Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Anyway. Sweets woke up with a bazillion pus-filled blisters on his pelvis. Well, maybe not a bazillion, but when yo' babeh has teh nastys on his parts? It's a bazillion. Also, I had a little fever. Just weird. Not I'm just weird, the fever was just weird.
We went to visit our friend the doctor the next day, and she thought Sweets had thrush. Except, here's the thing, I said, I don't have thrush. Because I know when I have thrush. So she prescribed some Nystatin-esque cream to rub into his parts. And that stuff? Did not work. Unless the idea was to increase the number of blisters, because those guys were fruitful and multiplied. Not unlike the Duggars. Except the Duggars are not blisters. Moving on.
Friday morning of that week, Sweets woke up with a Fever. It was a capital-F fever, 101 degrees. I busted out the infants' Tylenol-ish product we have, and despite its claim to be for infants, it only has dosing directions for infants who weigh over 24 pounds. Thanks, Tylenol! You're super useful in feverish situations. So naturally, being the conscientious parent I am, I called the doctor to find out how 'zactly much Tylenol I should give the babeh.
At which time, the doctor promptly flipped her gourd (for very good reason, honestly) and demanded that we come to the office IMMEDIATELY. So I packed up all the short people and hit Burger King (sorry, That Girl, it was an emergency) and sped off.
Except OF COURSE I don't actually speed, unless I'm hunting drunk drivers. *snirk*
It's in the Doctoring of Newborns Rules that when a babeh has a high temp, they need to go directly to the hospitable and be tested for sepsis to make sure the babeh doesn't die. So we went to the Emergency Department of Children's Hospital in Buffalo, and they poked things in his arm and in his, umm, well, the thing they poked with was a catheter, and also in his spinal cord. They did the spinal tap twice. I wasn't in the room for that, I think there's a really good reason why you're not allowed to watch your child get a spinal tap and that reason is called So You Don't Kill The Nurses and Doctors Doing The Spinal Tap Because There Is A Limited Number Of Those People. And then they pumped his little self full of precautionary antibiotics, which is not something I'd allow on a regular sort of day, but seeing as how this was an Official Special Day, we took the antibiotic cocktail and smiled pleasantly.
Then, for extra special, and also because the spinal tap was a double failure, the doctor ordered an MRI or CAT scan or something involving XRAYS and HIS BRAIN and also DYE, because, you know, extra special.
And by that time? Mama wanted a stiff drink. Or five. Or just a bottle of Maker's Mark would have done nicely. Because it had been a long, stinking day, that's why. Instead, Uncle Ben and Aunt Sarah came by with a slice of pizza and a cherry coke, which was a way better idea. (But they did contemplate smuggling yet another round of booze into yet another hospital because they are Teh Awesomes.)
And so we were given a room, and the lovely doctors and nurses took good care of mah babeh, and by the next morning, the blisters on his pelvis had started being fruitless and had ceased multiplying. Also, they brought me food and I didn't have to forage, and I really appreciated that.
Not so much appreciation for the nurse/random diaper collecting woman (they weighed the diapers to monitor hydration via output) who asked my not-yet-30-year-old friend if she was E's GRANDMA. She. Failed. Steenky Bee tweeted me that I should ask her if she was a tranny the next time she came 'round, but I do not have a set big enough to do that, and also, I couldn't decide if she a) would know what I was talking about; or b) actually WAS a tranny and would be superoffended that I didn't notice.
We spent a little more than 48 hours at the hospital, so they could grow plants in E's blood and pee. Maybe it wasn't plants they were trying to grow, but that's how I pictured it... little blood plants and little pee plants sprouting up out of the petri dish. And YES! It did entertain me to do that, because honestly, by hour 15 of the Jon and Kate Plus Eight Marathon I needed a little something to make me smile. Because Kate was stressing me out.
Thanks for all your kind thoughts and prayers, and for all the tweeting that was keeping me off the rooftops, especially during the spinal tap. I can't remember who sent me a virtual tweety dinner, or who sent me the tweetloaf, but it was awesome. Tasted great, and was less filling than actual meatloaf. Vegans love it!
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
So we're all on the same page now.
In a few hours, I get to go to the Attica (yes, like the prison, except the prison was named after the town) Police Department to give a statement or testify or be deposed like a dictator regarding "The Incident of April 15th". Because that's how the police are referring to me going all narc on the (allegedly) drunk guy's (might have been a gal, guessing I'll find out later) ass. I'm going to drink a ton of coffee before I go so that mah brain cells are working real good, and so's I'm super entertaining. Because that's totally what they're looking for, right?
And for the record, I am taking this very seriously, because drinking and driving is crazy serious, and people should just not do it.
This morning we had a photo shoot in our living room, of all places, with Sue Smith of Legacy Portraits. She brought the studio to us. More on that later, and also a super awesome deal on portraits for readers of my blog. It's even good for all my stalkers out there... you know who you are... And not only is it a great deal, but there's free stuff, too. But that's Monday.
I know how you people love free stuff.
Sue shot us up for almost two hours. We were having so much fun, we didn't notice. And naturally, my children were angels. Ahem.
Sweets took a fabulous nap afterwards, and woke up with a horrendous case of baby acne. Awesomesauce.
Abrupt topic change...
Lisa Brandos (hi Lisa!) tweeted this article today, and I just thought I'd share it with you to demonstrate that Waco, Texas, has not yet banned stupid people. I know it does not shine positively on Christians, especially, but I think the people in that lecture were way more STUPID than CHRISTIAN. Just read the article and laugh at the stupidity.
Or not. Short people are emerging from their sleepy cocoons, and their sweaty little selves are begging for a drink of water. Also they want to be cuddled, and there's nothing like a sweaty little self after a nap. I am outta here.
Quick question: Is Miss Suzy from Sid the
Now I'm out of here. For realz.
Monday, April 20, 2009
But he's hungry (read: protesting loudly and vigorously), so it will just have to wait.
