Prolly All the Time

trapped...

Bet that you thought that I was dead.  But no, I am actually being held hostage here in Beavertuckey with my very strange, very loud in-laws... who do not understand sarcasm, at all.  It has been a long week.  I am currently running on a battery that is losing power quicker than a South American banana republic, and it is so damn cold here, I have been forced to sit on a floor vent in my underwear wrapped in a flannel blanket...  I shit you not.  12 fucking degrees... what the hell is that?

The dinners have been interesting, as always, filled with prayer and off-color, clearly un-P.C. comments and jokes.  Yes, this family is a study in contrasts. My son is sleeping in a closet and my FIL has a habit of puttering around the house and walking into rooms currently occupied by others without knocking.  Bless his heart... I think that he is still a little embarrassed.

Thanksgiving eve, I had the distinct pleasure of consuming meatloaf (could you give a food dish a more unappetizing name... meat in a loaf form... UGH) baked in a festive pumpkin shell. Go ahead and read that last bit again, but I assure you that you read it correctly the first time... meatloaf baked in a festive pumpkin shell.  And yes, it tasted about as bad as you are imagining.  But, it was festive.

So far, we have had three meals that have involved thanksgiving food stuff, not including the actual thanksgiving dinner.  For those of you paying attention, yes, that means that one of those meals was a BREAKFAST.

My MIL has only made 15 parenting suggestions, which I am told (by my SIL) is actually a family record... on the low side.  Go me!

To top it all off, Bean has his first cold AND ear infection.

So, I spent most of my afternoon today in a Children's Urgent Care Clinic holding onto a very pissed off Bean, trying to prevent him from touching anything or anyone that might make him sicker than he already is.  And BTW, were it not for the highly contagious nature of baby sick snot...  it would make a fantastic adhesive. It sticks to human flesh (and cashmere sweaters) like nothing I have ever seen.  Really, transplant surgeons ought to investigate its benefit with respect to re-attaching limbs and digits and such.

So, I guess that most of all, I am thankful that Thanksgiving only comes once a year.

(In fairness to N., I ought to say that I am incredibly thankful that I have a husband who has such an incredible sense of humor about his family that he is not at all offended by my observations and good-natured complaining.  I also have a fabulous son, who despite the super-glue snot, is really pretty keen. So, I guess there might be a few other things to be thankful for...  but that is not quite as funny.)

apples don't roll too far...

Family legend has it that between the ages of six months and four years, a series of experiments was conducted on yours truly.  My parents, I am sure under the influence of some substance popular with members of the former-hippie, turned yuppie counter-culture, felt it was their duty to society to use their parenting experience to prove out any number of actual or imagined theories of child development. [I know, I am often amazed that I escaped childhood as high-functioning as I am. By all accounts, I ought to curled in a ball somewhere eschewing all personal contact.]

OK, so I am exaggerating slightly.  It is not as if these experiments put me in any MORTAL danger. There were the tests to determine at what point my taste buds became fully-developed (accomplished by repeated exposure to edible substances of varying type and taste -- some v. spicy, e.g. the habenero pepper, some just plain nasty, e.g. liver); there were experiments to see how many times I would reach for a toy, that was yanked away at the very last moment, before losing my shit; and there were the experiments designed to determine exactly the best method to keep me from getting out of bed at night, my personal favorite... mostly because I REMEMBER it.

At the time, I was getting out of bed at night to sneak-a-peak at the TV.  I would fall asleep on the stairs where hours later, Chicken Little and Hippie-freak (my dad) would trip over me. My parents went through a variety of "fixes" until settling on a motion detector/alarm system wired to my bedroom door.  Upon activation, the device emitted a ear-splicing noise, about 125 decibels (that of a car alarm), INSIDE the mot$her-fuc*king house.

Needless to say, after the first night of use,  I NEVER, EVER got out of the bed in the middle of night again.  My mother has since capitulated that perhaps the alarm was a tad over the top.  I bet that you are all thinking to yourselves, "it is a good thing that t'pon is an only child..."

Well, I think that it is fair to say that we all want better things for our children than we had for ourselves. As such, I have decided to out-source experimentation on Bean to our local state university. Our first appointment is on Saturday.

You thought that I was going to say something about not subjecting him to experimentation, didn't you?  Ha, obviously, we are still getting to know each other.

These are responsible researchers looking into how babies react to different faces and visual stimulation in a happy and safe environment.  Bean will wear a shower cap specially designed to measure his brain activity while he watches faces and pictures appear on a TV screen.  In 30 minutes time, Bean will help researchers get a little more insight into child development. Already, he is making contributions to society. I am so proud.

I have also checked to make sure there are no alarms involved.  I am responsible like that.

crazy is as crazy does...

