The power of Elmo underpants

Hi there,

As some of you questioned my "free minute" to send an email, I felt compelled to explain. At the time, Addie was asleep in her mini-tent and I was dutifully ignoring Lorelei's crying.

I figure there's no time like the present to learn that she has a bad mother . . .

Actually, poor little thing has severe gas bubbles that make her cry for long painful (for all of us) stretches of time, so in the interest of my sanity, I thought it best to take a moment out.

In an effort to stop the crying binges (hers, not mine), I have taken myself off dairy products. I am on day one, and am now frightfully aware of how many dairy products I consume in a day.

Jeff was supposed to help me remember what to eat and not eat, but so far he just succeeded in making me two lunches with cheese.

Now that I am no longer pregnant, and have two little ducklings to attend to, I can no longer indulge in my favorite pass-time of napping. But never fear, I have now taken up power eating.

Since I am nursing (for now, but that's a different subject all together), I find myself practically starving nearly every hour. Thus pre-breakfast and pre-lunch have been introduced - smaller, quicker meals that can be consumed while real breakfast and lunch are being prepared. I have also discovered the joys of having a toddler who doesn't know how to count or keep a close eye on her Easter basket haul.

Before #2 came along, Jeff and I had harbored fantasies that Addie would be a wonderfully adoring, gentle older sister.

Considering her reputation with Bubbles, I can only assume we were having sleep-deprived delusions.

Although she is vocally a supportive loving sister, she is a little aggressive, and I find myself having to say things like, "don't sit on your sisters head" and "don't smother her with the blanket."

Shel Silverstein's poems One Sister for Sale and Someone Ate the Baby often come to mind.

Now that Addie has a sister to pick on, I also would have thought that she might leave the kitty alone (that, and Bubbles is now spending EVERY night at the neighbors and only comes to our house to eat and when they are out of town), but no. The other day, I actually heard myself say, "Addie, don't lick the cat!"

Clearly I have been living in a fantasy world.

Most of you have heard the gory details of my labor and delivery, but I want to take this moment to re-emphasize that those of you who willingly had drug-free deliveries are insane.

While at the hospital, we learned some colorful terms from the nurses.
1) Baby Low Jack System - that's the ankle security bracelet they slap on the newborn so he or she does not walk away. But I am left wondering if there will be any long-term ill effects that might involve house-arrest and ankle bracelets in the future . . .

2) She has a suck like a Hoover - No joke, this is actually what one of the nurses said to me, about Lorelei upon our first nursing effort. It could have had something to do with the fact that she very nearly sucked the nail polish right off her finger, but I'm not sure.

Just in case any of you were wondering what kind of food they serve in a North Carolina hospitals (that's right, we moved ALL the way across the country to South Carolina, and our child was born in North Carolina), they do in fact serve grits and sweet tea as standard fair. Sadly they were plain grits, which taste nearly like soggy cardboard.

While at a Babys R Us before #2 came along, I discovered a whole quarter machine (you know, the ones normally reserved for gum balls and candy) filled with glow-in-the-dark crosses. They were kind of like those necklaces and bracelets that you "brake" to activate, only they were small crosses. They weren't even necklaces as far as I could tell.
Outside of some mid-night proselytizing, I can't imagine what they would be used for (okay, I can imagine, and it's something along the lines of Children of the Corn and scaring the hell out of your neighbors).

I just can't believe there is a market big enough for such things that there would be an entire (and it wasn't a small one) quarter machine devoted to them. Actually, that was only a minor thing in comparison to what they sell at Hobby Lobby for Easter.

Who wants a Jesus Loves You paddle ball in their next Easter basket?

I'm afraid there hasn't been a whole lot happening locally to report in the news, but I'm sure you'll all be as pleased as I was to know that Bake Sales have their own column on the Community Events page.

Take Care,
Kate

Wet t-shirt contest for pregnant women

Saturday March 14, 2009

Good Morning,

Let me start off by saying - no baby yet. I officially have three weeks left, but am doubtful (as is everyone else in my neighborhood) that I'll make it that long. Attached is a recent picture, and in an effort to bring the group together, and make me feel a little more connected to friends and family, I am now accepting wagers as to when you think #2 will arrive. The winner will receive some fabulous prize . . . or not. Just depends on how I feel (nothing like being at the mercy of a pregnant woman).