Thanks for all your kindness, prayers and messages. They were very much appreciated.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
UPDATED!!! okay, i understand that this is totally two days ago but i can't really watch the news with all the short people around
Wednesday morning, I was supposed to hang with mah gal Hanna. Except she forgot she had to hang with the cable guy so that she could get high-speed internet so she can watch videos and actually visit mah blogishness instead of reading me in a reader... and also, her husband was going to some tea event with signs, some sort of protest thing, and he was taking the car, so she was stuck at home.
In the background, I heard him say, Who are you talking to?
And Hanna said, Just one of my liberal friends.
And then he muttered something, and left, and Hanna, the supportive and lovely wife, said, Have fun! I love you!
(I need to say that I'm not just flat-out mocking Hanna's unnamed popo hubby here, I'm just going to mock all people involved in this event.)
TEABAGGING. These people, the righty-right Republicans, have been sending teabags to the White House to protest the taxes. And now they're having Tea Parties.
Y'all? Are riflippingdiculous. Michelle does not strike me as a tea drinker, and if she is I'm pretty sure she's not drinking any nasty Lipton out of a bag for bloody hell's sake.
There are groups on effbook and twitter all about teabagging politically. As if THAT'S never been done before. What? you say. What is this teabagging and why are you mocking political teabaggers? Read this quicky post by The Bloggess, and catch your little self up on what teabagging is, and then come back. I'll wait. No really, I'm drinking beer and eating doritos right now. I can afford a few minutes. Take your time. Just make sure you're not drinking anything. You've been warned, so don't freaking complain back here.
Okay. You're back? Got it?
So really, Republicans? Teabagging? That's the best you can do? With all the dirty old Republican Senators tapping their toes in the bathroom and banging hookers, you people didn't see this coming? There are no gay men Republicans who giggled at your stupidity and then clued you in about what teabagging is?
Even if Rush Limbaugh and that Blahblah Savage Person haven't made Conservatives look ridiculous recently? A teabagging campaign would still be a bad idea. Even if the former President had been a raging success and not the bumbler he turned out to be? BAD IDEA. And the people that coined the phrase "TEABAG OBAMA"? Dudes. Have you seen his wife? She could totally take you with both arms tied behind her back and also probably if she was hopping on one foot.
Teabag Obama. Please.
And if you're not sick of it yet, you should totally watch this video. Because it is funny, that's why.
In other news, I was almost hit by a drunk driver Wednesday night. He tried hard to hit me from behind while I was on my way home from Target. I let him pass me (which, for the record, is something I neverevereverever do because I'm totally a jerk like that), and then I called the Sheriff's office (didn't get to talk to Hanna's husband, though, he had the day off for his teabagging party), and ratted his ass out.
I got home and The Mister said, So, did you have a nice, relaxing time at Target? And I said, Yes, but then on the way home I almost DIED BECAUSE OF A F*CKING DRUNK DRIVER!!!! and he was appropriately sympathetic, and recommended I go in the house and drink a beer, but I am so way ahead of him right now, I'm on beer number 2. Which will be the final beer because, well, it's the final beer. And also, for the record, I did not commence drinking until I had been home for a while. And he was out soldering (pronounced SODDERING, for all of you who are like me and can't say that word whilst looking at it) something, he was listening to the popo scanner and heard that the bastard in the blue truck got ARRESTED for being PLASTERED.
I. Was. A. HERO! Who knows how many lives I saved tonight by being a ratty tattle-tale. I am awesome. And a little buzzed. And I didn't get killed by a drunk driver, so I totally am the winner in this situation.
Good night, and good luck. Especially if your a Republican or a drunk driver. Because there are people out to get you if you are.
And PS? I am so labeling this post hot wives are hard to come by because it is, quite possibly, the best tag ever.
I forgot to tell Hanna in advance that I mentioned her and her husband. Sorry, Hanna.
Also? I love and respect people who think differently than I do, I just found this specific use of the word teabagging to be really odd and funny.
And also, I am not drinking beer in the hospital
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Elliott is certifiably the most chill baby ever, and he is well-liked by all the nurses here at Children's. Also well-liked? His BabyLegs. And yes, these are the exact ones he's wearing.
With a complimentary light orange hospitable gown.
And why do I keep saying hospitable when that is CLEARLY not what I mean? Because it's fun, that's why, and I've been sitting around like a bum all day, feeding my sweet babe and eating foodstuffs and drinking barely palatable coffee. Also watching trashy TV (for example Millionaire Matchmaker. Barf.)
Elliott is doing well, eating and sleeping and smiling at me when he remembers that my face corresponds with the boobies he loves so well. My good friend Heather (hi, Heather!) came up to visit today, and brought me clean pants and shampoo and my camera (thanks, Heather!). But no pics of Elliott smiling. Of course.
Thanks for your thoughts and prayers and well-wishes. My phone didn't receive all the tweets tweeted in my direction, so if I didn't respond to you, don't think I ignored you on purpose. I really appreciate all the messages, received or stored up for me on Twitter, as I've been here with Elliott all by my lonesome for this whole time.
Don't hate on The Mister, he had an enormously huge concert to mix this weekend, far away, with an enormously huge paycheck attached to it, so I made him stay there.
It's been nice to feel the love.
We hope to be discharged Sunday night if nothing yucky shows up in the petri dishes.
- The Mister
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Friday, April 17, 2009
Last night they did some blood tests and a CT scan on Elliot to test for meningitis and try to narrow down what kind of staph infection he has. They are pretty sure he does not have the MRSA staph strain (which can be fatal), so that is good news, and all other tests they've done have come back negative this morning. They had a relatively peaceful night.
I will update again with any news I hear.
Little E has been admitted to the hospital and will be staying there until at least Sunday night.
The ER doctors seemed quite sure that he has a staph infection, and are currently doing a spinal tap to see how severe it is (I won't put a link up for that.. you don't want to imagine that..).
It's always a bit unnerving when our little ones take ill.. But it can be downright terrifying when they have to be hospitalized. Please keep the Daytons in your thoughts and prayers.
He's pretty lethargic and doesn't want to be in the sling (his favorite place, well second place after the boobies).
I will update via twitter, if you want to follow me, I'm pameladayton.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Oh crap. Introductions first. This is Only Aman:
Better yet, here is Only Aman sans (without) uniform:
So I was talking to my wife (ChurchPunkMom - http://myembellishedtruth.com) and she was telling me that she was seeing her old boyfriend again. I was like WHAT THE HECK! She looked at me with all seriousness and told me that she was making out with him the night before. I was blown away. Then she sat me down and we had a talk.
