what we have now.

So we spent the weekend driving past some duplexes and trying to keep ourselves from listing the boy on EBay.  It’s funny. I’ve never really understood it when parents – even friends of mine – have revealed that they needed a break from their child. That they really couldn’t take it anymore. But now I do. I just never knew how EASY my child was UNTIL HE TURNED INTO THE DEVIL. Alex had a fever for a few days and was mostly just clingy, not even all that cranky. We even went to a party for a friend of mine on Friday night and he was well-behaved enough for us to even have fun! But then the fever broke and when that happened, THE CHILD BROKE TOO. I have no idea why, but he was a weepy, screamy, whiny MESS for two straight days. NOTHING made him happy. Even when he sat on my lap, smothering me and pulling on my hair, he was “uncomfo-able” and would kick and squirm and YELL at me because IT WAS OBVIOUSLY MY FAULT.

I swear, if we hadn’t gotten out of the house to go to that party at my parents house, I would’ve SOLD HIM and cheap. But thankfully my parents DID have a party to celebrate my Father’s Father, who would’ve been 100 years old if he hadn’t died in 1981. It was fun and I am one of the few cousins who actually remembered the man and who wasn’t afraid of the band aid he wore on his forehead until the day he died. I’m sure my dad’s family all think I’m a horrible mother, but with so many people at the party, it was SWEET RELIEF to all but completely ignore my child for a solid five hours. You think I’m kidding, but here’s the proof:

Yes.  That is my boy sitting in a cooler filled with beer.

Setting the 'no profanity' rule aside for a moment

Tonight we took Alex to the mall because it was free and because it was, well, FREE.  He played on the chubby plastic turtles, we grabbed a bite of Cold Stone and then took him for a lap around the mall.  We stopped in front of the Mercedes display (this is Silicon Valley, don't ask) so I could throw up in the trash can and I remarked to Dave that the ML350 is really just a glorified station wagon.

As we were driving home, we came across one of those Chrysler Pacifica's and I remarked that it wasn't bad looking.  Dave responded with, "It's a fucking station wagon." 

And then?

Alex proceeded to repeat the phrase "It's a FUCKING station wagon" over and over.  Eventually he dropped the "wagon" part and continued with "That's a fucking station" about fifty times.  Once he even said "That's a fucking station.  RIGHT THERE!" 

We are EXCELLENT parents.  Seriously.  Because our reaction?  Was to laugh our asses off all the way home.