Down Goes Beth! May 29, 2008

So we had quite the pandemonium at 5:30 a.m. It all starts out normally enough: Rob and Beth are asleep upstairs as Beth had come to bed with us when we went to bed because she’d woken up. Robby and I are asleep on the couch because he’d woken up at 2:15 a.m. and wouldn’t go back down. The alarm goes off at 5:30 a.m., loud as hell. I hate that alarm clock. I also hate that Rob won’t move tha alarm clock closer to his side of the bed. Right now, it’s kitty-corner to the foot of the bed on a little nightstand that won’t fit next to his side of the bed. So, being a hard sleeper, it takes him a full minute of alarm going off to wake up and go turn it off. Hmph.

Anyway, the alarm goes off. Sixty seconds later, he turns it off. I hear Beth slide out of bed and shuffle over to the steps. One little foot crept down off the top step. Then my heart stopped. I just saw a flurried mass of Beth tumble clumsily down half the steps. I set the baby down in the Pack ‘n Play as fast as I could without dropping him (but I most definitely woke him up in a less-than-pleasant manner), and screamed, “OH SHIT!!”

That was met with, “WHAT?!?!”

Me: “BETH FELL DOWN THE STAIRS!!”

Him: “OH SHIT!!”

He ran down the stairs and I ran up, we met her in the middle where she was on her back, going headfirst down the steps. She had her left leg through the railing, which I think was the only thing that stopped her from going all the way to the bottom. She immediately started wailing, which although terribly heartbreaking is a good sign, and Rob picked her up and carried her to the bed. I asked her if she was alright, and she said, in between sobs, “Yeaaahh!”

We asked her about boo-boos, and the only one she pointed out was the one on her knee, where she must have banged it in the initial fall. After that, she was fine, as though nothing had happened. She walked fine, talked normally, never vomited or acted strangely. She has been telling me and everyone else all morning about how she fell down the the stairs!

Seriously folks, it is TERRIFYING to see your child fall down the steps. I used to stop breathing when she’d fall while learning to walk…this is a whole new ballgame. You have absolutely no control over anything and it stops you in your tracks. It’s like the whole incident slips into slow motion and in those two or three seconds, you begin to imagine the worst, but hope for the best.

I know I’m starting to sound a bit melodramatic, especially considering the fact that she’s fine now, save for an emerging bruise. But it was really, really scary!

Two Posts for the Price of One! May 28, 2008

I missed Musical Monday. I make my own “thing,” and I forget said “thing.”

Then I missed Timewarp Tuesday. DAMMIT.

Okay, so here’s your song for Monday:

And my memory:

I was just sharing this story with Rob last night. My cohort in this shenanigan reads my blog, so I’m sure she’ll appreciate the story. It was my senior year of high school, I was a varsity basketball cheerleader, as was A. It was S.O.P. to go to the triplet’s house after Friday-night games to spend the night and hang out on Saturday, so naturally, after the dance, A and I packed up the Party Tempo and headed out.

It had snowed that night, but having grown up in The Land of Ice and Snow, we didn’t bat an eyelash. We made the familiar left turn on to their road, never noticing a change in the road beneath the tires. We saw a Jeep on the side of the road, seemingly in the ditch, and then we saw a couple walking up ahead of it. Being the good citizens that we are, we decided to stop and offer them a ride to the nearest house (which, as it happened, was our friends house; Conneautville is pretty sparsely populated out in the “country”) to make a phone call.

I hit the brakes. Nothing.

I hit the brakes harder. This time, I realize that although my ABS is activated, we’re still traveling somewhere around 20 mph. I only had two years of driving under my belt, so I didn’t have the presence of mind to steer into the turn…so into the ditch we went, placing us in the same boat as the unlucky pedestrians we tried to rescue.