You see her old boyfriend had disappeared, sort of all of a sudden. She knew him for some time, he was sweet loving and protective. He was everything that she wanted in a man. They were both very happy with life and each other, or so she thought. Then something happened and he went into hiding. Recently she had been getting some messages from him as he was trying to get out of the trouble he was in. So when the opportunity came to see him again, she jumped at it! I just didn't know what to say. I mean - I knew how much she loved him by the look in her eyes. Those gorgeous eyes...
Ok ok... enough embellishing.
So last year I started growing a beard and wearing "The Uniform" to work everyday. The beard consisted of my facial hair, while "The Uniform" consisted of a black hat, white dress shirt, black tie, black coat, black pants, black shoes (Etnies skate shoes are so comfortable) and some random socks consisting of black and white thread. I started wearing this because I was at a cross roads in my life. You see to me, black and white means either you are black or white, you are in or you are out, you are a sinner or you are not. You are truth or not truth.
I was struggling with depression for some time (2 words), I am not quite sure how to say what was going in my mind but for those of you familiar with Fight Club you could say that Tyler Durden was starting to take over. (note to yourself - watch fight club) My thoughts had become a new reality and I felt like I was living two lives. One of truth and the other built on lies. It is strange what you start believing when your head is not correct. I made some terrible choices that nearly cost me my marriage and much more.
It was by the grace of God (and my wife) that I finnally came around and realized my head was not screwed on so tight. Something was wrong. I ended up seeing some doctors and found out I was bi-polar (which was a blessing and a curse - ha ha). It took me a little while to see my errors, with support of my wife and friends I was able to get my head out of my ass (I don't care if I can't say ASS on your blog). I realized I needed to decide which way I was going to take. The hard road where I try to clean up the mess I made if not make it better or do i run away and continue to self-destruct, or if your a fight club fan... hit bottom.
So back to the uniform... and that old boyfriend my wife was seeing.
I started wearing the uniform because I made a decision to commit to the life I wanted, for self discipline, for truth justice and the right to wear underwear on the outside of your pants. Wait... I mean, I made a decision to be truthful, to myself, my wife and all around me. Like my uniform I have maintained my choices. I decided the beard and the uniform needs to come from something different. Not from what it came from. So for now... my very hot wife gets to see her old boyfriend (me: naked face) and I get to see those gorgeous eyes of my hot wife as she shoots me with laser beams of love (deadly eyes when she is mad).
One year of consistency and my new cross-roads is what to wear. Not so bad as the last one was far more life changing. However I am still Only Aman.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
His eyes have turned bright blue (score another one for the mama!), and are starting to focus as a pair instead of that whole creepy baby eyes don't work together thing that they tend to do for a while when they're super new.
He gained weight in excess of a pound in the past week, despite being a Chugging-style nurser who pops the tops and drains it in under five minutes, and then heavers the contents of his belly all over me, himself, the sofa, the cats, the pillow, the clothing, the floor... whatever he can hit. Is it sport or just amusing for him? He probably won't remember by the time we can chat about how wet jeans and wet unders are really not super comfy.
It's still fascinating, the whole having a new baby in the house, even though new puppies all have the same tricks: eat, sleep, poop, pee in their eyes, cry. We all are completely in love with this little man. Everyone kisses him so often he's started brushing us away with his hands. We are SO annoying!
And yet, people kill their live, adorable children. Casey Anthony, for those of you who live under a rock, is being tried in Florida for allegedly murdering her daughter. I can't remember exactly how old she was when she "disappeared", but I'm thinking she was about three or four.
How long those years must have been for Caylee Anthony. How much abuse did that innocent child suffer before being murdered? Because, let's be honest, people, kids don't just one day get murdered by their parents. There's a path, a long chain of events, building blocks that pile up one on top of the other... lots of things happen before a kid gets murdered by a parent.
If Casey Anthony gets convicted, and for the record, I think the only way she'll walk is if she gets a jury as stupid as the one that acquitted OJ Simpson back in 1995, she could find herself on death row.
What is the point of the death penalty? I'm being serious. Why is it an option? Is it impossible to be unaware that the death penalty exists? I think not. Look at Texas, for crying out loud. Those people down there know how to exercise them some death penalty. And yet, people in Texas continue to commit crimes that have been deemed sinister enough to warrant being killed as a punishment.
I'm not just bagging on big ol' Texas here, lots of other states have the death penalty.
Like Florida. And yet? Casey Anthony (may or may not have) killed her daughter.
Convict her if she's guilty. But will sticking a needle in her arm bring back that sweet-faced little girl? Will it erase the years of abuse and neglect that likely preceded her death? Will it ease anyone's conscience for standing by while the little voice in their ear whispered, Do something, you know things are not right in this situation. Will it cause another person to actually listen to their conscience, and get help instead of abusing their child? Will it spur a bystander to action, to ask questions and stand up on behalf of other hurting babies?
Will it truly make Casey Anthony pay for what she has done?
Not a chance.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
And as the days go on and I read your guests’ wonderful posts, I’m more and more convinced of my lack of talent. But then I thought, hey, what’s better for a blog than a little diversity, right?
So… shall we commence today’s topic. One that, amazingly, hasn’t been covered yet by Pamela’s awesome line-up of guest-posters. And I’ll try my best to bring my A-game.
Things For Pamela To Read (and read again) In Case She Ever Starts Thinking She Wants To Have Baby #5. Or in case she ever starts thinking about a little unprotected roll in the hay with The Mister. (I call it prevention… of a sort.)
We all know that shortly post-baby, you forget all the nasty things about being pregnant and especially you forget the capital F.U.N. that is labor and delivery. So I thought I’d try to counteract that baby amnesia, if it is at all possible. Here goes:
- Re-read your own pregnancy post, Pamela. It’s one of my favorites.
- Baby #5. Need I say more? That’s 5, think slowly about it, fffiiivvveee, children. Do you think your bed can hold seven people in it comfortably? I think you’d end up with more than one child sleeping on your face.
