The Birthday Boy

Long time no see, huh?

Sorry about that. But I had good reason… in July, my baby boy, apple of my eye, shining star in my world, turned 1. The big O-N-E.

We had a big party for him at our house, and while we like to say it was jungle-themed, we were probably the only ones that noticed. We didn't rent any mobile petting zoos, didn't take everyone to the zoo, didn't hire Doug the Monkey Guy (though I told my husband he could and I'm pretty sure having an excuse to hire him to bring at least one monkey to our house is the only reason he wanted to have a baby). We ordered a bunch of stuff from Oriental Trading -- if you've never ordered from there for party supplies before, you're seriously missing out -- like animal-print hand fans, animal-shaped beach balls, tablecloths, party hats and the like.

I *LOVED* the cake my mother-in-law Carol made for the baby. She and my brother-in-law Mike made the little animals on the top, and I was absolutely blown away. It was absolutely adorable.



My sister made a smash cake for the baby, the cutest, most frosting-covered thing you've ever seen, which he promptly squished between all of his fingers while shoving fistfuls of butter-based frosting into his little eager mouth. Goofball. He's a fan of the vanilla frosting, I think, just like his momma. I'm so proud.



I'm glad he made a mess. How many chances in your life do you really have to do that, right? (Besides every other birthday and your wedding. Well, whatever. Cake + hands of fury + no guilt on your birthday = rockin' good time.)



In anticipation of the big day -- the party was July 17th -- we decided to do something with just the three of us on his actual birthday, July 14th. John went and got a little cake at the grocery store, and we wrapped a little present we got him.

We were all excited. We got the big "1" candle and didn't even mind knowing we'd be cleaning chocolate frosting out of his ears and from under his fingernails. And who am I kidding -- I wanted to see his reaction to the cake! Was it delicious? Sweet? Something he's never had but now loves? Well, his reaction wasn't EXACTLY what I'd anticipated.







I think this pretty much sums it up for all three of us.

Though we're thrilled (wrong to feel a little accomplished that he's lived for a year?) that Johnny has turned one year old, we're a little sad too. As glad as I am that the newborn days are over, and as happy as I am to hear his little voice "talking" away when I see him every day, it's still a little sad. My baby's growing up!

I used to be cool

When my sister and I talk about our memories of high school, she always brings up that she considered me "popular."

I never, not once, thought of myself that way. I had a lot of friends, and they were from all sorts of different social circles. I got good grades, did extra-curriculars, and I was (am) nice. That was just what I did, and I have amazing memories of high school. I never thought of myself as anything but an average girl. It's a compliment, don't get me wrong, but I definitely don't think I was popular. I just smiled a lot.

I think I'm generally pretty easy to get along with. My entire life, I've had jobs working with people who were older than me. Most of the time, until I told them, they had no idea how old I was. I like older music, I like older movies, I know a lot of useless trivia from "before my time." I don't know, but I guess over the years, I have started to think of myself as a reasonably cool person. Until this morning.

I don't sleep a lot lately, so it wasn't a surprise to me when I found myself wide awake at 6am after going to sleep at about 1am. The baby was rustling around in his crib, making a noise here and there, in need of a diaper change and a feeding, and John and I could both hear him.

Being the people/parents we are, John's first reaction was to say that the baby was making "monkey noises, like in the jungle." That's when it happened.

(me, singing) "Welcome to the jungle, we've got poop and pee! We've got everything you want if you're a monkey!"

I think right then, I heard a SONIC boom. There was a crack in the world, and the earth stopped turning. I am officially the furthest can't-see-it-from-Pluto, I have no prayer of being "the hip mom," seriously-did-I-just-say-that thing from cool you've ever seen.

Literally, as soon as the words came out of my mouth, I knew I was committing a sin. John was hysterical laughing at me, and I knew my reign as "cool mom," even though it's only lasted 10 months, was officially over. I can blare all the Boston, Bon Jovi (DON'T HATE) and Van Halen I want from my iPod and car speakers, I could mix crowd sweat, a lock of Jani Lane's hair, an original Slippery When Wet tour t-shirt, my uncanny ability to rock Dr. Feelgood on the drums in Rock Band for Wii, the fact that I've seen Nine Inch Nails twice and Metallica once in the past five years and one of David Lee Roth's screams bottled in a jar... and I still wouldn't be cool. It's gone. Adios, au revoir, arrivederci, cool. You were a good friend with awesome hair and a kick-ass wardrobe that I borrowed from... and I shall miss you.

It's not as if I thought my cool chick status was going to last forever. I'm 25. I'm married. I have a baby. I work a desk job. I had my gallbladder out in March. Other than my exceptional vodka tolerance, I'm not exactly the picture of a rockin' good time on a Saturday night, but I at least thought I had a few good years left.

Though I suppose it should come as no surprise. I guess that while today may have marked the official passing of my cool phase, it's not the grim reaper's first deathblow to my ego.

During my time living in San Diego, I spent some time earning extra (piddly) money as a personal assistant to a woman who lived in a different part of the county. I would have to get up at 5am and drive to her house, pick up her two kids -- who at that time, were 7 and 15 -- and bring them to school every morning. I was 19.

Even though I was only four years older than her oldest son, I could NOT have been uncooler. Admittedly, it wasn't like I rolled up to their house in a Porsche, with Dr. Dre rattling the windows -- I pulled up in my '85 Volvo (praying it would make it up that hill with enough gas, because the gauge didn't work), listening to whatever oldies station would come in around there. But to that kid, I may as well have carted him around in a mini-van with a "PROUD SOCCER MOM" bumper sticker attached and given him a big hug and kiss in front of his friends.

At first, he made conversation with me about music and movies and whatever. He was a cool kid, and he went to a performing arts high school. But after a few months, he started asking me to drop him off a couple blocks away from the high school. "You're going to be late, though," I'd tell him. "That's alright. I'll run."

What was that noise? Oh, just my yearbook laughing at me while part of my soul dies.