Now here’s an image for you: two young girls, in cheerleading uniforms and letterman’s jackets and sneakers, tippy-toeing about half a mile down an unlit, wilderness-surrounded road around 11 p.m. The whole road was a sheet of black ice, right into and including the ditch. Our half-mile walk was more of a half-mile slip ‘n slide. We had to abandon the pizza we picked up on our way there, neither of us would have been able to carry it. [For those who are worried and need closure to this aspect of the story: A, N, and M went back to get the pizza. It was cold, but edible.]

The next morning, we had to call - of all people, this was the ONLY person with a vehicle capable of pulling my little cart out of the ditch - my ex. This was mighty embarrassing. How happy am I that I live somewhere now that it NEVER SNOWS?!

The Memorial Day Miracle May 27, 2008

There were two, actually.

Miracle Number One:

Beth stopped eating vegetables around 15 months. Maybe 18 months. She just stopped. It was like someone flipped a switch in her head and all of a sudden, she hated vegetables. She wouldn’t even touch them on her plate, she’d act as though they weren’t there. It wasn’t long after that when she gave up all fruits, save for bananas. Then meat went out the window. She’ll eat chicken, so long as it’s fried, which I never make. She has subsisted for about two years on peanut butter sandwiches, bananas, popcorn, wheat crackers, refried beans, milk, and water.

Yeah, I know. It’s not for lack of us trying to get her to eat the food we’re serving her…we give her a child-sized portion of whatever we’re having that night, every night, she just pushes it around on her plate and ignores it. Then last night something happened. We had Rob’s dad, stepmom and brother over for Memorial Day. Beth “helped” her YaYa (stepgrandma) make the salad. When dinner time came, rather than waste salad, I cut up a few bites of spare rib, threw a few potatoes on her plate, and a half ear of corn. She took it all back to the kitchen and asked for salad.

*blink*

Salad? What???? I’m sorry, there must be something in my ear…did she just say salad? So I gave her a little pile of salad and off she went. She munched on a leaf of lettuce like it was a cookie. Then she asked for carrots! So I broke out my bag of baby carrots and gave her one. She bit into it and ate that bite. She was done after that, she put the carrot on my plate and walked away. I was shocked! She ate a bite of carrot and a leaf of lettuce! A diet fit for a rabbit, I tell you!

I’m thinking that if I allow her to help prep the meal, she might be more inclined to eat it. What do you think?

Miracle Number Two:

This story begins on Sunday. We live in a 2nd floor walk-up and our door leads to the outdoors. So when we walk out our front door, we walk out a short catwalk and then down a flight of cement stairs. This is mighty inconvenient when you have a 11-lb. stroller and a 19-lb. boy to carry down. Your options are to either carry them separately (stroller folded and locked in one hand, baby in the opposite arm) or to put baby in stroller, belt him in, and cradle the seat of the stroller while you carry it down, part in parcel so to speak. I always choose the latter because my son is a squirmin’ vermin, it usually takes two arms to carry him, just to keep him from diving to the floor.

So my usually graceful husband follows suit and does the same. We’re leaving to take a walk to the store but before we go, I want to run some garbage to the dumpster. He leaves Beth at the front door, me gathering garbage, and starts down the steps since he knows it’s slow-going in order to not kill yourself on the damn things. About 15 seconds later, I hear the baby scream bloody murder…and nothing else. No husband calming or shushing the baby, stroller being pushed, nothing. Baby’s still screaming. I grab one last bag and dart out the door, hastily locking it, and rush to the end of the catwalk to see the stroller perfectly upright and my husband standing up.

Once I check the baby and see that he’s fine, just scared out of his mind because he’d gone from being in a sitting position to a reclined position, I pop his binky in and extract the story from my bleeding, limping husband.

He thought he was on the bottom step. He SO wasn’t. He was on the next one up. So when he “stepped off the last step,” he took a big step, completely missed the real last step, and slammed the stroller into the ground, on all four wheels, which is what jarred the cheap-ass stroller’s backrest into the reclined position. Hubby, however, went down hard, scraping his right knee and shin up and twisting his left ankle. For the next 24 hours, all I heard about was how much his ankle hurt, how it wasn’t getting any better, etc.