Although my brain may have checked out as of late. Thankfully, I'm still able to channel Martha Stewart. After all, what does one do if they are unable to cultivate their most domestic instincts?

That being said, I have finally finished my quilt (after a long and arduous battle of wills), and even managed to bake three loaves of Friendship bread to put up in the freezer. As if those two feats aren't enough, I managed to bake and quilt at the same time. I know, I know, I very nearly put Martha to shame.

Never mind that I've only managed to make waffles and grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner . . .

We've had some mad weather here lately, and as a result, find it quite confusing to dress appropriately (of course, the bigger I get, the more limited my options are). On Sunday night we got six inches of snow, the temperature fell to 15 degrees, and then was up to 78 degrees by Friday . . . Fortunately, we got a great snow day, and Jeff got to stay home for a half a day (he actually worked from home, but we got him for breakfast and lunch).

As a result of some highly technical and advanced snowman building on Jeff's part, his status has been elevated among the neighborhood boys, and now when they know he's home, we have little knocks on the door, and request for Mr. Jeff to come out and play. Addie is also often included, and I, sadly, am last to be asked for. Oh well, I suppose if I have to choose between being domestically gifted, and favorite playmate, I'll stick with Martha. After all, I'm fairly certain she has never been asked to come out and play.

In the midst of our 80 degree weather last weekend (it is now 40 degrees and rainy), after Tom Sawyering the neighborhood girls into washing our cars (who says you can't buy labor with a juice box and snacks?), we innocently supplied them with 100 water balloons, and may or may not have introduced them to the concept of sabotage.

Needless to say, those poor boys never knew what hit them, and by the end of the fight, the smart ones were trying to defect to the girls' team.

Only one broke down in tears for being accused to joining the "girls team" (as we all know, there is no bigger insult for an eight year old boy than being accused of siding with girls). We were quick to inform him though, that he joined the winning team, girls or not.

Anyone who has been pregnant knows what and where the pregnancy stain threshold on your shirt is. For those who haven't experienced it, it's the place just below your chest where your belly sticks out that seems to attract anything and everything (normally the offending item would just fall to the floor, but because of the protruding plateau, all items stop mid-air). Sadly, most stains remain unseen until you've been out and about all day.

But I digress. Last week as Addie and I were going to Plaza Fiesta to meet some of her preschool friends, I managed to drop my mocha mid belly. Not only did it empty it's contents all over my shirt (thankfully midway between what would have looked like lactating leaks and broken water), it also managed to triple it's volume and cover our backpack and my purse. Needless to say, walking into La Plaza was a bit humbling. Fortunately, there is a great amount of sympathy for the pregnant and most people just gave me pathetic pitying looks. Except of course from my friends - they just burst out laughing.

It's times like that that those little hand dryers are useful (because we all know they're not useful the rest of the time). Too bad they were all at kid levels which required a complex and ornate bending and balancing act on my part (because after all, pregnant woman are really quite graceful and flexible). It's a wonder more pregnant woman aren't asked to participate in wet t-shirt competitions, because let me tell you, people couldn't keep their eyes off me.

Sadly, there are those out there who don't sympathize with pregnant woman, and instead try to extort their "condition". And by condition, I mean their inability to lift a full keg of beer
into the back of a car.

Since South Carolina has the Blue Law, and a variety of other confusing laws about alcohol, the Package Stores (aka booze emporiums) close at 6pm, so I (with my infinitely flexible schedule) have been elected beer schlep. On one of my trips to the package store to buy a keg for Jeff (don't laugh, it's a lot cheaper than buying cans), the man who wheeled my keg out to my car asked me if I had any cash to tip him for loading my keg.