- Speaking of which, sex with little people around (four of them now, to be exact, in the Dayton household) kind of loses its charm, doesn’t it? Do you have a lock on the bedroom door, over there? Or is it kind of like college sex… hide under the covers and try to be as quiet as possible. (Bring out the Boone’s, by the way. Or maybe that’s just me. Oops, I may have said too much.)
- There are lots of great reasons not to have sex now, besides the aforementioned general busyness in the bedroom. You could sing all the reasons, like a weird rendition of “My Favorite Things”. Fatigue, feeling like if someone else needs something from you, you’re going to drop-kick them (definitely not have a quickie), leaking milk, babies crying, did I mention being bone-tired?, headaches from wrangling kids all day, not being able to see the bed because of all the laundry on it waiting to be folded… these are a few of my favorite things. Catchy, isn’t it?
- Try to visualize hours and hours of pain. Real pain. Not the “ouch, the sticky adhesive on my pad caught a little hair down there” kind of pain. The “oh my goodness I think I’m going to die” kind of pain. Remember that? Do you really want to do that again?
Less time for you to be on the computer, blogging. I mean, more time for you to be spending breaking up fights, taking a stand against little knee-kickers, and dealing with kindergarten teachers.
- I’m sure you don’t want a repeat of someone ordering, ahem, asking you, in your last week of pregnancy to make them some baked oatmeal. Really, who has that kind of nerve??
- Having 5 kids… the college fund would definitely use up your discretionary income. Could you imagine having to choose between college or coffee? College. Or. Coffee. You tell me what would win out.
- Let’s think about this logically. Right now you’ve got things covered. Two parents, four kids. One kid for each parent’s arm. Unless you plan on growing more arms, another kid would totally throw off that symmetry.You'd be well on your way to your own Jon & Pamela Plus Eight (hmmmm, not as catchy, is it?)
And in all truth, I think more Daytons would be a blessing to the world. Welcome, little Elliott!
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Aside from the whole adjusting to nursing thing. That sucked.
You're laughing at that.
STOP! IT'S NOT FUNNY!
Okay, maybe sucked is not the best word to describe the searing pain that ran straight to the core of my central nervous system, caused me to say all of the bad words I know and also made me think that Ty Pennington got a really great gig plugging Nestle's baby formula. Seriously, my right Girly was hurting so terribly that the pain shot up and down the right side of my body ALL THE WAY TO MY TOES. My ears hurt, too. And he nurses about every hour and a half.
Except at night. Lalalalalalalala....this is me, moving on.
At night? He SLEEPS. Oh yes, yes, yes, yes, I know you want to have what I'm having.
Well, not THAT what I'm having, I'm not having THAT for four more weeks. (Unless my midwife doesn't read my blog... in which case, the timeline may possibly differ.)
Seriously, the boy has been sleeping about six or seven hours at a stretch at night. Have I mentioned that I am in love with this baby? He totally loves me, too, and wants me to keep on being his mama, because he is following the rules.
Also? I think I have lost about 75% of the weight I gained while I was pregnant. My zipper jeans don't really fit any more. Sure, my belly is still a little floppy, but my third and fourth chins have disappeared.
All told, we're doing well, and we are totally loving all of the loving we're getting from the guest posters and new commenters. Big thanks to everyone who has offered kind words of congratulations and told us how cute our baby is.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Welcome to the club, Dayton Family!
"Are they all yours?"
"You know what causes that.. right?"
"Do they all have the same dad?"
"Is this a daycare you have with you?"
"1, 2, 3, 4... Dang."
"Wow, you have your hands full!"
"You ever lose one?"
... and so on club! From the ChurchPunk House to the Dayton Clan, welcome to the world of Larger Families.
That's right friends, when you go beyond 3 these days, you are generally considered 'a bit off'. That, or people assume you are related to (or competing with) the Duggars.
But we're not.
We just like kids.
Kids are awesome. You should get some.
Now, Pamela and I have more in common than many of you may realize. Aside from the fact that our bodies are veritable midget machines (can I say midget here?? I know it's not PC and all.. eh, whatever. Like I ever follow the rules..Rules are for sissies.), but she also totally ROCKS.
Some things we know about Pamela: she cooks, she sews, she wears short people like accessories, she likes awesome music (like Family Force 5), she can make tasty bread, she pops out babies like it ain't no thang, she's funny, she feeds her offspring with her boobs, she ain't no sissy, she's kind to our Earth, and she loves God!
All of those things could be said about me as well.. well, except the part about being funny. I'm definitely not funny.
But Pamela is.
Because she is awesome.
But there's more to Pamela than just her totally rad talents. And this is part of what makes her a good mom and capable of shouldering the burden of raising a bunch of
Pamela is a good friend.
I know it sounds cliché. But she really is. Just look at all the guest posts here, and you can see how true it is! Pamela (and The Mister too!) takes the time to reach out to people and really get to know them. She's not afraid to ask questions, to check up on us when we
Asking questions is important.
Unless, of course, you're asking "You know how that happens, don't you?" or "Are those your daycare kids?" or "Are you having any more?? (I hope not..)" Cause those questions are just rude.
Congratulations, Daytons.. you now have more kids than the average family.. you are above average.
You are blessed. Even though there will be many days ahead (as I'm sure there already have been) when you most certainly don't feel like you are.
But when those days come? When your blessings start feeling more like burdens? You can bet your bippy I will be more than happy to lend you an ear, an eye, or a shoulder (or even a finger for that matter..).. because you know I've been there. I can relate. And I'm happy to be a friend to you, just as you have been to me!
Friday, April 10, 2009
Pamela and I lead very different lives. She's a stay-at-home-Mom to 4. FOUR! Dudes. I brought one bundle of
Oh, shush. It only seems like I'm abandoning my kid. His Dad is there with him. My husband, Mr. Hot, retired (not because he's old or rich, y'all...although a girl can dream, can't she?) from corporate life 13 years ago. He doesn't do well with authority. Snirk.
Annywayyyyy, back to how Pamela and I are different.
Four babies. One Teenager. You got that one, right?
Me? Retired husband. Her? The Mister is gainfully employed and even went to work the night Elliot was born.