Then, last night, our 2nd Memorial Day Miracle: he turned his foot outward, heard a *pop* and all of a sudden, his ankle felt great! Like nothing had ever happened. He jogged around, jumped up and down. This morning he says it’s a little sore, I figure it’s from it hurting so much for the first 24 hours. Our theory is that when he twisted it, a tendon or ligament slipped out of place and that’s what was causing all the pain, but now that it’s back in place, it’s just a little sore from being stretched.

All that aside, we had a fantastic Memorial Day!

Maybe I just don’t understand… May 25, 2008

How does one become so involved with a video game that he mentally checks out of life around him? So oblivious to his surroundings that his daughter can come up him with her doll, prop her doll up in the same place where she usually sits (with daddy’s arm around her shoulders while she snuggles up to his chest) and tell him “Baby gets snuggles,” and all he can do is glance over really quick to see what she put there, grunt, and go back to his game.

I understand needing down time, even alone time, but when your wife is taking care of both kids and letting you relax, you can’t break away from the game that you beat four years ago (Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas) long enough to enjoy your daughters company…am I in the wrong here? Your now-wildly independent daughter who usually wants nil to do with us these days is actively seeking your participation in her play and all you can do is grunt?!

Normally, when the borrowed-from-his-brother PS2 isn’t here, he’s a totally active and involved dad. We sold his playstation last year. I was SO GLAD to see it go. When he got on a PS2 kick, usually with Tony Hawk or Tiger Woods, he’d go on for days. It was on when he got home from work and didn’t get turned off until either a show we watch came on or it was time for bed.

Maybe it’s because I never owned a video game system growing up, not even an NES. I knew how to play a few games; my friends all had them. My mom was adamant that I wasn’t going to vegetate in front of the TV with those things and in retrospect, I’m really glad she didn’t give in to my year-after-year, Christmas-after-birthday-after-Christmas begging for an NES…I wanted nothing else, just that. Well, and some games. And she never got them for me. Hallelujah.

So anyway, I don’t understand the draw, the allure. And it really yanks my chain when he does this. I guarantee you, sometime within the next six months, he’ll be rattling off reasons we need a PS3. Mark my words!

Sock holeitis. May 22, 2008

My husband has sock issues. First of all, he hates anything except crew socks, which drives me nuts because only old men wear those socks. He wears them with shorts. He has two pairs of ankle athletic socks, but only wears them if all the crew socks are dirty.

But that isn’t his issue, it’s mine. His issue involves the multiplying and enlarging holes in the toes of his socks. He goes through probably two dozen pairs a year because of holes! He has to wear steel-toed boots for work and he claims that the boots are to blame. I can believe it.

Here comes the funny part: he panics if a toe gets caught in the hole. I mean to tell you, he starts kicking his foot violently, scraping his foot on the floor, frantically trying to remove his shoe so he can free the toe. One night we were watching TV and out of the blue, I hear, “Help! HELP!”

Trapped toe.

I really wish I could catch this on camera. It’s a “you had to have been there” story, I know, but this morning, he’s staring at his stocking feet, a hole in each, and announces, “I think you’re going to have to start darning my socks.”

Ah, I love him.

Moi. May 22, 2008

Rules:
1. Post these rules at the beginning of the meme
2. Each player answers the questions about themselves
3. At the end of the post, the player tags 5 people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment to let them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog

What were you doing 10 years ago?
~ I was probably taking my finals for my senior year of high school. Seniors always got their finals a week before the underclassmen because we had the last official week from school off for graduation rehearsal and various other senior events. I was sorta kinda dating the guy I took to prom but spent most of my time hanging out with DC, ED, RN, TS and SH. I was also getting ready for my freshman year at SRU.

