Baby bouncing in jumparoo.  He's a bouncing baby boy.





As you may or may not know, we are a Catholic family.  We regularly attend mass, and it is regularly, um, eventful.  Don't get me wrong; my children are very well-behaved in church.  It's the crazy things they say and do in church that are so priceless!  They have been coming with us since they were newborn infants.  They are what the catholics call "cradle catholics"; they, like my husband, were raised in the catholic faith.  I, on the other hand, am what I fondly refer to as a "transplant", as  I was raised at a First Congregational United Church of Christ  (which I think is some brand of Protestant-ism?).  As you can imagine, some of the protocol was unfamiliar to me.  I truly believe that there should be a "Catholic Suggestion Box"; a place where we newbies can make recommendations on how to tweak the process in order to make it more user-friendly.  See, the loving, wonderful people that head up the Adult Religious Education office in our church missed the boat on two major sacraments:  First Penance and Baptism. 

As "cradle catholics" know (but transplants do NOT), First Penance is when you go to confession for the first time, and it's usually made in second grade or something.  I made mine at 24.  I thought it was going to be like you see it in the movies (you know, the dusty, dim confessional booth where the priest is barely visible behind an elaborate metal screen and you can usually only see the priests' concerned face as the lowly sinner confesses his or her darkest sins).  Much to my surprise, it was a face-to-face situation in a brightly lit office.  That wasn't even the big surprise!  You see, I thought that this was an opportunity to confess EVERYTHING I have ever done that I felt hinky about.  (Ever, ever done in my WHOLE life,  including everything that went down in college.  And we ALL know what goes down in college!)   Everything.  Yup, everything.  I was prepared.  I had spent several days prior doing some mental inventory; you know, just gathering up my thoughts so that when  I got in there I wouldn't forget something.  So, imagine this poor priest, sitting there with me for like forty-five minutes, listening to E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G that I have had on my chest.  He was red-faced, mopping his brow with his handkerchief, fidgeting...but, to his credit, he listened solemnly and carefully to all I had to say, and then absolved me of all my sins.  I felt like a new woman!  I felt as though a weight had been lifted off my shoulders!  A beam of sun lit in through the window and illuminated my face!  Birds swooped in and perched on my outstreched finger!  "Oh, by the way", the good father ventured shyly, "for next time, just so you know, you don't REALLY have to be so, um, specific.  You know, just stick to the big ones.  Those you confess.  All that other stuff I don't really need to know about".  Oooof.  Duh!  He sent me out into the sanctuary to do like 9,837,892,763 "Our Fathers" and 87,632,653 "Hail Mary's".  I dutifully knelt and started my prayers.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my husband-to-be walk into the confessional, and he walked right back out like two seconds later!  He came and knelt beside me on the kneeler.  "What did you say to him?", he hissed.  "Why were you in there so long?"  "I thought I was supposed to tell him everything!" I whispered.  My poor fiance just stared at me with a look of horror on his face.  "You told him EVERYTHING??", he gaped.  Yep.  So now, even to this day, whenever I see that poor, elderly priest, he sees me coming and gets really nervous and drops things.  He must think I am the antichrist.  NOTE TO TRANSPLANTS:  YOU DON'T HAVE TO TELL THEM EVERYTHING. 

Also, the Baptism.  I had seen several baptisms, many of which included the baptee (probably not truly called a "baptee", but it works for me and this is my journal.  The "person to be baptized") being completely immersed in the water.  Dunked, as it were.  So, when I was preparing for my baptism, I was a little concerned when the sweet little nun presented me with my "Baptismal Garment".  It was lovely, really; a light, white cotton gown.  Yup.  White cotton.  You see where I'm going with this?  I asked the nun what we should wear underneath it, if you know what I mean.  "Oh, the usual thing", she replied.  Not helpful.   "The usual thing?", I asked.   "Like, a bathing suit?"  The nun paused, swept over me with a look of deep concern and after a few moments she said, "well, most young ladies wear a skirt and blouse, or a dress or even some nice slacks..."  She shuffled away, glancing over her shoulder at me and shaking her head. I don't want to wear a bikini in church!  I thought it was going to be like wet T-shirt contest in the middle of mass!  NOTE TO TRANSPLANTS: YOU WILL NOT BE LEAVING WET FOOTPRINTS ON THE CARPET AS YOU GO BACK TO YOUR SEAT.  THE PRIEST JUST DIPS HIS FINGER IN THE WATER AND TRACES A CROSS ON YOUR FOREHEAD.  See?  I think I should create a little pamphlet for the Adult Religious Education Committee.  They don't think of these things.