Also, Pamela does laundry. She must. (FOUR kids) Me? I think there's a washing machine in my basement. At least, I've been told there is. The only proof I have is that for a while, I sent a check to Sears every month to "pay for" the "washing machine" I supposedly "bought". Oh, and my clothes magically appear clean before I pack on Sunday nights.
Pamela has been known to cook on a regular basis. And not just the kind of cooking that gives you FOUR kids. She makes homemade granola. (I KNOW this. She sent me some. Nahnee Nahnee Boo Boo!) Me? Ah ha ha ha ha ha ha. And snort. And also? Guffaw. The last time I tried to make my family dinner, they decided we should go out for sushi. And THEY DON'T EAT FISH.
Pamela is an accomplished seamstress. She can take pieces of fabric and make other things. Things her FOUR kids can actually put on their bodies and leave the house while wearing. I have scars (SCARS, people!) from the time I tried to use a sewing machine to hem my pants. How in the H-E-double-hockey-sticks was I supposed to know that I needed to take my pants off to hem them? (I just tell everyone it's an ankle bracelet.)
And yet, even though Pamela and I lead such absolutely different lives, I know that she's one of my very favorite people on the interwebs. So I decided to write a special little poem for her and her brood.
There once was a family named Dayton,
Who lived and loved and had such fun.
Pamela and Mister said More,
And so they made FOUR,
Welcome to the world dear young son.
Love to all of you guys! Rest up. The teenage years will be here before you know it.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
First of all, let me speak on behalf of the entire blogsphere when I tell you that your arrival was highly anticipated. We all love your Mommy SO MUCH and have been reading all of her entries about your siblings and how she managed to juggle gestating you, the fourth baby, all the while taking care of everyone around her.
Your Mommy has been VERY BUSY. She has dealt with a few bouts of nasty bugs which may have resulted in vomit…a thing which your Mommy hates A LOT, and a general dose of “the tired”. Your Mommy is a trooper and she has an awful lot of people that love her who have never even met her….sort of like you! Crazy, right? You will get used to the spotlight, my tiny friend. As a BOB (baby of blogger) there are some things you should know that your new best friend, Auntie Stiletto, is all too happy to share with you.
BOB Rule Number One: You will be talked about. Constantly. Should you choose to cry all night? Expect a post about it. If you decide to start walking way too soon? Well, your Mommy will probably document every step likening you to a tiny, drunken, bald man. You have been warned. Be on your best behavior. Mommy has a computer and she is not afraid to use it.
BOB Rule Number Two: Miss O rules the roost. Don’t forget this. She appears to be quite innocent but she was here first and she knows how to work the system. Learn from her, befriend her, make cute goo goo faces at her. I’m pretty sure she may be in charge. (PS: Don’t tell your Mommy and Daddy…they think they are in charge. This can be our funny little secret, mkay?)
BOB Rule Number Three: Your brothers? Wee Man and h.b? I think you can pawn a lot of the blame on “brokety things” off on them. Being the baby of the group, you can sort of get away with anything. Having older brothers only helps you in this regard because they are going to get into their big boy phase way before you. This means a few things. First, if you need attention…SCREAM…and then claim one of them pinched or hit you. Secondly, if you do break something…stand very still, pull the “What, Me??” face and then wait as the blame falls all around you. Trust me, my own Miss G (who I am totally sending to babysit you one day) is a master of this and it has caused her from being blamed for hundreds, if not thousands , of dollars in property damage. She has a system that works, and I think you should roll with it.
BOB Rule Number Four: Spit bubbles rule, these will make your parents smile and melt in your very presence. At some point, you might find yourself in the situation of driving your parents crazy because of the following activities:
- Crying all night for no apparent reason.
- Refusal to nurse at appropriate times. (See more under dictionary definition of “engorged boobs”.)
- Nursing too much. (See more under dictionary definition of "droopy boobs".)
- Too many poopy diapers.
- …or refusal to make poopy diaper.
- Fussiness at diaper changes.
- Peeing on everyone around you when said diaper is changed.
- General spitting up.
- Spitting up on clean clothes.
- Spitting up…period.
- Dislike of “the naked”.
- Dislike of people who your parents are trying to show you off and to whom you take immediate offense.
- Crying all night for no apparent reason (because this one cannot be stated enough).
Elliott, there is so much more I could tell you, but let’s face it, you are only a little over a week old and I wanted to start with the basics. You are a beautiful boy and we all look forward to watching you grow up. Just try to take it easy on your Mommy, she sort of has her hands full.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
I finished my bachelor’s in April of 2006, and after applying for a bunch of jobs across the country in my field (journalism), I hadn’t heard a thing and was starting to get frustrated. I contemplated going back to school, but wasn't sure what for exactly. I had grown up and attended college near my hometown and was really wanting to get out and see the world. So what did I do? I created a profile….
Yeah, I completely changed gears. I really wanted to see places other than Michigan, and childcare really wasn’t foreign to me. (I started babysitting at age 12, and did tons of volunteer work with kids throughout high school and college.) I was surprised that in less than 1 month, I had received several job offers – from New Jersey, from D.C., from Michigan (turned that one down, obviously. The point was to MOVE AWAY FROM THE SNOW), and 2 from Florida.
I almost hopped on a plane to New Jersey to meet a family I didn’t feel I clicked with over phone interviews. But I did get on a plane to Florida to meet a family I was very excited about working with. The 3 kiddos were 2.5, 6 and 7.5 when I met them. The youngest, unfortunately, has a neurodevelopmental disorder (on the autism spectrum) that prohibits her from walking, talking, and eating food by mouth. I don’t wish to expose her life here, so that’s all I say. It was incredibly humbling to meet a family who lives with this every single day. And they were a perfect match for me.
They flew me down to meet/interview with them on July 11, 2006 and I moved into their home 3 weeks later. When I told my family and friends I was leaving, of course they were happy for me, but I know they were wondering if I’d gone off the deep end. I left everything I knew behind, and moved 1,200 miles from home. I cried some, sure, but I actually expected to spend the first few weeks crying myself to sleep at night. But I didn’t. I made the decision to move and I never looked back.