Five snacks I enjoy:
~ Kettle corn, ice cream (I prefer Ben & Jerry’s Neopolitan Dynamite), Wheat Thins & spinach dip, cookies, and Cheetos

Five things I would do if I were a billionaire:
~ Pay off all of our debt, give money to our parents, buy new cars, buy a huge property somewhere in the midwest or maybe in one of the Carolinas, build our own house (and furnish it, of course), and then invest in a shop for Rob. It’s always been his dream to own his own shop, and since I don’t really have a dream except to own nice things, I figure we’ll go with his and mine will be a residual effect!

Five jobs I have had:
~ I’ve been a cashier at Country Fair and Giant Eagle, a prep cook at Hoss’s and Ponderosa, and a receptionist for a plumbing supply company.

Three bad habits:
~ I’m a chronic interrupter, I’m a Negative Nelly, and I have a tendency to forget debit card transactions.

Five places I have lived:
~ Conneautville, PA…Slippery Rock, PA…Fremont, CA…Brentwood, CA…and Hayward, CA

People I would like to get to know
~ I don’t know if all these people ever visit my blog, but I tag: Mr. Lady, AJ, Amanda, Heather, and Diana. Those last three can blog it on MySpace!

Ever have a day where you hated you? May 22, 2008

I don’t hate me…not the inner me. I stand by my beliefs, both spiritual and political, and I’m a firm believer in disciplining a child. They’re children. They need structure, they need rules and above all, they need PARENTS, not FRIENDS. I think I have a wonderfully dry, sometimes self-deprecating sense of humor and I don’t mind that I’m one of those people who needs to be in the know. I hate not knowing what’s going on. I’m proud that I’m a penny-pincher now. I’m happy that I’m going to stop buying crackers under the guise of “Well, they’re whole grain, so they’re good for us.” That’s bullshit. They’re still carbs, and they’re filling my daughter’s belly and giving her an excuse to not eat her dinner of baked chicken and broccoli.

But I hate my body. At this point in my life, I can’t find a feature on me that I’m okay with. I’m fat. My skin has gone to hell. I won’t wear tank tops into public because my arms are too lumpy. I hate wearing shorts because in my eyes, my knees have gotten puffy. My chest, through no fault of my own thankfully, is a disgrace. I have more chins than a Chinese phone book. I’ve never liked my nose, it’s large and bulbous. I’m in desperate need of a hair cut but can’t bring myself to scrape together $25.00 to get it cut, because that money should be the OhShitMoney. Wouldn’t I feel like a heel if I got my hair cut and then I ran out of formula or diapers? I feel like I’m nobody because of my body.

I avoid mommy’s groups because I’m afraid I’ll be excluded for being fat. There are people out there who have serious problems with fat people, and I live in constant fear that the friends I’m making are those people. I wonder sometimes if the friends I had in high school and college were those types too, but were too nice to make an issue of it. Or they did make an issue out of it, once I was out of earshot. But this is what holds me back. That, plus I know I won’t be comfortable in a group full of skinny, healthy, wealthy, shiny-haired people with terrific lives and very few real worries.

I screwed the pooch on the gym membership. Now it’s looking like it’ll be July before I can sign up. Fuck. I don’t feel safe enough in our neighborhood to go walking or (excuse me whilst I laugh at the idea) running first thing in the morning or at sundown. I do have my “Biggest Loser” workout on DVD, I could do that, once my baby is happy to sit in his playpen and play for half an hour. He hates that thing. I’d put him on the floor, but then I run the risk of stepping on him because although he’s not quite crawling yet, he’s one hell of a roller and can make it across a room in about 30 seconds!

And there you have it: I’m an excuse-maker. I’ve got a million and one reasons I can’t lose some weight before I get a gym membership. I’m acting like it’s my Golden Ticket. I need to quit my bitching and whining and just do it!!! I want to do this not just for the sake of living past 100, but for my children, so they don’t have to watch me go through what my mom and sister have gone through. Both of them had heart attacks before they were 40. Mom’s had an open-heart surgery and a heart transplant since then. Heart disease runs on both sides of my family. I’m at a big risk for Type II diabetes because of my two rounds of gestational diabetes. And yet I’m having one hell of a time getting my act together!