Now enter my darling children.  My daughter is pretty even-keel in church (except for her propensity to occasionally go sans underpants.)  She doesn't participate in mass very much; she sits down and stands up and begrudgingly kneels when appropriate.  My procoscious son DOES participate in mass, and he ALWAYS says or does something really funny when it's time to take communion.  He asked me (loudly) one time if he could have seconds.  "But I'm still hungry!" he argued.  HA!  Recently he got confused when it was time to "receive the body of Christ" (any non-catholics out there, this is when the priest or other qualified person holds up the wafer and says "Receive the body of Christ".  You say, "Amen", bow your head and the person places the host-wafer thingy into your palm.)  I sometimes receive it on my tongue because I'm holding the baby, and you aren't supposed to take the host with one hand.  You are supposed to place your dominant hand under your other hand, receive the host in your palm, and then use your dominant hand to lift the host into your mouth.  That's what most people do, save for a few old-schoolers who get it on the tongue like they did back in the day.  So, Timmy sees me take it on my tongue, and he gets the idea that he's going to try it out.  He walks up to receive, but he doesn't lift his hands.  He also gives the poor steward NO signal that he wants to receive on his tongue (you stick your tongue waaaaay out and open your mouth REALLY wide).  Nope.  Not Timmy.  He just stands there and looks dubious.    "Receive the body of Christ", the steward says as he lifts the host tentatively into the air in front of Timmy.   Timmy paused, and then suddenly GRABS THE HOST IN HIS FIST AND POPS IT INTO HIS MOUTH LIKE A RITZ CRACKER!!!!!!   "Mmmm.  Pretty good!" he says, at full volume.  I almost passed out.  I had just received MY communion, so as I gaped, slack-jawed at my son, the rest of the congregation was witness to the partially masticated host in my mouth.  "TIMOTHY!"  I yelled, spattering little flecks of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ all over the place.  "That is NOT how we receive the host!"  Good Lord!   "Eeeew!", he shrieks.  "God!  Say it, don't SPRAY it, mom!" *SIGH*   At least people are chuckling.  I hope God has a good sense of humor.  He must.  Have you ever seen a platypus?

Baby NOT napping, but complaining (rather loudly) in crib.








I have given my son "The Talk".  Yep, THE talk.  I HAD to.  Before you question why I, rather than my husband, would have that undertaking, please understand that my husbands' idea of having "The Talk" is to leave several copies of Playboy laying around the house in conspicuous places. N'uff said.

I had received a letter indicating that the school was offering their version of "The Talk", AKA "Project Know" (no?),  to all fifth graders.  While not mandatory, all students were HIGHLY ENCOURAGED to attend.  Despite the pressure from the school, my son (understandably) did NOT want to go.  It was scheduled for a Tuesday night; my husband was in late meetings and my daughter was at a neighbor's house, so I offered Timmy a choice:  he could attend "Project Know", or have "The Talk" , privately, with me.  Just the two of us.  Over dinner.  (I don't know, it just seemed appropriate.  In retrospect, it WAS a little graphic for the dinner table, but I'm getting ahead of myself.)  With a sigh of relief, Timmy firmly chose to stay home.

Well, this was the first time I had ever given anyone "The Talk".  He's my oldest at 10, and I've never even examined myself (figuratively) on how I felt about it.  It just seems so soon.  He's so young!  But ten, as you know, is the new twelve, and he HAD been showing some signs of pre-pubescence.  Commence "The Talk". 

I was surprised by how easily the words came to me!  I was thorough.  I was scientific.  I kept it light and cheery (well, as light and cheery as one possibly could while discussing genital warts and wet dreams).  There were quite a few "Oh, my GOD!"'s and "EEEEeeeeeew"'s, but I tried to cover everything.  E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G.  I told him that everyone masturbates, and not to feel guilty about it.  "Even the pricipal?" he wondered.  "Even the principal", I answered.  (I did have to laugh a little internally at that because although I'm not certain that the principal masturbates, one could assume so.  Looking back, I probably SHOULD have pleaded the fifth.  I can't wait for the letter from the school about that one.  Remember my previous post about "My mom said..."?  Good Lord.  "My mom said that the principal masturbates" would go down in history.)  I told him that he's not going to "break" himself and he's not going to go to hell.  "Don't do it at Grandma's house.  Don't do it at church.  What you do in the privacy of your bedroom or the bathroom is YOUR business", I said.  He looked relieved.   I explained, in great detail and complete with illustrations, sexually transmitted diseases.  (He discontinued to look relieved.)  We talked about menstruation (I don't know WHY I threw that in there.  Give me a break!  I was on a ROLL!), we talked about pregnancy, we talked about orgasms, we talked about zits and hair in weird places. E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G.