I worked for that family for a year and a half. I now have a job that allows me to (partly) utilize my college degree, and I still keep in touch with the family. I live about 20 minutes from them, still babysit occasionally, and visit the kids on their birthdays. They always send me birthday/holiday cards and the kids text me to say hi on the weekends. Their family picture hangs on my fridge, and I grateful for my time spent with them. And I certainly look at life differently after my experience.
To learn more about my life, visit my blog.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
That's right, I have an Elliot. Granted mine is a single T Elliot, but an Elliot nonetheless. Obviously I think it's a great name. And it has the added bonus of no matter how you spell it you'll pronounce it correctly. Elliot, Elliott, Eliot, Eliott - it's all good.
I don't remember how Pamela and I came to be bloggy friends. But we did. The end.
Well, not really the end because we're all still here.
Last November Pamela participated in my now defunct Penpals series. I came back from BlogHer all hyped about community and hey hey. Also, it was NaBloPoMo and she was kind enough to help a sister out. Thirty days of posting is HARD. So hard in fact, I'm still recovering. Yes, I know it's April. Whatever.
Anyway. What struck me about Pamela's interview was that really is that funny, all the time. Not the ROFL sort, but the heh - she's funny sort. The kind of funny that you just know if you had a cup of coffee with the woman IRL that you'd walk away with a smile on your face.
Back in November Pamela said that an ideal day for her would be sleeping until she woke up. Yeah - I had to read that a few times myself too. When else would you sleep until? I then I realized she meant on her own not the result of her short people needing something. Ha! And then she went and got another short person. Seems counter-productive to me. But what do I know? Apparently I didn't put enough letters in my kid's name.
As it turns out, guest posting at the Dayton Time has turned into shameless plugging of my own blog. Seems like it's the least she can do since she stole my kid's name.
disclaimer: of course I hope everyone at the Dayton Time is well and adjusting nicely and that someone is given Pamela all the coffee she wants, but that goes without saying
Monday, April 6, 2009
It's nice to meet you.
My name is Kelly, and I write over here. I apologize for the generic nature of this post's title. But I haven't had breakfast yet, okay?
Pamela has been super kind and surprised me with an invite to guest post, and I gobbled it right up, trying to sound nonchalant about it when really I was like all kinds of ecstatic. First, because I love this woman, and second, because no one has asked me before. Sniff.
But then I was like, what on earth am I going to write about?
I stumbled badly at infancy (theirs, not mine), I frequently feel overwhelmed with parenthood (and I only have two children), and I get a lot of migraines. Do I want to come over here and bring my Debbie Downer attitude? My Eeyore-like approach to motherhood?
(Actually, I'm really not THAT bad. It just seems like it, if you read my blog. Ha.)
And then I thought, maybe I should write about sex. I have a lot to say about pregnant sex. Mostly that I'm mystified that so many women like it. I have a friend who was all like, "I can't get enough. I want it all the time." I felt less like a sexual creature and more like a beached beluga. In lieu of sex, I'd take a bowl of Cherry Garcia with a side of three supreme tacos from Taco Bell, thankyouverymuch.
And I just couldn't get over the idea that we were participating in some kind of demented 3-some. Things would be going okay, and then the baby would move, and I'd get totally freaked out.
Postpartum coupling was also a little tricky, WHAT WITH ALL THE MILK MAKING LITTLE DAIRY PUDDLES AND SHOOTING THIS WAY AND THAT.
But I'm guest posting on someone else's blog. (It would be most impolite to discuss these matters.) The sentence within the parentheses should be read in a British accent. Just sayin.'
So I'm going to write about time. How with its passage, memories can shift and perception can be altered.
I already mentioned that I sucked at infancy. The first time around, it was just new parenthood nerves. Oh, and a newborn daughter that refused to nurse. (Seriously, wtf with that? I still haven't figured it out.) Even the coolest of cucumbers would be a little frazzled, I think. The second time around, it was a baby who only wanted to nurse, and not sleep. I felt like I shouldn't be a mother at all, but an extra in a George Romero movie. I stumbled around, looking disheveled, and yes, a bit decomposed as well. I definitely smelled like a zombie. But I didn't want brains to eat, I just wanted some slumber.
The first night we spent at home with Lillian, our second daughter, was a doozy. She was up until 4am. We walked her around, I nursed her a thousand times, we'd get her settled for a minute and think we finally had it, but no.
I still remember vividly the sensation of walking her around our dining room, just around and around the table like we were doing laps. The garage light outside shone through the window and illuminated my desperate path. I was holding her with both hands, my right hand under her head and my left hand supporting her body. We were facing each other. My arms were tired and my c-section wound pinched and tugged.
It was hardly a moment I'd characterize as beautiful.
And yet, when I look back on it now, removed from its sleep-deprived and painful immediacy, I see it as a strange kind of lovely. I recall her face in the semi-lit dark, her eyes open and focused on me, her expression soft and relaxed. I was talking to her gently, trying to will her to sleep but also telling her how beautiful she was, how happy I was to meet her. I remember bringing her up to me, kissing her little mouth and chin.
For a long time after this night, we discussed it as 'the worst.' And certainly, it is hard to be totally unrecovered from birth and care for a baby who preferred being out of her bassinet, up rather than down. It's a boot camp of sorts. No one is yelling at you to do more push-ups, but you can't sit down, you can't stop.
And still, the way her face that night is seared into my brain, I wouldn't trade it. Insanely, I would take it over a night of blessed slumber any day.
Time has passed. More than 3 years now. And I love how these memories have morphed. Time hasn't erased the difficulty, but I smile instead of frown when I reminisce.
Like the memory of her Baptism...she screamed the entire time, from the moment we entered the church until we left. There was another family there with a cooperative baby and a videocamera, and I was mortified that their video commemoration of this Sacrament would forever contain the wails of my child. My priest said, "Boy, it looks like someone is hungry." I had to resist the urge to just say, "No, Padre, this is just her. All. The. Time. Weeeeeeee!"
And now I think back and laugh. Maybe she was just voicing her disapproval of the church hierarchy and their inane stance on gay marriage. Maybe she was already fighting for the chance for women to be priests. And I think of that other family trying to watch their video, and just saying, "Can you turn off the sound? Let's mute it," and I get hysterical. Because, well, it's kind of funny. Now. More than 3 years past.
