"That's Not Food!"

Pregnancy blows.  There has to be a better way to have a child.  Perhaps I should have found a surrogate.  How much do surrogates run these days?  If all I had was $100 and a couple of unexpired gift cards to Red Robin, what level of quality in a surrogate would I have been able to secure?  If I was able to kick in bus fare to the surrogate's doctor's appointments, would that afford me a slightly better surrogate?  Like someone who only smokes while they're out and drinking as opposed to just smoking... whenever? Actually, I can't complain too much.  The pregnancy up to this point has been okay- I've been able to ignore it for the most part, or at least up until a couple weeks ago.  Now, however, that I am thirty-six weeks, EVERY DAY IS WORSE THAN THE ONE BEFORE.  This is my living hell, my waking nightmare.  I can't sleep or even comfortably sit.  I can't relax on the couch at night to watch TV because I have restless legs an...

Dear Andy, I think my first real memory is of the day your grandparents brought Aunt Marcia home from the hospital.  I was three and a half, and I remember, quite clearly, peering down at my new baby sister wrapped up in a blanket in her cardboard box.  Grandma and Grandpa F are very frugal and used a cardboard box in lieu of a cradle.  I wish I were joking, but I am not.  So next time you call your mother cheap, just remember:  I have NEVER made you sleep in a cardboard box on the floor.  Ever.  Even though I'm pretty sure you would love it.  I remember feeling major curiosity about this new baby in the box.  I don't think I realized then and there that Marcia was to be a permanent fixture in the house, kind of like the dog or the refrigerator or those stacks of gossip magazines and expired coupons in the basement that is just *almost* high enough to qualify your grandmother for a starring role in the next episode of "Hoarder...

Six more weeks until my due date.  Five more weeks until I can expect my baby to be born via induction.  Four more weeks of work.  And three more weeks until the yogurt in my refrigerator expires.  Time is really flying. I enrolled Andy in a two year old preschool program yesterday after taking a tour of a local place I found online.  The program runs from late August through May and is two days per week, two and a half hours per day.  That seems like a reasonable amount of time for a normal two year old to be out of the house- although Andy is in day care now over fifty hours per week, so for him, this will barely be a visible blip in the week.  Imaging going from your full time job down to running payroll reports for some company two short mornings a week.  You'd be like, really?  Is this it?  For real?  Well, now what do I do with all this leftover time?  Thank goodness for television. The pr...

This morning was the first morning, ever, that I told Andy I was leaving for work and he was 100% okay with it.  Usually, when he's aware that I'm leaving, he screams and cries and calls out for me mournfully as if we are going to be separated on two different islands until the end of time.  He cries as if my island will have the television, juice boxes, and squeezable yogurt tubes (best and worst invention ever) and his island will have nothing but toothbrushes, nail clippers, and other instruments of grooming/ torture. This morning, I told him I was leaving, we hugged each other, and he said bye calmly.  Then, as I was walking into the kitchen to grab my purse, from his spot in the family room he called out cheerily one more time, "Bye, Mommy!" and waved.  And my heart just about broke into a million pieces.  I guess after all the complaining about the rough mornings and the impossible good-byes, now that I've gotten my smooth departure, I'm feeling...

On the morning of Andy's first hair cut, I looked at my son and thought to myself, "There's something wrong with this kid."  Of course, he was wearing Mr. Potatohead's tiny yellow eyeglasses at the time, which added to the overall wrongness but didn't necessarily cause the wrongness itself.  Andy gets a kick out of squeezing the small Mr. Potatohead glasses onto his big melon head and toddling over to proudly show me and Chris how hilarious he is.  Andy's advanced sense of humor is one of his more lovable qualities, right after his tendency to loudly refer to his "pee pee" in public or insistence on wetly kissing strange children directly on the lips. Something needed to be done about Andy's hair.  As you know, I've delayed his first proper hair cut for ALMOST A FULL YEAR.  The sense of urgency just hasn't been there.  I think there's a reason why I've been given boys instead of girls- the lack of attention to cosmetic i...

Andy waits for me.  Something must happen towards his pick up time at day care that clues him in to the fact that I'm coming- perhaps I consistently arrive after another specific parent or a certain block of activity time (story time, craft time, half price drink hour, etc)- because Andy asks his teachers for me every day at about ten to fifteen minutes before I show up.  They tell me he implores, "My mommy?" to them at almost 4:30 each day, his sad little face communicating the fact that he really needs to see his mommy, get home, and adorably devour half a box of Cheez It Snack Mix while I stand by conflicted regarding said snack mix's nutritional profile versus whatever crap I had planned for dinner. My Andy. That's how Andy asks for me- "My mommy?"- and that's how he greets me when I walk into his classroom- "My mommy!"  Back before he was born and I was flat out depressed about the fact that Andy would have to attend day car...