I just didn't want Timmy to be like me, abysmally uninformed (I thought oral sex was sex you talked about until I was a senior in high school), or worse yet, to learn erroneous information from some kid in the back of the bus.  Who knows what they would be telling him?!  Jeez, the mind reels.  Hey, I went to public school.  AND rode the bus.

So, it lasted a good hour; I finally excused him.  I thought it had gone pretty well!  I was feeling damn good about myself.  "I could do this for a living!", I thought. "I could go to other people's houses and give THEIR kids 'The Talk'".  Little did I know, I was actually doing just that, indirectly.  Apparently, my "Talk" was WAAAAAAAY more in-depth than what was being offered at the school (the school nurse had vaguely brushed over "body changes".  Sheesh!), and I had forgotten to advise my son to keep our discussion private, so he is now the foremost authority on the subject in the fifth grade.  I have actually heard that some seventh graders have been consulting him on a variety of subjects.  I have received some telephone calls.


So, lesson learned.  Overkill?  My husband says I swatted a fly with a nuclear warhead.  Maybe I could tone it down a notch the next time around.  There is no escaping the fact that my son will be going through puberty.  At least he is, um, well informed.  *SIGH*  
 

Baby napping, begrudgingly, in his crib.  I think.








Timmy:  "Is it contagious?"
Dr. McDonald:  "Highly."
Timmy:  "Well, gimme ten bucks and I'll make sure those kids in the waiting room will be seeing you again REEEEEAL soon!"

Yep.  You read that right.  That was the actual interaction between my son and his pediatrician yesterday.  Why are my kids so embarrassing?  Are yours?  Are everyone's?  I'm talking have-no-mercy, complete humiliation embarrassing.  Like, "My mom said you really should wear underpants under your pajamas if you're gonna bend over like that to get your paper", (to the neighbor).  Or, "My mom said that she *can't* believe that you have your master's degree since there were so many mistakes in your letter", (to the teacher).  How about , "My mom said she didn't HAVE to drive the speed limit since there were no cops around", (to the cop who was, in fact, around).


These are small reminders for me: I NEED TO LEARN TO WATCH WHAT I SAY AROUND MY KIDS  BECAUSE THEY WILL NARK ON ME.

We all should, really...watch what we say around our kids.  Not only will they repeat whatever it is, they will do so at most inopportune moments.  Well, there's no way to safeguard yourself.  For instance, you can't really say, "Mommy is going to say something mean and she doesn't want anyone else to know about it, OK?"  If I did that, they would pay EXTRA close attention, and take notes!  Nope...I just have to learn to filter.  I have been on the receiving end of "My mom said...." before, too, so I know it's not just me.  Hey!  News flash: KIDS ARE EMBARRASSING.

It's not just what they say, either.  For a while, my kids' main purpose in life was to get out of the house with no underpants on.  WHAT??!!  I'm BUSY!  I don't always have time to CHECK these things!  We were leaving for church and I had given the kids the once-over.  Hair combed?  Check.  Church clothes?  Check.  Teeth brushed?  Check.  Out the door we went.   On the way, my mother-in-law (MIL) called to say she could keep the "children" while we attended mass.  Nice, right?  Her place is on the way, so we just dropped them off.  Hubs and I went to mass, enjoyed a nice quiet worship, and went back to pick up the kids.  Well, there MIL stood, on her front porch, with a great big smile; she looked like the cat who had eaten the canary.  "Neither of your children have underwear on", she couldn't wait to inform me.  "D'you think that's appropriate?  I mean, she's got a dress on and all...and you WERE going to CHURCH.  I could GET them some, you know...if they NEEDED any."  My mind drifted to the several dozen pairs, folded neatly in their drawers....
KIDS ARE EMBARRASSING.

I will leave you with a fine example.  In the women's dressing room when Timmy was about 5yrs old-


Timmy:  "Mommy! Ewwwww!  Mommy!  Lookit your underwear!!  They're WAAAY in your butt!!!  EWWWW! Lookit, Mommy!"
Me:  "Yes, Timmy...I know.  Please, shhhhhh!"
Timmy: (louder) "No, Mommy...I mean it!  Look how far your underwear are up your butt!!!!"
Me: "Timmy, SHHHH!  I KNOW.  They're supposed to be like that!  Now, SHHHH!"
Timmy: (screaming at the top of his lungs) " OH, MY GOD!  They're SUPPOSED to be like that???"