I didn't think I'd be the popular girl forever, but I didn't think I'd be benched so soon. My only prayer is that '80s hair bands become cool again, we can afford for me to take drum lessons in the not-too-distant future and that this Justin Bieber kid (I still really have NO idea who that is) announces on Twitter that his favorite song is "Living After Midnight" by Judas Priest. Then maybe, JUST MAYBE, I'll get to play a few minutes of the game again.

Otherwise, I'm stuck using phrases like "all the rage" and "back when I was a kid" and not understanding why my kid won't want to have his friends over because he doesn't want his mom talking to them and ruining HIS cool image. Ah, how the tables have turned.

Bye bye cool, it was nice knowing you. If you know of any band in need of a fair-skinned redheaded chick drummer with a c-section scar, you know how to find me.

Lying is the best policy

Sorry that it's been a while. I got hit with end of quarter at work and then in the past few days, even better -- A STOMACH BUG!

It seemed to start with my mother-in-law who was not feeling well at all late last week, then spread to my husband on Saturday. I thought I'd escaped it when I was feeling fine on Monday, and John started to finally feel human again. We felt so well that we went out to lunch at Cracker Barrel, and then the ride home happened. As we pulled of 395 and were only about a mile from home, I got "the feeling" -- tunnel vision, sweating, stars, and I knew it was about to hit. John had to pull over and a line of southern Massachusetts traffic watched me lose my lunch out the car door. Suffice it to say, I won't be eating hashbrown casserole again anytime soon, because it tastes exactly the same coming back up.

I knew it was the beginning of feeling like crap for a few days, but had that "now that it's over, I feel a little better" feeling starting to set in. Temporarily.

We pulled into the driveway and I ran for the house, and lost the rest of my lunch. My husband grabbed me a pair of pajamas to change into, and as I went to grab a bottle of water, he walked back into the kitchen with an odd look on his face and something wrapped in a paper towel.

*It's right here that I have to stop for a second and say that in case you don't know me personally, you should know that I always have and always will fear two things -- rodents and reptiles. I think it's bizarre that people (who shall henceforth be referred to as "weirdos") have these as pets, and it will never be allowed in my house. If my son picks them up outside, there's nothing I can do, but we are not weirdos and thus, they will never be allowed VOLUNTARILY in my house.*

I ask what's wrong, he says nothing. John, what's wrong? Nothing. I can tell from your face, something is wrong. Are you OK? Do you feel OK? Yeah, I'm fine, he says. I feel fine. Well, what's wrong? Nothing, I just found cat puke in the living room.

I'm thinking, so? We've had three cats for two years and like humans, they occasionally puke.

Then it sets in... wait... what... ELSE did you find?

I ask -- was there an animal IN the puke?

...Yeah.

What was it?

...A kind you don't like.

For some reason, I immediately assumed it was one of the rodent version. I immediately started bawling my eyes out (please know I was weak and feeling like crap at the time) and telling him that now we have to move because I can't live in a house with this and I don't want it around the baby, and that's disgusting and what are we going to do?

He says Amy, it was one. It was VERY little. Don't worry. I say, if there was ONE, there are more, and I can't deal with that. That means there are BABY versions around here. He says Amy, they don't travel in packs. It's fine. This was a loner, and they don't carry diseases.

I look at him and ask... wait, what was it?

He says, a snake.

THIS IS WHERE I EFFING LOSE IT.

Since I was a little kid, I have had at least one dream about snakes every week. I have horrible, horrible dreams, despite never actually having had a bad experience (or any experience until now) with an actual snake. But that's OK. The bad dreams were enough.

I fly into the bathroom, fucking panicking. I felt creeped out of my skin completely. I come out slamming things, as if I have someone to be mad at -- FUCKING MOTHER NATURE I WILL END YOU -- and slamming my bathroom door will make everything better. I'm screaming, mostly because I have been forced to confront and LIVE WITH my worst fear and there is nothing I can do about it, but I am so afraid that maybe if I just keep screaming it will give me something I can control. So John looks at me like I'm a crazy person with lobsters crawling out of my ears tells me to take it easy, it was just one, it's not something that will EVER happen again.

Now, I know I asked. I know I begged, but I really wish he had lied.

I wish it had been like the Christmas Day night when John, me, my sister and her husband Sam were on our way to visit our grandmother and *accidentally* ran over an already-dead deer on her road in my sister's mini-van. The animal lovers we were raised to be, my sister was practically in tears at the thought that she had caused this creature further pain (trust me, it was long gone) AND ON THE DAY OF THE BABY JESUS' BIRTH NONETHELESS. We pulled into my grandmother's driveway and the guys said they'd check, but they were sure it hadn't done any damage. Sam reached underneath the car and pulled his hand out, covered in mud. He said to Chrissy, see? It's OK. It's just dirt. Only later did he and John pull me aside to tell me that the "mud" was actually blood, and that they had to spend a little time un-deering certain spots of the undercarriage and bumper in an effort to make her car look a little more like a mini-van and a little less like a murder scene. I kept it from her too -- LIKE THEY ASKED ME TO, SEE GUYS I AM TRUSTWORTHY -- until Chrissy said Sam had told her the truth a few weeks later. I wanted it to be THAT kind of lie.

Instead, I'm convinced I've been seeing wild animals all over my house. John says that what he picked up was the size of a worm, and he's pretty sure it got in when I left the door to our sunporch open to enjoy the weather the night before while I was cooking. I am now also terrified to open that door. I considered going out to grab a water today, then thought, nah, I don't need it THAT badly. I'm afraid to put anything on the floor for fear I'll reach down and find a slithery little enemy. I took a shower a little while ago and was convinced I saw something jump in the room with me. It's that bad. Or perhaps that's the two days of barf-induced hunger strike talking.

So, talk to me. What are your fears? What's that one thing that causes you to just freak the eff out like a little kid?

And if you're afraid of deer blood... don't worry. It's just mud.

Are you an owlcoholic?

There's been a pretty cool phenomenon that's hit the internet in the last week, and it doesn't involve a celebrity death, Hollywood, Snookie, or a reality show -- well, of the human kind.

It involves a barn owl named Molly whose been watched by the world as her five eggs, all laid in February, have begun to hatch.