I really need to put my best fat leg forward on this…mom’s coming to visit sometime this fall. She’s been my biggest critic when it comes to my weight - I have to disappoint her and give her no fodder for comments this time!

So, readers, offer me some inspiration. Kick me in the ass, verbally speaking!

Timewarp Tuesday May 21, 2008

My next new “thing” will be Timewarp Tuesday. I’ll use Tuesdays to recant an old memory. It could be from my very early childhood, could be from a few months ago. I love memories, even the bad ones. They remind me of who I was, who I am now, and how much I’ve changed (or haven’t changed, depending on the story!). Plus, it keeps my mind on its toes.

So, today’s memory involves the entire summer of 2001. I hated, and I do mean abhorred my job. I worked as a buffet attendent at Ponderosa (for those of you unfamiliar with the restaurant, it’s similar to Sizzler or Bonanza; a cheap-ass steakhouse with a hot buffet and salad bar), sometimes working in the back as a prep cook. The best parts? I didn’t have any TreadSafe shoes, so I slipped and skated everywhere I walked that wasn’t covered by a mat, and I had to self-train for the prep cook position. I had no trainer at all. Just a dirty stack of recipes. Nice.

Anyway, I worked damn near 40 hours a week. It sucked. Also, I couldn’t ask for a smoke break, I had to ask if I could “go sweep the parking lot,” which was code for, “I know it’s not time for my break, but I’m desperate and will sweep out a parking spot if it means I can get my nicotine fix.” I worked with a bunch of teenagers, save for Crazy Man-Whose-Name-Will-Not-Be-Revealed-For-Privacy’s-Sake, who had maybe four teeth, never showered, and was quite literally off his rocker.

But then there was the other half of my summer. My best friend had dropped out of college and was living two doors down with her grandmother while working full-time up in Erie. She never worked nights, only days, so even if I had to close, she’d be awake when I got home. Unless there was drinking to be done (and we did our fair share that summer, out at the Mudhole and a few other obscure locations, save for the night we downed a bottle of Black Velvet in my room and she passed out under my nightstand), we were off walking around Conneautville, sometimes for 2-3 hours. Not a soul in sight, save for the occasional drunk on the bench by the vacant furniture store, or Ned Flanders - the then-lone local cop - trolling for stoned teenagers. We’d walk, smoke (cigarettes, people, not cigaweed!), and enjoy the quiet. Then we’d listen to Pink Floyd and start to think we saw faces in the trees.

You should see Conneautville. It’s like a little ghost town, a shell of a once-vibrant mapdot. There’s a handful of old buildings left, but they don’t house what they did 50 years ago. Nobody moves to Conneautville anymore, not really…they all move away. Honestly, I’d love to move back. You live out here, in the concrete jungle, for a while and you begin to miss the simplicity of a place like Conneautville.

Right next to my childhood home

The hardware store

Standing in front of the hardware store

May 19, 2008

Musical Monday!

My new thing, folks, will be Musical Monday. I love music, always have, and I want to share it with you. Every Monday, I’ll have a video of a song I love. Today, I’ll be serving Blind Melon’s “No Rain.”

Srsly… May 17, 2008

more song chart memes
I really, truly, for the LIFE OF ME, don’t get Emo. Do you mean to tell me that, at the tender age of 16, you are that misunderstood??? Really? You have that much rage, that much pent-up frustration, that much angst, that you simply must dress in all black clothes, skinny jeans, and make sure your hair doesn’t get combed and hangs in your face? That you actually get your hair cut so that it achieves that effect naturally every day?

Or do you do it to be “different?” I have news for you: you’re just like everyone else you hang out with. You’re all wearing the same clothes, with the same hairstyle, and the same overdone dramatic makeup. Seriously, you’d do a stage actor proud. You’re no different than the kid next to you. In fact, you’re no different than the basketball player, the kid in chem class who earns straight As, or the quiet, shy girl who has only one friend. You’re just like any other teenager. The only difference is you look stupid.

But that’s just my opinion.