After asking if that wasn't in fact part of his job, and he had informed me, no, it was not, I was left open-mouthed and flabbergasted. On my early trips to said package store, they (including this particular man) had loaded my keg without so much as a word. Had I actually been able to lift the keg on my own, I would have tried - after all, I have been known to do things in spite of my best interests. I was envisioning something like telling him off, then summoning up all the strength and energy that is normally directed at growing a healthy baby (and of course, bending at the knees), I would have hoisted the keg over my head, grunted like an Olympic power lifter, and gently place said keg in the back of my car. Then, just to make sure he understood that he was the one who forced this course of action, I would have gone into labor right there on the spot. That would have showed him.

Instead, after my dumbfounded silence, he told me that I had better bring cash next time.

I know you all look forward to our local news updates, so I feel like I should explain something about our little Rock Hill Herald. Only a few of you have had the pleasure of reading it, so the rest of you aren't aware that it only has two sections four days out of the week - the front page and sports. On Saturday, they expand it to three sections which includes the Religion section. I can only assume that it's size limits it's ability to report on world news, so they are forced to choose which stories get top billing on the front page.

That being said, here you go:

"Fort Mill man escapes burning tanning bed." Now keep in mind, this happened the same time as the shooting in Alabama and Germany.

If that wasn't tantalizing enough, the follow-up story (again, front page center) was, "Officials: Tanning bed fire was first on record in S.C." Well thank goodness for that.

As titillating as the tanning bed fire story was, I had to search further back in the paper for this one: "S.C. man cited for hyena in yard." Now the really interesting thing about this article was that he didn't get in trouble so much for having said hyena, but for "displaying a wild and exotic animal." So much for the wild and exotic animal peepshow I was planning . . .

Take Care,
Kate

Prom for Preschoolers

Feb. 24, 2008
Subj: Prom for preschoolers

Hello Everyone,

Happy Tuesday. I know I've been remiss about writing more often, but the fact of the matter is, I've been actively avoiding the bonus room (where the computer is), for fear that the quilt I'm supposed to be making (yes, another one, but this one is supposed to be for Baby #2 - or as the girls in the neighborhood call her, "Adeline 2) will jump into my lap and insist upon some attention. So as a result, I have been using this time to perfect my napping skills.

We've been having more computer problems, and I suppose it could have something to do with the bubble wands Addie inserted into the fan area of the hard drive, but I just can't imagine how something as low tech as bubble wands (that's right, not just one, but two), could effect such a highly scientific and advanced thing as a computer hard drive. I'm more inclined to believe it's the quilt (it's not even a quilt yet, just a pile of fabric, but in spirit it's a beautiful baby quilt) exacting it's revenge on me.

Little does it know I can still go to the library to use the computer. It has no idea what kind of procrastinator it's dealing with - I will overcome!

Addie's preschool hosted a father/daughter dance for Valentines, and moms were only allowed if they were helping out with something. Of course Jeff wasn't going to go unless I was there, so I dutifully signed up for ticket taking, dressed Addie in her finest Christmas dress, and off we went.

Now, since this was a preschool function (although it was open to the public), we thought Jeff would be fine in a sports shirt and slacks. Of course, we forgot to adjust our thought process to east coast time. Jeff was by far, the most under-dressed of all the 100+ dads there. Suits are of course the most logical next step up from a sports shirt, but there were dads in tuxedos (remember, preschool dance here). And at least half the girls had corsages and outrageous up-dos (also known as Prom Hair). Many of the girls had visibly spent time at the beauty salon, and had even had their nails and toes done for the occasion.

After watching all these dolled up kiddos come and go, I realized that this must be where beauty queens come from . . .

Aside from all the outrageous hoopla, there is nothing cuter than a room full of dads dancing the night away with their exhausted little girls (the dance didn't start until 7pm, so most of us didn't have a fighting chance to last the whole night).

Good news, we took a hospital tour, so now we know where to go when #2 is ready. And, as luck would have it, while I was sitting in the maternity ward waiting room, I had a chance to peruse my new favorite magazine, "American Rifleman." It truly is the "world's oldest and largest firearm authority." Do you think a lifetime subscription the American Rifleman would be a more suitable birth gift than a quilt?