Molly at 5pm Friday (now!)... just chillin' and sitting on Max, Pattison, Austin and the two remaining eggs.

Molly and her "partner" McGee are so far the proud parents of three owlets -- Max, Pattison, and Austin. The wooden box they reside in occupies a spot in the yard of Carlos and Donna Royal in San Marcos, California. Molly and McGee took up residence, according to the local media's reporting, a couple months ago.

You can view Molly -- who is still waiting on two babies -- anytime, 24 hours a day, from a webcam broadcasting online. The hatching of the three owlets so far have been caught on camera and watched by worldwide audiences.

Max, the first hatchling, and the eggs which haven't yet hatched, are just visible as Molly moves away from feeding him.

One little warning -- for the squeamish: If you have kids, and want to show them Molly and McGee, you may want to check out the screen first. Barn owls dine on rodents, and there have been a few times when I clicked to find them chowing down on a rat. Ew.

Second warning -- this can be addictive. Since I found out about Molly about a week and a half ago, I've been watching non-stop. I even pulled my sister in on it. We find ourselves texting each other between 7am and 10pm alerting each other to owl updates.

Check out Molly and McGee, and watch for their two other babies to hatch sometime between today and March 31st at this link. You can also check out the previously recorded videos (look at the screenshots just below the live stream) of the owlets hatching, and Molly tending to each of the new babies. Enjoy!

Apparently, I'm not the only one with Rocky Point Park memories

Several times in various places on my blog (like my run-in with Patrick Swayze in the early '90s), I've made reference to Rocky Point Park. It was an amusement park in Warwick, Rhode Island, much smaller than your typical Six Flags-sized establishment, where you could eat your weight in clam chowder and fritters (no, I'm not licking my lips. They're just dry) in the giant hall and then feel it coming back up as you spent the afternoon riding the Freefall, bumper cars and the Skyliner and walking through the House of Horrors.

Guess which one of those places was secretly my favorite? Clearly the dining hall.

With my dad and his spectacular 'stache in the "World's Largest Shore Dinner Hall," circa 1993.

So with all these great memories our family has of all our trips to Rocky Point, it's a shame that we can't relive them since the park closed its doors in 1995. But in poking around on the interwebs tonight, I came across and am really excited to see -- a 2007 documentary called "You Must Be This Tall: The Story of Rocky Point Park" that tells the story of the park's rise and fall.



The Providence Journal apparently gave the film five stars, and it's won several film festival awards. I bought a copy online tonight, and I'm actually really excited for it to come.

If you're a fellow New Englander with fond Rocky Point memories (during its good days, the park was ALWAYS packed), you can order the DVD -- FREE SHIPPING! -- online at the film's website, www.rockypointmovie.com. They also have some nifty merch that you can buy there -- t-shirts and sweatshirts with the Rocky Point logos on them. I think I just might pick one of those up.

I'll write a post about the movie once I receive it, but until then, I'll leave you with a few pictures of the ol' Rocky Point from her heyday, courtesy of the website. I miss the park so much!

"The World's Largest Shore Dinner Hall"



"The Enterprise"



"The Skydiver"

"The Skyliner"

Reading is STILL fundamental

I have always been a sucker for a good book.

Some of my best memories from childhood involve reading -- reading a book with my dad at bedtime every night ("Monsters Come In Many Colors"), or reading "Cinderella" with my mom and sister while we waited for our clothes to be done at the laundromat still seem like they could have taken place yesterday. I used to get so excited even just getting to pick out a free book when the RIF (Reading is Fundamental) representatives would come talk to our class each school year.

Remember book fairs? Or when you'd get those book club papers from your teacher once a month or so? It was all so exciting to me. I have always loved to read, and so has my husband. For a few years of my adolescence, I had a serious obsession with the Babysitter's Club Little Sister series. I could read one of them a day, even though they were chapter books, and used to make my mom take me to the Norwichtown Mall Waldenbooks to get new ones all the time. I loved to read.

Knowing how not only beneficial, but also enjoyable reading is, and the memories we both have of it as kids, reading to the baby is very, very important to us. We started early, and we do it often. Since he was a newborn, he has loved looking at the illustrations and touching the pages. He's constantly smiling while we read to him, and we swear he understands.



My husband John reading to our then three-week old son, John Logan. He was already interested in looking at the pictures.


Taken last week -- John reading to the baby (who is now eight months old) for his nightly 'storytime.'

We will read to the baby and with him once he's old enough to read, and always encourage him to read on his own. So, in the spirit of tradition, hubs and I sat down last week and wrote up a list of books we'd like to buy our son (we're up to 8 purchased, now) that we consider absolutely and completely necessary. We defined those as books from our childhoods that really stuck out. For me, I remember a TON of Caldecott Medal award-winning books. There was something about that shiny gold leave paper on the cover that lured me back time and time again.

We've gotten about 20 marked down, and as I said, we've already purchased a good handful ("Where the Wild Things Are" was a favorite of both of ours, and as you can see from the picture above... maybe it'll be one of Johnny's too). Here's what we came up with on our totally and absolutely completely most necessary books for us to splurge on.


Alexander and the Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day
by Judith Viorst
I remember reading this with my first grade teacher Miss Moran. It was a wonderful book then, and even though I haven't read it in years, I'm sure the little guy will love it.

If You Feed a Mouse a Cookie
by Laura Joffe Numeroff
My sister and I read this with our mom as kids. They now have a series of "If You Give a Mouse..." books.

Strega Nona
by Tomie de Paola
This book was a legend to kids back when I was one. Everyone loved it, and I actually can't wait to read this to Johnny.

The Snowy Day
by Ezra Jack Keats
This may have been the book that started my Caldecott Medal obsession. I loved the vivid color block drawings, and instantly remembered reading it.

The Mitten
by Jan Brett
John picked this one, and once he mentioned it, I definitely remembered reading this in elementary school.

Hey Al
by Arthur Yorinks
Mrs. Debartolo read this to us on my first day of kindergarten. Other than the books I'd memorized and read with my parents, this was the first I was ever read in school.