Right now, sickness abounds at casa t'pon.  Bean is struggling through what appears to be either his first big cold, OR his brain is melting and oozing out of his nose. Hard to tell at this point, but I do know that it is affecting his sleep and that makes mama t'pon pissy.  N. is going through some kind of gastrointestinal difficulties.  Lets just say that I am not sure that the smell is ever going to come out of the guest bedroom, it has been a difficult couple of days.  And then I seem to be suffering from a general stomach ickiness...  which has brought on a definite bought of pregnancy paranoia.  I have yet to pee on a stick because the chances are HIGHLY unlikely... but hey, so were the chances with Bean. But, that is neither here nor there.

Today, we are talking about crazy... as in "everyone in my family, at least on my mom's side, goes bat-shit insane before they die" and shopping... as in "primary source of bonding and entertainment for Chicken Little (my mom) and me."

About six months following our nuptials, I informed N. that given the fact that he had made a solemn promise to me that he would not die before me... well, he more than likely would have to watch me deteriorate to the point of madness. I figured by this time in our relationship, he was locked in. People would definitely peg him as the jerk for leaving me because I was voted "most likely to eat chalk" in high school.

I cannot accurately predict the method of my madness (Alzhe*imer's, dem*entia, bi-p*olar and the mother of all schizophr*enia all have claimed members of the extended family), I feel pretty certain that my future contains at least a few years of drooling, fits of random and uncontrollable emotions, and referring to my children/grandchildren by the dogs' names. (N. will tell you that I am already exhibiting two out of the three as of this morning...) And I am OK with that...      

My only concern is that I do not wish to LOOK like a crazy person.  I made N promise that he would not let me sit in four-day old PJs with drool hanging off my lip, unless we were caring for a newborn. I have made sure in our planning that money is set aside to have someone come in and fix my hair on a regular basis and dress me up real pretty-like.  Occasionally, I remind N. of this arrangement.  And like most men quick to dismiss any conversation that might be a little uncomfortable...  he dismisses any odds that I will, one day, be making blue water.

N.: I think that you are fine.  While your dad is certainly not the poster-boy for mental health, he at least dilutes your mom's gene pool.  Your mom, however, is most certainly F&%^ed.

t'pon: You might as well accept the fact that I am going to go crazy... it won't be that bad. You can make fun of me.

N. To your face?

t'pon: Its not like I am going to even know who you are, so sure... you realize that Chicken Little will want to live with us when she loses her mind.

N:  So is she moving in next week? (t'pon shooting eye daggers)

t'pon: oh, you are SOFA KING clever.

N.: At least we could save some money by canceling the cable.  We can just sit around and watch your mom. Bonus, its interactive and encourages bonding with older generations for the kids. (I am now about to open a can of whoop ass on his special combat warrior butt. No one talks about my mama like that except me...)

t'pon: Forget it.

Fast-forward two days...

N: Make me a promise.

t'pon: what?

N.: Make me a promise about you and your crazy mom...

t'pon: Are you going hold me to a promise when I am crazy?  Because I don't think that's fair...  you can't hold me to a promise made 40 years earlier if I am calling you by the dog's name.  I won't remember it... that sets you up to totally take advantage of me.

N.: You call me by the dog's name now.

t'pon: Even more reason to be wary of this promise-making thing...

N.: Promise, or there will be no hair brushing.  Your crazy ass can wear dreadlocks for all I care.

t'pon: Fine.

N.:  When you and your crazy mother are out spending money...

t'pon: yeah...

N.: Make sure that it is HER money.

short and sweet

We are just back from our nine-month check up...  I have to say that I will be so glad to reach the 12-month mark, if for no other reason than I hate forking over co-pays every 2-3 months so the doctor can tell me everything is fine and stick some needles in my kid's thigh, leaving me short three days worth of my precious extra hot chai lattes (yes, I am that kind of person...  I also drive a fancy station wagon, because mini-vans are Satan's coaches, with a sticker indicating where I went to college and I own a pair of $100+ jeans... but I didn't buy them, they were a gift.  Perhaps you would feel better if you thought of me as a spy in the house of suburbs...) with one screaming infant.  I also really hate needles, but that is another post altogether because today we are talking about Bean and genetics.

I believe that you are all familiar with Bean...  He, the child that looks not a whole lot like his mama, who so lovingly attends to his every waking need except between the hours of 8:30 AM and 5:30 PM Mondays - Fridays when those needs are outsourced to the lovely B. whom I pay, so that kind of counts.  He, the walking recessive gene (see my flickr badge for evidence) He, who bears a striking similarity to his daddy, in coloring, personality, and general crankiness when lacking in sufficient amounts of sleep. There are those who will claim that he shares certain characteristics of mine...