Yep.  My life, in a nutshell.

AND ONE MORE THING....

Completely non-sequitur:  What is up with babies smiling at nothing??  Every parent out there reading this can relate.  We coo, we tease, we make little ookie wookie, iddle-widdle voices at our babies in *hopes* of the gummy reward: a full-on, wide-n-goofy baby smile.  But do they smile at us? Nope.  Nothin'.  My guy is two months.  He is smiling at random, but never at me.  He smiles at the ceiling fan.  He smiles at motes of dust.  He smiles at my husband.  I'm pretty sure he's smiling at the disembodied; it makes me a little nervous when he's sitting in his chair and something OBVIOUSLY catches his attention, and then, yep-there it is, the gummy smile.  Complete with drool.  What is he effing smiling at?!?! OK-  I'm a little tired, but Sisi used to do that shit all the time and it would WIG ME OUT!  We were sitting in the chair in the living room one time when she was pretty little; she was just starting to talk well, so she must have been three or four.  She suddenly sat upright on my lap, pointed to the (empty) corner of the room and said, "Who's that man?"  I could feel my throat tighten and that superstitious prickle crept up the back of my neck and I squeaked, "I don't know...is he nice?".  Hee hee, so like me.  I'm not upset that she's seeing ghosts, I just want to make sure that they're of the friendly variety.

On a side note, it is pretty hilarious what we'll do to make our kids smile.  ESPECIALLY for pictures.  I was at the mall at Easter time a while ago, trying desperately to get my then toddler to crack a grin for the stupid Easter Bunny picture.  Jeez.  He FINALLY sat still on the darn rabbits' lap, but then he wouldn't smile for the camera.  He wouldn't even LOOK at the camera.  He just wanted to check out that huge rabbit!  I can't say that I blame him.  I'd have done the same thing.  Santa Claus?  Forget it.  The only pictures I have with Santa are jolly, smiling Santa and shrieking, red-faced, tear-streaked kids with stiff arms pressing against Santa's rosy cheeks.   I always thought that it was strange that my kids would accept the notion of a huge talking rabbit, but they were terrified of a grandfatherly figure in a red-and-white suit.

So, there I was in the mall, jumping around like a huge freak rabbit with a stuffed duckie on my head, screaming "Quack, quack, quack..."  Egad.  Well, good thing I checked my dignity.  There it was, waiting for me by the door.

Baby napping.  On-the-breast.

As an interesting turn of events, it comes to pass that I have a new-found appreciation for chamomile tea!  Bonus!  That NEVER happens.  When was the last time you adopted a new and healthier habit to replace an old and naughty one, and found that you actually prefer the healthy alternative? Chamomile tea is yummy.  Of course, I'm so mellow at this point that my husband thinks I'm smoking bongs all day. (I'm not, just so you know. What?  I'm NOT!)  But this tea does make me CHILL OUT.  It occurs to me that I may have had an, um, intense personality back in the day with all that caffeine. 

Now, if I could muster a new-found appreciation for celery, I'd be in good shape!  Literally.  I had a baby eight weeks and two days ago, and okay, let's face it- I really can't say that I JUST had a baby anymore.  See, in MY mind, I still look like I did when I was seventeen; I am constantly shocked when my butt bumps into things that I'm positive I should have cleared with room to spare.  I even look behind at my butt in disbelief, as though it had hit the counter on its own accord and now it needs a good talkin' to...
But, I shouldn't really pout too much.  I had a good run.  I was a skinny bitch for a long time, and now, maybe I should just embrace my new, matronly physique.  What a drastic change from a raging, several pot-a-day habit (again, not THAT kind) to a mild-mannered cuppa tea here and there.  And everywhere.  Aw, who am I kiddin'?  I will obsess over the damn tea until my poor child develops tea-leaf shaped earlobes or some other unfortunate side effect.  Then the Dr. will tell me that I can't have THAT anymore, either.  And what does she mean by "moderation", anyway?  Who DOES that?   I'm just not that kind of person!  I can't just have one or two of something that I like!  I had this same problem with tequila.

So, I visualize it like this: coffee=racehorse body, tea=overstuffed armchair body.  Oh, Lord help me.  Finally the face reflects the madness within.  If I start crocheting doilies and adopting cats, would someone please just drag me into the backyard and put me out of my misery?

Baby-on-breast...

Me: "Do you have non-dairy creamer?"
Tim Horton's Employee: "Yes.  We have skim milk."
Me: "Is that a joke?"
Tim Horton's Employee: "Yes." (looks sheepish) "It's two-percent".