Berenstain Bears
by Jan and Stan Berenstain
What kid my age DIDN'T love the Berenstain Bears? We collected many, many of these books, and just bought the baby a 'big book' of the stories. The only other family besides my own that I wanted to be in!

Little Critter
by Mercer Mayer
I remember scouring book fairs and book club pamphlets for the newest installment whenever I could. I loved Little Critter, and had so many of the books in the series, and now I have the treasury to pass on.

Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs
by Judi Barrett and Ron Barrett
My first grade teacher gave this book to my friend Courtney and I as a challenge because we were ahead of the rest of the class -- find as many contractions as we could. We loved this book.


What books did you buy for your kids, and what's still on their wish list? Which book(s) bring(s) you back to your childhood?

Blast from the past: Marketing fail

*Note: This is something I wrote on an old blog a long time ago. Since I was reading through old posts the other night, I figured over the next few weeks, I'll put them up here. Enjoy. : )

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Last night, I was watching TV, and I saw what may be the most disturbing commercial I’ve ever watched in my entire life. It’s not bad enough that it was an ad for feminine hygiene products. It’s not bad enough that we have graphic demonstrations of just how much liquid said heavy-duty products can hold. But now, we're told that if you use X brand of maxi pad, you'll...

"Have a happy period."

Go fuck yourself, a happy period. No such thing exists, much less when you need to use the product advertised. At the end of the commercial, they show a maxi pad covered up, getting a good night’s sleep. Are you fucking kidding me?

I’m not generally one to talk about such subjects. Typically, use of the p-word makes me shudder, but come ON. A sleeping maxi pad? That’s an insult, and it's surely not going to get me to buy the product. Do you want to picture your maxi pad taking the night off? Or sleeping on the job? I don't. But come to think of it, I don't want to picture a maxi pad, PERIOD.

I saw a commercial for burger king featuring a large tooth that bothers its companion by constantly repeating "ranch" at odd times -- a poker game, a goodnight kiss, what have you. A ranch tooth. I get it, but I don't get it. It’s a play on someone with a 'sweet tooth.' yes, I understand this. But a ranch tooth? It even wears a cowboy hat. You really think that will make me go and buy more burger king? It won't. I can assure you.

Or the kitty litter commercial where it covers up the stink of litter boxes so well that the resident cat needs to hire a bloodhound, who STILL can’t sniff out the box. First off, I’d really actually shy away from buying a litter that I thought my cat couldn’t find. Second, why would the marketing department come up with this? “It smells so good your cat won’t find its litter box and thus will pee and poo in other places!” Yeah, way to sell it. Marketing fail.

You know what kind of commercials work? The ones with good music. Integrate a good, ol' classic rock jam into an ad, and I’ll probably give it a second look. It’s catchy; it gets stuck in your head (*up to date update: I downloaded “Let’s Groove Tonight” because it’s in that laundry detergent commercial. See – thoughtful marketing DOES WORK!). But throw a sleeping maxi pad, a verbally abusive tooth, or flowery kitty litter at me and I’m not picking up what you're putting down, and neither is anyone else.

Wordless Wednesday

Well, wordfew. This is what I found when I went to get the baby up this morning. Also known as "why his crib mattress is being lowered tonight." My baby can kneel and stand!

Photographic proof that I was born a dork

It's amazing all the time people spend worrying about how other people think they look. Take Facebook, for example -- I know people who've spent vast amounts of time untagging themselves from photos, cutting others out because having only one arm visible makes them look sort of skinnier, doing self-portraits with phone cameras in flattering moonlight with the phone at a 45-degree angle, chin sucked in, eyes focused 2-3 inches ABOVE the camera. It's amazing that after all that -- most of which I've engaged in myself at one point or another -- that we've allowed pictures like the ones below to continue to exist.

I'm still home recovering from the great gallbladder removal of 2010, so I figured that while I was feeling kind of crappy, I'd reminisce about some times when I also looked crappy. Taking some inspiration from Aunt Becky over at Mommy Wants Vodka, I'm sucking it up and showing you some horribly unflattering and downright embarrassing pictures of myself. After all, someday my kid will probably hate me for posting the ones of him that went up earlier today, so it's only fair I give him something to print out and embarrass me with. Some of these have been posted on Facebook, but there's no harm in posting them again (except to my ego, which is already bruised, beaten and hemorrhaging). *Special note: Chrissy, my lovely sister, I'm sorry I had to drag you into this with me. But it's a short road to hell and I'm happy to ride my tricycle there with you anytime. And with that, I present to you, photographic proof that I was born a dork.

Photo #1:
Lobster? I hardly knew her!



Oh, I'm just so crazy, aren't I? This was in about 2000, shortly after we'd arrived for our yearly summer family vacation at Hampton Beach in New Hampshire. It meant five days of getting to be on our own, walking the boardwalk, spending my parents' hard earned money on pooka shell necklaces, candy and t-shirts we'd never wear and staring at boys that we were sure were straight from heaven -- they didn't make 'em like that in eastern Connecticut. And judging from this picture, I can't possibly imagine why most of them wouldn't give us a second look. There are pictures of my dad with this same hat on somewhere, and I'll have to find those. I imagine he's hidden them somewhere far away (probably in the same place as that tape of him singing "Under the Boardwalk" at Rocky Point until my then 7-year old sister told him he sucked). This was during my skinny summer where I somehow managed to tan instead of burn. I'm sure by the end of it though, that my skin matched the color of the hat.

Photo #2:
The Upholstery Twins


In my head, I like to think "Hey, it was the early '90s." But that doesn't do it justice. When we were little kids, our mom did what a lot of other moms did (and still do) and sometimes bought us clothes from consignment shops. There's nothing wrong with doing that, and we did have some very nice clothes (that's because our parents knew the ropes -- they took us down to Mystic, Conn., to the NICE consignment shops, where all the rich people dropped their kids used clothes. Then there was the S&A Boutique -- right, Chrissy? That's another post for another day). However, this was maybe one of the "shouldn't have given that a second look" outfits. This was from the first day of school, 1992. I was going into 2nd grade, and my sister into 1st grade. I remember feeling like hot shit walking out the door in this little get-up and then even a year later looking back at this picture thinking I'd never let it down. First off -- why the hell are we wearing what looks to be upholstery fabric? And second -- are... are we wearing cumber buns? Jesus Christ. I can't believe we were allowed to leave the house like this, or better yet, made it home not having been beaten up or stapled to wing chairs.