Jeff and I have taken up bicycling on the weekends, and have quickly discovered that in fact, we are invisible. You'd think that two adults and a bike trailer (which we refer to has the princess chariot because Addie loves it so much) would be at least a little visible, but every time we try to cross an intersection (mind you, from the sidewalk, when the hand is green) we nearly get creamed by someone trying to turn right. But the good news is, we have found what we believe to be the only bike rack in the whole city. Conveniently, it's located in front of the local hippy market in town.

Addie had her first haircut today, and she did wonderfully. Admittedly, Great Clip's haircut sale was really what spurned me into action (you just can't beat $6.99). That, and I didn't want to have one of those kids who goes through school with their hair wrapped around their waists because their moms just won't let them cut it. And, I think if Addie's hair got too long, it might become problematic in the potty training area.

Speaking of poo, (let those who don't have children be forewarned - we will be talking about another well kept parenting secret), I had another one of those moments when I just sat back, and thought, "good lord, how did I get here?"

As if catching vomit with your hands isn't bad enough. . . Addie had a little bottle in the shower, I looked down and it had a little dark thing in it. Clearly not thinking, I picked up the bottle, looked at it, dumped it out into my hand, and realized almost immediately, that I had poo in my hand. Of course the first question I asked myself was, "how did I get poo in my hand?" But the second question that I know you are all asking yourselves is, "how did the poo get in the bottle in the first place?" I wish I knew.

Somehow I think the answer to that would lead to all the answers to all the most difficult questions out there.

In the headlines this week: "Fort Mill teen charged in Dairy Barn Burglaries."

If you're anything like me, you were probably hoping for some great modern day cattle rustling story, but alas, the story didn't actually have anything to do with cows at all.

I'm afraid I have nothing more to report. We pretty much stick to a rigid schedule of eating, napping and playing. It's grueling and exhausting, but someone has to do it.

Take care.

Love,
Kate

Move over DAR . . .

Jan. 31, 2009

Good Morning and Happy Saturday Morning,

I've finally achieved Martha Stewart level 4 Super Homemaker Status . . . Envision if you will, a pregnant and barefoot Kate baking cookies with a '50's style waist apron tied around her ever-expanding belly, whilst a gaggle (or is it herd) of girls sit at the breakfast table nicely playing with Playdoh. I know, I know, you're all a little bit jealous. Okay, so maybe some of you are gagging a little too - Domestic perfection is not for the faint of heart.

There are times in all of our lives when we sit back and think, if someone had told me this is what I'd be doing in X amount of years, we all might have headed for the hills.

I've never been known for great patience, and have already expressed my issues with potty training, but today we reached an all new high (or is it low?).

In an effort to optimize potty time, I've taken to noting what time of day our delightful (and oft stinky) daughter has BM's (for the sake of the non-parents out there, we shall use abbreviations - we don't want to reveal all the secret joys of parenthood), thus making sure she sits on said potty at that particular time. Thankfully, my much-more-patient-than-I husband has taken on this task, and now sits with Addie for 30+ minutes at a stretch.

Now you'd think with this kind of upper level science being used, we'd have more success, but alas, she's on to us.

Bubbles was attacked by a neighbor dog a couple of weeks ago, and since she's already surpassed her life-time spending limit, we chose to doctor her at home and hoped for the best (of course each of us have a different definition of "best" outcome, depending on the number of cat bites received in the doctoring process). The very same irksome nine-year-old from the last email thought it was a good idea to take Bubbles to his house to play, and low and behold, their boxer thought he'd brought her a new toy. We've since determined that he was not in fact present for the attack, but I still think there's more to the story then we've heard. His 13 year old brother was there, is still traumatized (city kids are so sensitive) by the memory.

Just after it happened, the mom came over practically in tears and told us Bubbles was stuck up in a tree and both cat and dog were covered in blood. So Jeff went over, ladder in hand, and dragged Bubbles home. She was in fact covered in blood, but after a nice relaxing bath with grapefruit hand soap (we all know how much cats like baths, and I drew the short straw for that particular task), she looked like new.