Pamela and The Mister seem to know what they're doing. They got 4 great kiddos, and little Elliot seems to be the quiet, easy-going sort, along with looking extraordinarily delicious, like a cream-filled pastry. Yum.
They have twice my experience, so they certainly don't need my advice. But everyone can use well-wishes and happy thoughts, so for them I wish a lifetime of memories that make them smile and laugh. Even if it takes a few years.
You guys rock. And thanks for letting me stop by and chat.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Jen from coconut belly hit the nail on the head with her comparison of first vs. fourth... and she only (I don't mean only... ummm, errrrr... moving on) has two kids! But that's probably because fourth is only a little different than second... just more poop.
I will admit that I was sort of surprised Irish Gumbo posted about toast, but also sort of not surprised. I am being
What's not cool is the large crumb from my pizza crust that just went to live under my right arrow key. Not. Cool.
But I am guessing you don't want to hear about my booger coffee, or how funny I think I am, or any of that stuff and nonsense.
I'm guessing you might want more baby. So here you go:
Saturday, April 4, 2009
So now, without further delay, I give to you:
The Best Of Pamela's Pregnancy
On Bovine Afterbirth:
Never in all my wildest imaginings did I ever think I would witness the miracle of Bovine Afterbirth. And NO! I do not actually have wild imaginings about cattle. Really, people. I like to drink the milk (raw) and I like to eat them (rare-ish). And that is it. I do not have the vocabulary to express the disgusted wonder and raging dry-heaves I experienced on Saturday when I watched a cow eat her placenta. Why? I can hear you asking. I can. WHAT WOULD POSSESS YOU TO WATCH A COW, OF ALL THINGS, CONSUME AN ORGAN THAT WAS JUST INSIDE HER BODY? Loud and clear. And all I have to offer you is the standard Car Crash Response. I just. couldn't. look. away. It was like a big gelatinous...thing. All sloppy. And steaming. And thing-ish. And that cow was eating it up. Maybe slurping is a better word to use.And even now, as I sit here in my comfy chair, grossing you out with neither rhyme nor reason, I find myself wondering: With all the calf nut talk going on over at The Pioneer Woman, and the ninety bazillion cattle they have, how has she never once mentioned that those beasts excitedly eat their own placentas? Because that? Is WAY GROSSER THAN DE-NUTTING A CALF. Way. Grosser. But know this. I, Pamela from The Dayton Time, keep it real.
On Being Six Month Pregnant and Starving:
And really? I have been awake for HOURS. OOOOOOOWWWW-EEEEEERRRRRSSSSS. Yes, yes I have. Not tossing and turning, mind you, because the disc between my fourth and fifth cervical ...maybe it's my lumbars, I can't actually remember... decided to go visiting my lungs or something, and it is nearly impossible to roll over. I'm not even to the Beached Whale Stage of my pregnancy yet, and I can't sit up, roll over, put my socks on, or fetch. And I'm not begging...yet...but if there are still dirty dishes tomorrow at this time, I might start begging.I needed help putting on my snow boots yesterday so I could gimp down the street to the in-laws' house for New Years' Day brunch. Sans socks, for the record. Also? I had to STOP EATING DINNER at my mother's house, because I couldn't sit up any more. And let me tell you, people, that it is a real son of a bitch to be six months pregnant, be starving because you're, well, six months pregnant, and NOT BE ABLE TO FINISH YOUR PASTA.
On Nude Grocery Shopping:
Would you rather walk naked through the grocery or store or lick all the meat at the butcher counter? I would WAY WAY WAY WAY WAY rather lick all the meat at the butcher counter than walk naked through the grocery store. Even though I shop at Aldi, and walking through the store takes, like, 29 seconds, I would not do it naked. Especially if the short people are with me, not that they've never seen me naked, heck, all of them have spent lots of quality time with naked ol' me. But if they were walking through the store with me, it would take about 90 years, and I'd freeze my naked keister off by then. Also? I'd be dead. Ninety years is a long time.
On Her Special Vagina:
Then she asked if the hospital could photograph my birthin' processes to write an article for the local rag completely accurate and reliable newspaper, to feature the remodel job on the Labour and Delivery Floor. I said, Sure, just so long as you get a really flattering shot of my vagina. I'd hate to have her all flashed out in public looking a mess. To which she replied, We aren't allowed to print a picture of your vagina in the newspaper. So naturally I answered, I was joking. I don't really want a picture of my vagina in the newspaper. It's special for me...well, it's special for The Mister... well, it's pretty tired out lately, so it would really like a vacation.
Friday, April 3, 2009
and then i managed to make myself apparently invisible. (well ... now ... we've since realized that to each other ... we are just considered spam.)
and so not the spam of minnesota heritage. (really ... that link takes you to spam dot com ... no joke ... there's even a spam fan club. now we know. life can go on.) really what i'm trying to say ... is not about spam ... i got sidetracked ... which people totally understand on my own blog ... but this isn't my place ... so i'm sorry ... it's about how we couldn't get in touch with each other. and then she had her baby and i totally stressed that she was thinking i was ignoring her request and i was thinking that maybe she didn't REALLY want me to post ...
but now ... we're all good. whew. and i've decided to give you all a few examples of a first born little in comparison to the fourth born little in a family.
and i absolutely claim to have no true knowledge of this ... i'm the oldest of two and i only have two little girls ... so this may be complete falsehood. you've been warned. please consult a medical professional with any questions. these results are not typical. please eat and drink responsibly. and look both ways before you cross the street. the end.
ah. the first child vs. the fourth child. so many differences.