Photo #3:
My first job as a tiny maitre'd for the Friar's Club



My sister Chrissy and I are 13 months apart. We are close in age and have been pretty much best friends since we were tots. Apparently all that was not enough for my mom, who also felt the need for us to dress like identical twins. For FIVE FRIGGING YEARS of our adolescent lives, we were constantly confused for one another (even though we don't really look alike) at school. We were called the Bobsey Twins, even though we had no idea who they were. Surprisingly, my major issue with this photo isn't even that we're dressed exactly the same; it's that we look like the the backup singers for the tiniest doowop group in history. Look at my face. I was upset even then that we're wearing these. I'm actually glad we're dressed alike -- I wouldn't have wanted to be the only idiot dressed like a tiny promoter for Crown Royal. This is Christmas Day in (about) 1990. From the shirts with gold-embroidered crowns on them to the button-up jackets that make us look like The Pips to the patent leather shoes with heels too small for tapping and too large to prevent falling off the stage in first grade (shut it Chrissy), we are basically a hot mess.

And last, but not least...

Photo #4:
He's real, and he's spectacular



Sigh. I'm sure many New Englanders will fondly remember a little place in Rhode Island called Rocky Point amusement park. The mere mention of the park stirs up memories of delicious clam chowder -- vats upon vats of clear and red and creamy chowder, oyster crackers, and wonderfully fried brown pillows from heaven that make the baby Jesus smile, err clam fritters (gee, why could I *possibly* have needed my gallbladder out last week? I'm such a fatty). During one of these fateful chowder-filled trips -- apparently one during which I was apparently built like a 9-year old brick shithouse in a pink tank top -- not TOO many years after our parents had made the egregious mistake of allowing their 5- and 6-year old to watch Dirty Dancing (holy crap, that was Johnny's butt! OMG, his buuuuutt!), we came across the Rocky Point photo store. I vaguely remember my parents not wanting to pay for the picture, but we just HAD to have it. I mean, it was Patrick Swayze. Mom, he's going to be your son-in-law someday anyway, we say, picturing grown-up dinner parties where we are jointly married to Patrick, each on one arm, sipping fine wine enjoying prime rib (we were all about the prime rib as chubby kids) and all laughing about that hilariously accurate photo from our childhood. And the thing was, we were convinced that the cutout -- which doesn't look even REMOTELY real, and that's putting aside the side seam of the cardboard which is totally visible -- was as good as the real thing. Sigh. I imagine Patrick is currently rolling in his grave.

I guess we all have embarrassing pictures, albeit some more than others. This is just one installment. I'll try to post some additional photos as I find them at my mom's house. First day of school pics, Christmas pics, all of it. I'll hold nothing back.

Maybe I'll post some from my wedding... to Patrick, that is.

Oh, what a beautiful baby

Not that it's any secret, but... well, we've got a good lookin' kid. He's a very handsome little boy, and I don't mean to brag (okay, I do), but I can't help but being in love with him.

We've been wanting to have professional pictures taken of him since he was born, but he's unpredictable (as babies tend to be). He doesn't have a set day-to-day schedule, and he has good days and bad. We also wanted to wait until he could move around better, sit up and do things independent of us holding him or just him laying down.

So once he was about six months old, I got in touch with Caitlin Wood at Photography by Caitlin. I know Caitlin's work very well, as she shot my wedding and my sister's. I love her photography and I knew if anyone could get some awesome pictures of our guy -- who is extremely wiggly -- she could. And her work didn't disappoint.

The other HUGE bonus to us is that unlike having portraits done at a photo studio or Sears where you pay by the print, and have to have THEM reprint any photo you like, Caitlin gives us all the photos she takes on a CD, along with a release for us to be able to print them anywhere. For example, I got the CD on Thursday, and had a bunch of the photos printed at CVS today, and I can do it again in a month or a year or 10 years, without paying for individual prints.

Here are just a few of the pictures Caitlin took. We are in love with them. If you're in the New England area and looking for a photographer a) who's willing to travel for you, b) who is VERY reasonably priced, and c) whose work is absolutely breathtaking, call or email Caitlin!

The great gallbladder removal of 2010

After the entire emergency room debacle, and from the amount of pain I'd been in that night, I would have let them take my gallbladder out that night if they could have.

On Monday, I heard from my gastroenterologist about the results of the upper GI series. Figuring, since he's at the same hospital as the ER I'd been to, that he knew about my trip there Friday night, I expected to hear that having surgery soon was imperative. Instead, I got a voicemail telling me that the upper GI showed acid reflux and he hoped I was doing well on my medicine. Um... wait...

First off, supposedly the purpose of the tests were to show whether I had an ulcer. Acid reflux wasn't a concern. I had no symptoms, and at this point am thinking that when you make anyone swallow heavy liquid then flip them around on a table, it's going to look like it's coming back up. Second, I'm not on any medicine. Third, nothing about the ER visit at all? Really?

I called back the office and spoke with him and told him about the ER, and he said he'd have his secretary call me to set up a consult with a surgeon.

So last week, I met with the surgeon. He's a smart, confident doctor who I immediately trusted, and who didn't talk to me like I was an idiot. He told me about all the risks, drew me pictures so I could see exactly what was going to happen. He had a dry sense of humor and we ended our consult discussing our phones (Blackberries). I told him I'd like to have the surgery as soon as possible and we agreed on March 4th. I'd be there at 9:30am, and the surgery would be at 11.

The way they remove gallbladders nowadays is much different than my memory of my grandfather having his out when I was a kid. I remember visiting him and seeing the six inch-long scar on his abdomen, and his jar of stones (no thanks, I have the baby that came out of me, that's enough.), but it's not done that way anymore. It's laparascopically removed -- the surgeon makes four small incisions.