Later that night, the parents came over apologizing for the attack, and since he's in insurance, trying to subtly determine whether we were the suing type. We tried to explain that it is the nature of cats to come and go, and it's best not to get too attached.

Apparently they don't share our feelings on the subject of cats, and now think us unfeeling monsters.

For a few days after the attack, Bubbles stuck close to home, but is now back to having sleep-overs at the neighbors. One day while their daughter was over playing, she let it slip that her mother feeds Bubbles salmon . . . See, it's not just her home life Bubbles is running away from.

Jeff has taken to bribing the cat in an effort to buy her loyalty. Every morning when he lets her in, he gives her a piece of salami and a fresh bowl of water (I'm telling you, the cat has a weird affinity for fresh water). So far, no changes on the loyalty meter, but he's hopeful. And besides, it's a great way to get rid of expired meat . . .

I've never been one for mixing business with friends, but since I'm still trying to make friends here, I put my personal feelings aside, and went to a Southern Living at Home party. For those of you who don't know, this is like a Tupperware or Mary Kay party, only with products seen in Southern Living magazine. This is one of those times when I've had to force myself to acknowledge what my life has become. I suppose it's all part of becoming a domestic goddess, and should just embrace it.

Apparently there is a trend out there to "party swap," (it has nothing to do with politics as I was inclined to believe), but two individuals who are representatives for two different companies agree to exchange forcing each others products on their friends. As it turns out, I'm not a very supportive friend.

My most recent at-home party invitation is to a Pure Romance Party (another party swap, but who thinks that "marital aids" is a fair swap with cheap jewelry?). I'm actually considering hosting this one myself, as there is nothing sexier than a pregnant woman with bladder control issues . . .

When I'm not attending these special special parties, I've taken to going to storage unit auctions. This week I stood out in the cold for three hours watching the auctioneer sell off the contents of six storage units. The big finds that day were a large box of pornographic magazines (some lucky person picked that little find up for $3.00), and a very nice, hand-blown water bong. Since the auctioneer can't legally sell off drug paraphernalia, they say things like, "remember, you're bidding on the box only." They also can't sell off paint, so when a storage unit full of painting supplies came up, they auctioned off 5-gallon buckets, and the paint inside was just a bonus.

In the news this week:
South Carolina Born Sweet Tea Vodka is Coming Home. This staple in everyone's liquor cabinet was invented here, but due to strict distilling regulations, had to be moved to Florida. Since the SC unemployment rates keep increasing, we're all thankful for any industry that wants to set up shop here. And since we've already determined that Southerns drink like it's their God given privilege, I think this little product is the real reason sweet tea is so popular here.

For those of you who don't know, Jim and Tammy Fae Bakker's Heritage Land was erected in Fort Mill, SC (just up the road). Since Jim's shameful falling from grace, Heritage Land has been abandoned, and is now a collection of abandoned buildings, which (among other things) include several castles and an outdoor coliseum.

But there's bright news on the horizon. Another religious group has made a deal with the city to take over the abandoned hotel (imagine the scene of a horror movie, and you've got Heritage Towers), and will be putting in retirement apartments. After all, who doesn't want to buy a space in a hotel that's been abandoned for nearly 20 years?

Those of you who can claim DAR rights (privileges?), now have another group to aspire to: Dames of the 21st Century. Apparently there is a new (new to me anyway) society of women who get together to do who knows what, and the only qualifying consideration is whether your forefathers were here from 1600 to 1699. The article gave a definition of the modern-day Dame, and detailed how one might begin researching said family lineage.

I'm just excited about finding a new hobby.

Love,
Kate

31 weeks pregnant and Addie throwing a fit in the snow.

More about those damn squirrels

1/16/09

Hi,

Well here it is Friday afternoon, and I have completed, and passed (at least preliminarily anyway) my PHR test - back to napping guilt free, yippee!

Since moving here, I have learned many interesting and useful things (examples: whooping is alive and well in the south, Carolinians are bad drivers, and the merits of Confederate Flag Day), but have recently learned a new phrase and thought I should share it with you . . . Meat and Three.