'cause that's how i roll.
during pregnancy –
first … after weeks and weeks of waiting (not-so-patiently) you FINALLY feel a kick at about 20 and some odd weeks.
fourth … you are lying in bed, roll over to your husband/significant-other/one-night-stand and mention, “well, i think we’re gonna have a baby … i just felt the little peanut kick.”
first … you take the time to rest WHENEVER possible. full out nap sessions each afternoon, ‘cause by golly … i’m growing a baby in here!
fourth … rest? never heard of it.
first … you spend hours gazing at baby room brochures and figuring out that PERFECT color scheme and pattern for the baby nursery. crying over the fact that the quilt you picked out only comes in fuchsia and NOT the perfect shade of magenta.
fourth … you cram together all of the crap gathered over the years and throw together a crib in the corner of a previously unoccupied room … husband is disgruntled about losing his office.
during labor and delivery –
first … fear of the unknown pain that is bound to come.
fourth … (still having) fear of the pain that is most absolutely bound to come. just faster.
first … husband lovingly stays at the hospital with you at all times …
fourth … you send husband home to take care of the other three and you LOVE the fact that you get a few nights at a swank hotel ... errr, i mean … hospital … where people are constantly waiting on YOU!
new baby! –
first … full out scrapbook (coordinated with the aforementioned baby bedding) highlighting every moment of your baby’s life until the second baby was born. “yay! you blew your nose for the first time this afternoon!”
fourth … mentioned in the first born’s scrapbook which has dwindled to a peel and stick photo book filled with family pictures ... “yay! you are becoming a big sister for the 3rd time!”
or, more likely, in this digital age ... an SD card with a picture of a chicken scratched note mama wrote to daddy on the morning she found out so that he could see it when he woke up before leaving for work indicating ... "pregnant".
first… pictures of EVERYTHING! approximately 52.4 pictures per hour … for several days.
fourth … “where did the camera go? WHO TOOK THE CAMERA?”
and finally ... a positive ... (as if there really aren't a thousand ...)
first ... new baby has the love and affection of a terrific mommy and daddy.
fourth ... new baby has the love and affection of an entire already-put-together family ... and is loved beyond measure.
welcome to the world little one. and congratulations to the entire family unit.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Now on with the show...er...train wreck.
When Pamela begged me to guest post for her over here while she brought another precious little life into the world, I reluctantly accepted.
Wait. That’s not at all how it went down. Let's start over.
When I begged Pamela to let me take over her blog for a day because she would be spending quality time with her newest arrival, she reluctantly, albeit, gracefully accepted my incessant whining. I mean, who does that? Who begs to guest post on a pregnant lady’s blog?
Me. That’s who.
Well, anyway, The Mister, Pamela’s husband and self-appointed legal counsel, immediately sent me a list of ground rules for posting over here. He was all, “The Guest Poster agrees to the following terms as stated herein…..blah, blah, blah”.
For the record, I’m pretty sure The Dayton Time Guest Poster Agreement didn’t actually have the words, “blah, blah, blah” in the body of the contract, but I can’t be sure because I didn’t really read it all that thoroughly. I mean, who does that? Who draws up a 30-page legal document governing what a guest poster can and cannot do on their wife’s site?
The Mister. That’s who.
Another thing, funny how none of the other bloggers received one of those "rules for posting" emails. Yeah, Mister, I checked into it. Not one person, besides me, had to sign one of those suckers.
I glanced over the contract for a few seconds just to get the gist of the thing. For the most part, The Mister requested that I not use foul language. No f*cking problem there. He also had taken the liberty of completely filling five pages with examples of, and I quote “phrases, activities and inferred actions unbecoming of a blogger”. Under no circumstances was I to use any of the words on those five pages in my post on The Dayton Time.
I then began thinking that the Mister had no idea who he was messing with. I mean, how could he NOT know that I have gone toe to toe with The Hoff, back when he wasn't even known as The Hoff? That's right. Think way back before Baywatch, to his Knight Rider days. Remember when The Hoff was just David Hasselhoff, the cool guy with a funny name, a fast black car and the ability to eat a hamburger without grossing out America? Yeah, that guy.
Well, I can't really get into it here because; a)it's a long story, and 2) because The Mister's contract is solid and forbids me to talk about any violent activities that I've previously engaged in, are currently engaged in or are planning to be engaged in. But I will tell you this: it was in sixth grade, I was wearing a sequined leotard and there were Osmonds present. The Hoff put his finger in my freckled little face and told me to leave his car KIT “the F alone!” (I should probably disclose that this brief altercation took place in Utah and odds are, that if you're in Utah there will be an Osmond present at some point.)
But this post isn't about The Hoff, who I might add, refrained from swearing at me so technically he would be a welcomed guest poster here any old time, it's about Pamela and the Mister. And maybe more Osmonds. Keep reading. I promise it's about to get tolerable.
So after thumbing through pages and pages of smut words provided by the Dayton Time Family that I would not be allowed to write on their blog I realized I had absolutely no clue what 90% of those dirty words even meant. I mean, I'm from Utah. Hello?
So I did what any self-respecting person did, I jumped online and searched through urbandictionary.com for the meanings and I’m happy to say, that I found most my answers there. I’m horrified to say that most of the definitions from the list left me, well, horrified. But before I can get on with my actual guest post here, I’ll need The Mister to clear up a few remaining mystery words/phrases for me.
Exactly what is a “freckless dudebag” or a "rusty cog show"? And I can honestly say, I've never, ever heard of a "Flaming Osmond". Those were the only three terms that I couldn’t find by searching the web or asking my next door neighbors. (They have teenagers so, you know, they’re in the know. They placed their home on the market the day after my visit.)
I don't really want to end this post on a "Flaming Osmond" note, because eventually I did find out what it was and I’m pretty sure it’s either a mixed drink or an obscure insult. So I'm leaving Pamela and The Mister with this...
Having never given birth to a baby myself, I can offer no advice on the actual child birth portion of your experience, nor any witty recovery anecdotes due to the fact that both of my children found me through adoption. All I can tell you, and I'm sure you both know this well by now, there’s nothing quite like looking down into your baby’s eyes and promising them that you will love them forever. No matter what life, or that little being throws at you, including a Lego Miner Set, you know, the one with really pointy pieces that can, and will, bruise your knuckles if they hit just perfectly as your defending your face from an unprovoked attack from your precious four-year old son? No matter what, YOU WILL LOVE THEM FOREVER.
Congratulations to you both! I couldn't be happier for you and your family.
Everyone stop by tomorrow to read Jen from coconut belly and her insightful look into just what little Elliott has in store for him....