They inflate the stomach cavity with carbon dioxide, and insert a tiny camera. They clip the bile duct, "peel" the gallbladder away from the liver, and suck it out one of the small incisions. Then wham-o, no more gallbladder pain (hopefully). Like this, but with bigger boobs (for me).



The doctor told me ahead of time that the scars end up looking "like small cigarette burns." While that comparison seemed a bit odd to me -- how often does he see small cigarette burns? -- the idea of scarring doesn't bother me. I have a c-section scar... let's face it, I'm not going to be in a bikini anytime soon.

Our trip to the hospital was pretty uneventful, save for the baby throwing up on me making us a few minutes late. When we arrived at 9:35, the nurse told us they were "already calling for you in the OR." Not sure how that was possible, but I got changed into the standard ass-baring hospital gown, kissed my husband goodbye and was wheeled down for prep.

The doctors, nurses and anesthesiologists couldn't have been better. I was terrified and told them that -- not so much of the actual surgery, but of not waking up from anesthesia. I remember the IV going in my forearm and the anesthesiologist telling me he was giving me something "similar to valium" that would make me feel relaxed. I felt a little drunk, actually. I remember smiling all the way down to the OR, being lifted onto the table and looking up at the lights, and then I was out.

I woke up in recovery with oxygen up my nose, coughing because my throat hurt from the intubation they do to ensure you get adequate oxygen during the surgery, and with an incredibly dry mouth. I half remember being brought back up to my room, but everything starts to come back together when John came into the room. I wasn't in a lot of pain, I just wanted to go home.

John said the doctor had come out and let him know when the surgery was done, and told him that there had been four stones.

So here I am, three days later, with no complaints. I'm not in a lot of pain; I've been getting by on ibuprofen, and being waited on hand and foot by my amazing husband. I woke up with a tiny bit of blood on my shirt this morning, so I'm supposed to take it easy. I'm not allowed to lift the baby for a few days -- the nurse said nothing heavier than a gallon of milk.

I don't know why I waited so long to get treatment -- I think it's just fear of the unknown. You never know what they're going to find during any particular test, and even though I'm a pretty healthy person, I still get a little freaked out thinking of what could be found.

I don't even have stitches -- the incisions, which are only about a centimeter or two long, are glued and then steri-strips are placed over them. In a few days, those will start to come off, and I'll be good to go.

Back and better than never

Apparently, when you're pregnant and your estrogen levels go bananas, it can cause you to end up with gallstones. Around August, while I was on maternity leave, I started having some pain just below my breastbone. I never knew when it would happen or how long it would last. At first I tried sleeping through it -- it wasn't that severe and felt more like indigestion. By September when I was heading back to work, it had gotten much worse.

The night before my first day back, I was up for hours. I have a high threshold for pain, but this was different. This pain took my breath away. It generally came in the middle of the night and laying down only made it worse. It would last somewhere between half an hour and four hours, and nothing I did made it any better.

My family has a history of ulcers -- both my dad and sister have them -- so I first assumed that's what this was. Combined with the fact that the pain seemed to occur in stressful situations, I thought it would be a quick trip to the doctor and a pill to take everyday. I was wrong.

After suffering with the pain for a few months, I finally did call the doctor -- a gastroenterologist who couldn't get me in (I called in October) until December 23rd. I made the appointment thinking 'better late than never,' but spent a little while calling around to see if I could get a sooner appointment. Eventually I did, but they still couldn't see me until just before Thanksgiving.

The doctor I saw seemed mystified by my symptoms. He said he figured it was an ulcer too, but wanted to have an endoscopy to make sure, and an ultrasound to rule out gallbladder issues.

I had the ultrasound, and low and behold was diagnosed with multiple gallstones.

The doctor had still planned on having me go through with the endoscopy, but when I got the paper in the mail from the Worcester Surgical Center saying my CO-PAY for the endoscopy would be $450 which I'd have to pay in full at the time of service... I told them it wasn't possible. Obviously, hospital services cost money. Having a baby costs money. But hospitals let me set up a payment plan (I don't know how many people DON'T have that type of arrangement -- who has $2,000 to drop at one time?), whereas this 'outpatient facility' wasn't willing to work with me on that. Instead, the doctor said I could have an upper GI series -- where I would swallow disgusting amounts of barium while they took x-rays of my insides digesting it -- that could also diagnose the ulcer. That was January 29th at about 9am.

As fate would have it, I ended up in the emergency room at about midnight that night with the worst gallbladder pain I'd ever felt. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't talk. I was honestly concerned that something more serious was going on. I held out as long as I could, but ended up calling my parents to come watch the baby so we could head to the emergency room.

Before I get into this part of the story, let me first say that I LOATHE the emergency room. I have to be bleeding or in an enormous amount of pain to even consider going. And when you show up late night, you get treated like you're coming in with a case of the sniffles, no matter what your ailment. Even though I'm telling the triage nurse, who is filing her nails and clearly pissed off about having a pesky patient making her 5 minutes late for her smoke break (no, I'm not saying ALL nurses are like that, just this one) that my pain level is a FRIGGING 10, judging by the smiley face scale...



...I don't warrant any speedier treatment than the kid who shoved a marble up his nose (and no, I'm not kidding, he was sitting in the waiting room with his mom and grandfather, coughed and blew it out and was STILL able to get in and see a doctor before we were) or the college kid who fell down and split his eye open but was content barfing hot dogs into the waiting room garbage can. Yeah.

Finally we get called in and I get hooked up to an IV. It's 1am. They tell me they urgently need me to pee in a cup to run lab tests and make sure my pancreas isn't enflamed and I don't need emergency surgery. Oh and by the way, since they're out of IV poles, my husband has to accompany me to the bathroom while holding my IV bag. Awesome. No potential for "stage fright" there.

Two hours later, we still hadn't seen a doctor, and I decided to text my mom what was going on. I asked John to grab my phone out of my purse... which he informs me isn't actually there. It's not there, it's not anywhere in the room. Awesome.