"he has your smile, sort of." (thanks, sort of)

"there is a little bit of you in his nose..." (yep, it is called a finger and this is me picking his boogers.)

"oh what a beautiful baby, such striking eyes... how long have you been his nanny." (yeah, no joke that happens A LOT. And let me tell you, I WISH I got paid to hang with this kid all day...)

I take this all in stride because, well, N. is a pretty good-looking guy.  I should be fine with Bean having less than a thimble full of visible genetic attachment to me if he looks like his dad.  I know he is mine... I have the reduced bladder control and extra 10 lbs to prove it. Plus, he loves himself some TV... just like his mama.

Today, however, there is a problem... it appears that Bean has selected the worst genetic trait that I have to offer.  Rather than take my natural tan, my thick hair, my freckles...  it appears that Bean may have pulled my short card. 

Lets be clear on something... there were a lot of reasons for me to marry N., but one of the top five was his height.  He is 6 ft 2 in tall...  I figured this would give my son more than a fighting chance of breaking through the 5 ft 9 in barrier that has long kept men in my family line from achieving true greatness.

Alas, according to the good doctor he is a little on the small side.  His exact words were "looks like he is heading in your direction, mom... but that is OK, dad might be able to pull it out in the teenage years.  I would guess he will be somewhere in the middle."

For fuck's sake... that could be anywhere from 5 ft 3 in (which is just plain sad for a guy) to 6 ft 1 in (please God, I promise to never flip off people driving 45 MPH in the left lane of the freeway again...).  Thanks for narrowing it down.

Anyway, anyone know if they make grape-flavored growth hormones?

blah

So here is the deal...  it is not that I am particularly lazy (I mean, I am, but not so much applicable in this case). Rather I am SOFA KING EXHAUSTED, that pulling together the concentration to get through my work and baby-raising day is starting to feel a whole-lot like trying to wrangle squirrels.

It appears that I have acquired a new bunkmate these past few days.  And while my old bunkmate snored and created smells so foul I can only assume that his ass-ho*le is a portal to Satan's compost heap, he, at least, stays on his side of the bed and doesn't issue all manner of squeaks and whistles throughout the night.  He also does not wake up periodically screaming at the top of his lungs only to quickly drift back off to peaceful slumber, while I fumble with the defibrillator to try to stop my heart attack.

Seriously, if any of you are champion co-sleepers, enlighten me.  Have you figured out how to survive without sleep? Are you able to induce some kind of comatose state that prevents you from being bothered by a small person who moves around in his sleep so much that he is as distracting as that little thread at the bottom of the picture in old movies and cartoons? Do you not worry about crushing him under your "not quite petite because you still haven't lost all the baby weight" frame in the middle of the night?

PEOPLE, THIS IS INFORMATION THAT I NEED... If I have to sign some attachment parenting contract that says I will burn my bottles, grind my own organic food, change to cloth diapers, and carry Bean in a sling until he is 13.5 years old, I will gladly do it.  Desperation puts me in a very accommodating state of mind.

(and yes, Bean is recovering beautifully from his surgery. Thank you to all the well-wishers.  He has even resumed his Sherman's March towards the one-year mark, destroying everything in his path as he takes his first steps, climbs stairs, and continues his daily tormenting of the fur babies.  new pics at Flickr... On a side note, I am currently taking odds on Bean becoming an E-N-T specialist given his keen interest in closely examining everyone's head holes and the contents thereof. And once the stitches are healed... he is going back to his own damn bed.)

Honestly, it isn't really the fatigue that has kept me from writing lately. I am just not feeling particularly funny and (IMHO) there is nothing sadder than a blogger who takes themselves too seriously.  Lately, things in t'pon's world (it is so rare that you see a double apostrophe... let us all take a moment to observe that grammatical oddity...) have been a little to "real".

Specifically, in the span of two weeks, two friends have confided that their marriages are circling the bowl.  And while I am very much at peace with my new found maturity...  I don't think that I was emotionally or mentally prepared to reach the stage in life when people whose weddings I attended and even participated in would begin calling it quits.  I am doing my best to be supportive and encouraging to these friends, but at the same time it is hard not to take inventory of one's own relationship and get a little introspective. 

I know that I am blessed to be married to someone that values the commitment we made as highly as I do.  And I know that above and beyond all things, we have trust.  I also know that it is impossible for us to take ourselves too seriously.  But I am sure that these people believed all of those things about their relationships as well.  I mean, who gets married thinking about their exit strategy...  well, besides Elizabeth Taylor.

But, again, I am an only-lonely which makes me particularly sensitive.  I came into this relationship with an unnatural fear of abandonment.

At least we have the Bean... my little insurance policy against loneliness. : )

Lighter days are on the horizon...  which means super fun t'pon is on her way home.