I'm still struggling with its actual meaning, but have come to understand it as dry meat and three soggy sides. I am willing to concede I could be a little bit wrong about it's meaning though.

On a recent trip to Wal-Mart (I still want to cry every time I admit it) I discovered a new product that I can't believe has not become an overnight success - injectable honey glaze.

This little tantalizing treat comes with its own syringe and a list of suggestions of what to inject said glaze into. I realize that food companies have been injecting meat for years, but it's always been in the privacy of their own plant. Just the idea of bringing injectable goodness out into the open is at the very least owning up to one's guilty pleasures, but more than that, it seems down right scandalous.

Once the world gets a taste of self-honey-glaze injecting, where will it stop? Why stop at honey glaze? Why not injectable butter (at the least), or injectable gravy, or for that matter, injectable mayonnaise?

As if that wasn't enough excitement for one trip, while I was checking out, I got into a lively conversation with the checker about the merits of gardening with Wal-Mart bags - one layer of plastic bags, one layer of dirt, one layer of plastic bags, one layer of dirt . . .

After two weeks of staying with our neighbors while we were gone, Bubbles has decided she wants a new family. Nearly every time we let her out, she runs to the neighbors and refuses to come home. She has already spent several nights over there (they say she won't leave, and I say it's the tuna fish in their pockets), and launches an attack against me when I go to get her.

Bubbles has a thing for fresh water, so she jumps into the sink anytime she thinks you may turn it on, and Addie has discovered the joy of "washing her hands" while the cat is in said sink (read, turning the water on the cat's head). I realize this may not be an ideal home life compared to sleeping in our neighbor's bed and getting canned tuna fish whenever you're hungry, but after spending $600 on her, I'll be damned if the neighbors are going to get her.

I am fairly certain Bubbles is plotting how to achieve refugee status as we speak.

For those keeping track at home, I have just won the Upstanding Parenting Award.

We have a particularly irksome nine year old in our neighborhood who is around a lot, and has recently taken to tormenting Bubbles under the guise of trying to "make friends."

On one particularly trying day, he told me our cat was mean and was always biting him. I then (because I remembered that I was the grown-up in the situation) told him that was because we were training the cat to attack him.

Now you'd think I would have stopped there, but no. I then went on to tell him that in fact, we had a picture of him in the house and were working on training Bubbles to attack the picture every time we said his name.

Upon reflection, maybe that wasn't the best way to handle the situation.

Two recent headlines in our local paper read, "Squirrels Plot to Take Over." and the other, "The Joys of Eating Squirrels." Those are honest to goodness headlines, and both are near and dear to my heart considering my experience with the carnivorous squirrels in our yard.

Granted, the first article was about a shortage of acorns and how the squirrels are plotting and scheming to take over bird feeders, but I think the sentiment behind the article was the same - squirrels are scary scary creatures and steps should be taken so they don't take over the world (this is where article number two comes in . . .).

Take care and have a great weekend!

Kate

Christmas recovery

Well we're back in South Carolina, after two weeks in Oregon, and although it's nice to be home (in the sense that we're back in our house and back to our routines), we both really miss Oregon. As most of you know, there was a huge amount of snow when we arrived, but thanks to the Caddy-plow, we were able to get around quite well. Who knew Cadillacs were such good snow cars? Needless to say, Jeff has totally fallen in love with them (and to this day, swears that his '79 Cadillac Eldorado was the "smoothest ride" he ever had).

Jeff's favorite missed things were of course beer - he opened a bottle of Mirror Pond (which we used to keep on tap in Portland), and let out a long sigh, and said, "that's good beer." Somehow the Budweisers and Natural Lights just don't seem to do it for him.

In addition to the food (because as a companion hobby to napping, I have also taken up eating), I missed the Portlandness of it all. Whilst driving around town, we spotted a guy wading through the snow bank, playing his guitar.

Since Oregon is such an outdoor city, there were cross-country skiers and snow-shoers everywhere, and I even heard tell of a gal who skied across town for a blind date - that's dedication.