In the two minutes it took me to pee in a cup, the guy in the room next door -- who the nurse said was there for pain meds -- came in and stole my entire purse, including my wallet, iPod and my phone. Perfect.

The UMass police officer who came in to help and take our information couldn't have been nicer, but the situation still sucked. While talking to us, he asked if we'd thought to check any of the garbage cans. We said only ours, and he ran into the room next door where the guy had been, and low and behold, there was my purse in the garbage can.

My phone was still in it, but my iPod and wallet were gone. An hour later, as we were getting ready to be discharged (the doctor we did finally see was a very nice, albeit very hyper, young guy who said my tests showed up fine and there was no need for surgery right then), the police officer walked into the room with my wallet in hand. He's found it in the garbage can near the bus stop outside the hospital. Wow.

So I did get most of my "stuff" back -- the iPod and my debit card (which he couldn't use without my PIN anyway) were the only things gone. It could have been much worse.

We got home at about 6am, knowing that with my diagnosis and the pain only getting worse, I'd have to have my gallbladder out pretty soon.

Part 2 tomorrow -- the great gallbladder removal of 2010.

Mom-sense

Since the day he was born, our little peanut has been quite the sneezer. Originally, the hospital doctors told us it was because I'd delivered him via c-section, so the fluid in his lungs hadn't been squeezed out the way it would have been if I had had a natural delivery. They've consistently said it was nothing to worry about, because everything else was fine, and babies can be quite the sneezers, as their immune systems still aren't up to snuff quite yet.

So when he started out sneezing away on Christmas Eve, we didn't think much of it. But by 8pm, he was asleep on my dad's shoulder, and could barely breathe out of his nose. My little tater tot had gotten his first cold.

Even though it hasn't seemed to affect him much -- he's still rolling around, smiling and giggling like usual -- he's now developed a whole LOT of congestion and a cough. Sometimes it's just a barely-there cough, sometimes it's a hack. Sometimes he has a normal pitch to his "voice," sometimes he accidentally blows a snot bubble or two (hey, you do what you do).

We've tried everything -- saline nose drops/suctioning his nose with the bulb, slightly elevating one side of the mattress, a humidifier/vaporizer, Vicks on his chest and on his feet (myth), taking him in the bathroom when I shower, a little Tylenol to help with a sore throat, and patting his pack to try to break up the mucus -- and nothing but time is seeming to ease this cold.

We had to bring him to his pediatrician for his six-month appointment about two weeks ago and asked about the cold while we were there. The doctor -- who is actually a nurse practitioner, doctors only do 'sick visits' -- recommended giving him a breathing treatment on a nebulizer in the office. She said she'd heard slight wheezing, and would like to listen to his chest after the treatment to see if it had any effect. In the end, she said she didn't hear a difference, but when I saw how the treatment was administered, I don't see how it could have.



Whereas an older child or adult would place the breathing tube in their mouth and take deep breaths, we had to hold the tube over the baby's upper lip. The idea is that he breathes it in through his nose and mouth. But to me, it seemed he giggled and laughed and I saw more of the treatment in the air than going into his nose.

The NP decided to delay the shots the baby was scheduled for until he seemed a bit better -- three weeks from then. Here we are two weeks later, and he doesn't seem to be improving at all. We brought him back to the doctor last Friday after my mother-in-law told us he'd had a little diarrhea the afternoon before. When we called to check with the doctor, they were concerned about the combination of that AND the cold, and asked us to bring him in. And a lot of good that did -- they said he was 'perfectly fine,' and that the cough was a result of post-nasal drip, which would "go away once the weather gets warmer."

So… are we supposed to wait three months for the baby to stop coughing? They said originally that it could also be a virus in babies called RSV, but even if it was, nothing could be done about it. Thanks, doc.

Granted, I'm a new mom, but my mom-sense is telling me that maybe it's time for us to take his healing into our own hands. Dr. Sears says Children's Tylenol Cold Plus Cough (liquid) is safe for babies six months and up, in tiny recommended doses. We bought some at the store, but have yet to give it to him. When my husband asked the doctor about it, she said OTC products are ridiculous for young children because "their metabolisms are so high that you'd have to give such a high dose that they'd have side effects." This makes absolutely no sense to me.

When your kids are sick, what do you do for them? And, when do you use your mom- (or dad-) sense over what a doctor says?

Wordless Wednesday: Vintage Pic

My grandma got it for us for Christmas -- we were 6 and 7. She said she thought it was a boy band. She was very, very wrong. Chrissy and I were delighted.

A little less wise

When I was 20, I had my tonsils out. It was the most horrific, painful three weeks of my entire life. I couldn't eat, I couldn't drink (even water) to take the pain medication the doctor gave me, I couldn't talk. I started a list of things I wanted to eat once I could again, and at the top of it was "An Amy-sized statue of tuna rolls." I love me some sushi.

Six months ago, I gave birth to my son via c-section. After all the horror stories, all the warnings and cautions about recovery time and potential for infection and agonizing pain, I really didn't think it was bad at all. I was walking around the day after and home and pain-free in a week. To put it bluntly, I'd rather have 100 c-sections again -- while being lit on fire -- than go through a tonsillectomy again.

Somewhere in between those two came this week's surgical awesomeness... wisdom teeth removal.


Here they are -- all four -- in all their bloody stump glory.

I originally went to see an oral surgeon in November. I was in agonizing pain, after being told since I was like 10 that I would someday have to have my impacted wisdom teeth out. I have never even had a cavity, much less oral surgery, save for the tonsillectomy which was really more, uh, throatal surgery. But I digress.

I went for a consult and after looking at my x-rays for approximately, oh, 8 seconds, the oral surgeon told me that all four of these little suckers would have to come out. I was in so much pain that day -- one had "erupted" through the gums, and another had turned sideways and was making eating anything impossible -- that I was just fine with that and would let him do it with pliers that day if he'd prefer. He laughed, said that was probably not the way to go, and prescribed me an antibiotic to keep the one that had broken through, which had apparently become infected, from getting worse. One very important question was asked, "Do you want to be asleep for the surgery?" I answered with a resounding yes, knowing that even if I was only semi-concious, hearing one 'crack' of a tooth would make me hit the floor, and I made the appointment for two weeks after that. Finally, I'd be pain free, and maybe the teeth that my parents paid $3K in braces to straighten out could go back to their pristine form instead of looking like they were fighting to be front and center in an epic battle of the Dentites.