*Sigh*

The pediatrician told me today that I can't have any more coffee.  I suggested decaf, but she informed me that it's actually a combination of the caffeine and uric acid in the coffee that is causing my baby to have reflux, so decaf will have a similar result.  Being a highly educated and well-experienced mother of three, my response was a poignant "WHaaAA??!  But I don't WANNA give up coffee!!! "   I admit that I had not been entirely diligent about my diet during this nursing period, and I now see that my several cups (okay, pots) of coffee daily might have a negative effect on my poor infant who looks to me for his sole sustenance.  It's been a while, people!  I had forgotten that whole bit about the transferring into breastmilk et al...I gave up the drinking and smoking long ago.  Yep.  Farewell,  coffee.  I do wish, however, that I had ordered that cup on my way to the pediatrician's office so that I could have had one last indulgence.  I was so offended by the non-dairy thing that I just HAD to leave.  In a huff.  I was already sleep deprived; add caffeine withdrawal and things might have gotten violent. 

I CAN have sweets, though, and I settled into a bag of peppermint oreo-type sandwich cookies (a gift from an elderly client of my husband that undoubtedly came from a Dollar Tree.  Which is perfectly fine with me; I was just noticing that the bag indicated that they were "Rippin' Good", and that is not a catch phrase that usually resides in mainstream supermarkets.  I started wondering about the advertising giant who saw THAT catch phrase and raised his eyebrows, frowning and nodding his head and thought : "Hey, this is GOOD!"  Hmmmm.  Not only is "rippin' good" a phrase my sixties throw-back mother would use, but she would also cut it out of the packaging and glue it onto a collage, complete with crazy doodles and other snippets that say "Righteous" or "Get your Groove On!" and mail it to me for no particular reason.)  As it turns out, they were as a matter of fact, rippin' good and I ate several dozen before stuffing them unceremoniously back into the cupboard. 

On a side note:  If you think about the injustice of it all, it's staggering.   My kids will eat spinach, SPINACH, mind you (and often it is CANNED spinach-YUCK!) for two measly cookies, and yet, I can polish off a whole sleeve for breakfast if I see fit (which I often do).  Don't tell them.  It will stunt their morale.

So, no more coffee.  But that means no more Tim Horton's employees who, I'm pretty sure, have been placed on this planet to torment me.


Question of the day:  When was the last time I took a shower?
Answer of the day:  What is this "shower" you speak of?

Baby-on-breast...I'm wondering if everyone else's house gets this bad, or just mine.  How do people do it?  Do they hide and stuff and shove when visitors are expected?? Or, like me (as irony will have it) are their houses beautiful for weeks...and then, the one time I let it go, someone stops by and it is as trashed as ever.  Is it the same for everyone?  Is it the Human Condition?  Do women in darkest Africa sigh and raise their eyebrows and look around dissapprovingly at their huts? You win this round, Four Bedroom Three-And-a-Half Bath...  

"This darn work just never gets done, this darn work it never gets done...we work and work from sun til sun, BUT...This darn work it never gets done!" We used to sing this when I was a kid.  Now it's 2 o'clock and this darn work is still not done.  Not even started.  I walked into the kitchen to brew ANOTHER pot of coffee, and glanced despairingly at the sink; another baleful cast over the counters and one more for the overflowing trashcan.  Ahhh, the trashcan.  I made my stand about the trashcan.  I hear so many times "I'm not doing THAT...THAT's WOMAN's work", so I've decided that taking out the trash is MAN's work.  I made the announcement the other day.  I'm no longer taking out the trash.  I will not do it.  I don't care if it is spilling over onto the floor.  I don't care if the evening news team comes in with their cameras and on-air personalities scoffing aghast  "...could you believe these people were living in such squalor?"  I don't care.  I WILL NOT TAKE OUT THE TRASH. 

My plan is to have the entire house so sparkling clean that the trashcan blares like a loud, obnoxious trumpet, and the men in my life are so offended by its blatant presence that they MUST remove it from our nest.  Such a good plan; I can see it now...trashcan, stewing in the corner of my gleaming kitchen, grumbling and burping; so vile and unlikeable that my husband or son can no longer stand it marring the perfect landscape and they scoop up the drawstrings and haul it out...

But for now, it fits the decor perfectly. *Sigh*.   Coming soon: The Counter of my Discontent

Question of the day:  Is that baby vomit in my bellybutton?
Answer of the day:  Oh, Dear God...I hope so.