I ended up having to cancel for various reasons, not the least of which was end of quarter at work and various holiday parties. I rescheduled (eventually) for January 13. D-Day. Well, O-day (for 'oral surgery' -- get it?) was upon us.

Normally, this wouldn't be something I'd get freaked out about. I didn't bat an eyelash when the OB at the hospital told me I'd have to have a c-section, and I was a-ok with having my tonsils out because of all the throat issues I'd had. Yet Tuesday night (surgery was Wednesday), my husband was bribing me with sushi, a new outfit and Rock Band 2 to get me NOT to cancel the surgery. We've already taken the days off, we have everything you need, I'll help you all the way, he said. Pssh. How can I argue with that?

It wasn't that I was necessarily afraid on my own, but it's because everyone has a freaking horror story about their wisdom teeth. It's not that I don't want to hear them, but having 10 people telling me that it's the worst pain they've ever felt in their lives... not exactly what I needed to hear.

I got up Wednesday morning and put on my comfy new outfit (when they say "wear loose-fitting clothing," I take that to the extreme) and piled into the car. My mother-in-law was watching the baby for us while I had the surgery -- they told my husband he had to stay the entire time -- and after we kissed the baby goodbye, she said to me "Enjoy your nap!" I told her I hoped it wasn't the 'big nap,' and we were on our way.

Once I was seated in the chair, it dawned on me that it was pretty much too late to back out. I *could*, still clad in the blue spit bib and blood pressure cuff, run screaming out of the exam room, through the waiting room and out to the car. I could. I *could* bite the surgeon when he came in or star crying uncontrollably. Instead, I chose to sit there and giggle silently at those options.

The surgeon came in and said hello, and told me I'd feel a little pinch as he put the IV for anesthesia in. Just before the juice started flowing, he said, "It's about to be happy hour," and in true me fashion, I asked, "Wait, not for you too, right?" He laughed, and I was out.

Before I continue, let me say this... as nervous as I am before any surgery, there's a certain amount of comfort that comes with knowing that you're out, you nap, and once it's over, you'll wake up generally still riding the anesthesia and/or painkiller high, and with whatever you went in for originally NOT ailing you now. It was like that with my tonsils, it was (obviously) like that with my c-section.

It was NOT like that with my wisdom teeth.

That's because instead of riding the little IV-in-the-arm-anesthesia-high right through groggily marching my way to the recovery area, I woke up. I WOKE UP. I WOKE UP IN THE MIDDLE OF THEM CRACKING A TOOTH AND YANKING IT OUT OF MY GUMS, AND I FELT IT ALL. As it was happening, I couldn't say anything, so I did the only thing I could think of -- I hit a nurse, right in the babymaker (in my defense, it was the only thing at slap-level). She looked at my OPEN eyes, said, "Oh, oh, she's awake," and I was back asleep.

Next thing I knew, I was laying down on a cot in the recovery area -- after having walked there myself and having no recollection of it whatsoever -- and my husband was coming in to hug me because I was shivering. After some simple instructions, we were on our way to the car. The nurse told me when I stood up, I'd feel like I didn't quite have my balance. "You're going to feel drunk," she said. I stood up and walked perfectly normally out into the waiting room. "You're actually doing really well. You must be a good drinker," "Oh, I am." She's clearly never seen the likes of me at a wedding.

Since getting home, I've had pain on and off. Everyone said the second day would be much worse than the first, but I didn't really find that. Between a steady stream of ibuprofen, Percocet (only when I need it), penicillin, rinsing with salt water, ice packs and applesauce, I've been just fine. I can even sleep on my sides, and have really had minimal swelling. I'm doing okay.

It always seems that most of the worries I have before something like this never really come to fruition. I was terrified after my c-section I wouldn't be able to bend or walk or pick up my son... and I was just fine. Even the tonsillectomy pain came and eventually went (though I never did get that Amy-sized statue of tuna rolls).

But even this time, when my biggest fear -- waking up in the middle and hearing the dreaded "crack" of a tooth -- came true... eh, I'm okay. I'm over it. And I've heard from at least one other person that the same thing happened to them.

It wasn't pleasant, and slowly, I'll be back to normal -- I'll be back at work on Monday, and be resembling Alvin the Chipmunk's girlfriend much less, the stitches will have disolved, and I'll be back to eating and drinking solid foods. And finally, my mouth won't hurt anymore.

In the meantime, pass the applesauce.

Baby's 1st Christmas (two weeks late... so sue me)

The holidays have come and gone, and I’m finally able to come up for air.

Between Christmas Eve, Christmas, quarter end at work and New Year’s Eve, it’s been a little crazy.

But all that – including several nights of working very late, getting up and doing it all over again – aside, we had a wonderful “baby’s first” Christmas.

We had planned to have a party at our house on the 19th, but had to cancel thanks to our awesome, completely predictable New England weather. Some spots got up to two feet of snow that night. Instead, we spent the night at home, albeit a little depressed, with Chinese take-out.

For Christmas Eve, we went to my husband’s grandparents’ to spend some time and then to my parents’ house. Then we headed home to finish up some wrapping and wait for Santa. We were up ‘til 3 a.m. wrapping presents for a baby who doesn’t know what Christmas is and can’t even sit up on his own yet, much less open gifts. So basically, it was going to be us opening the presents we just wrapped (and even took the time to disguise our handwriting. For a baby. Who can’t read. Awesome.).

Christmas Day brought some visitors to our house for the first time ever – my parents, my sister and her husband. We spent the day and early evening opening presents and trying to make a very snot-filled baby smile. At first, the little guy had no idea what he was doing, but by the afternoon, he’d figured out how to tear himself some wrapping paper and he was a happy boy.

Here are some of our Christmas pictures, hoping you and yours had a lovely holiday.