The verdict on bathing suit season

**Note to all people who are sensitive, extremely modest or boys: this post discusses aspects of my post-baby body in some detail.  And if you aren't scared off by that then: MENSTRUAL CYCLE!!!!!!!**

Now that all the guys have left this post, I can carry on.

If you've been paying attention to my blog even remotely, it probably hasn't escaped your attention that I have been having a love-hate relationship with my body since L was born.  Sometimes I feel really good about myself (like tonight when I realized I could once again suck in my stomach enough that my under-belly-button pooch goes away somewhat).  Sometimes I feel really bad about myself (like the other day when I pulled out my summer clothes from two summers ago - the last summer that I wasn't pregnant - and realized they are all two sizes smaller than what I'm currently wearing).

Bathing suits have been on my mind, because we can start taking L to the rec to go swimming when he is 6 months old.  I don't have a bathing suit that fits me well, and I'm literally avoiding any and all physical contact with bathing suits in general.  I try not to look at them when I pass them in stores, and when I found my old bathing suit in my old summer clothes, I practically threw it across the room like it was white-hot (half of which I will be when I finally do step out in a bathing suit.  And I'll give you a hint - it's not the "hot" part).  

Until recently, I had mostly been worried about the nasty stretch marks that have ravaged my thighs.  I never liked my thighs before I got pregnant with L, and now they are hands-down one of my very least favorite body parts.  But then I got to thinking.  What about my boobs?  They are probably the body part that has changed the most since having L.  

They used to be nice.  They used to be perky.  They used to sit where they are supposed to sit.  They used to be boobs that belonged to a woman in her 20's.  Now....not so much.  They are deflated.  They are saggy.  They are mushy.  You could hide a pancake under them.  

True story:  I went to the allergist today because Ive been having some really irritating inner-ear itching for a long time (over a year) and realized that if I accidentally stabbed myself in the ear drum when I tried to relieve the itch with a Q-tip one more time I'd probably go deaf.  So I finally called the allergist that my primary care doctor recommended to me.  

The allergist told me that he wanted to do a scratch test.  Side note, if you ever go for a scratch test, know that the name is incredibly misleading.  I thought that they would actually scratch my skin and just take that toothpick or whatever they used and do something with it.  (I don't know, don't ask me what I thought.  I'm not an allergist!)  Yeah, no.  It was so different.  

First of all, let me tell you that I was NOT expecting any sort of tests or pain that day.  I thought the dr. would ask me questions, look in my ears, possibly my nose, and give me a pill or something.  I am the kind of person who needs to prepare if I'm going to get blood drawn or shots or anything.  So I was caught off guard by the fact that they were going to do the scratch test that day.  (Now I'm so far off my point that I'm going to have to work hard to get back on track, but hang in here with me.)

Basically a scratch test is when they prick you eleventy million times to put different common allergens on your skin to see if your body reacts.  So this nurse had to poke me FORTY TIMES in the back with a bunch of different little pins.  It was so unpleasant.  To do this, I had to take off everything above the waist and put on a cropped paper "shirt."

I am not kidding or exaggerating one little bit (cross my heart) when I tell you that I was worried that my boobs would be hanging out from under that gown.  THAT is how low they sag now that I've nursed a child.  All I have to say is, thank God for push-up bras.

ANYWAY, what with the stretchies and the saggies, I have been really concerned about putting on a bathing suit.  But then I realized something.  My body (with the help of the Big Man upstairs) grew another PERSON.  I know it's hard to get the enormity of that because it's so common for women to get pregnant and have babies, but come on.  Think about that for a minute.  How mind-blowing is it that once upon a time, L did not exist and then, poof!  He was growing in my belly.  And my body, without me doing a whole heck of a lot, provided the shelter, protection and nourishment it needed to get L from my belly to my arms. 

So that makes my body kind-of a big deal.  And if people think that the stretchies and saggies make my body less attractive, well...they can go suck an egg.  I am proud of the fact that my body helped bring the sweetest, cutest baby ever into existence.  And though I may not wear S&S with pride, per se, I will not be ashamed of them.  

So no, I won't be flaunting a bikini this summer, or probably ever again.  But I won't be worrying if some of the stretchies are peaking out from under my swim skirt.  And I won't really care if my boobs look like they should be on a grandma instead of a 25-year-old.  If anyone is judging my body, all they have to do is take a look at what my battle wounds resulted in.  And then, as my dad once said, they can take a long walk off a short pier.  

My Celeb Obsession

If you've ever met me, even just briefly, you are probably aware of my ::ahem:: appreciation of reality tv, "celebrities" and celeb gossip. It's probably border-line unhealthy, but it keeps me young and hip (are the kids still saying "hip" these days? Maybe I should have said "groovy"?).

One of my guiltiest pleasures is the Real Housewives series on Bravo. It truly is a hot mess of a show, full of the most ridiculous drama ever. If the message boards for these shows weren't full of people who are hot messes themselves, I would probably join one just to discuss the drama in all it's hot, messy glory.

If you ever happen to appear on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire (or maybe another show that's still relevant to today's culture, like Cash Cab [which I am DYING to go try to get on]), you should totally use me as your Phone-A-Friend for any celeb questions you might have. Just trust me on this. It's scary how much I know.

I truly get sad when I find out any celeb couple has broken up.* I don't care if I knew they were doomed from the start. I think I just really want to believe that a Hollywood marriage can last. When Reese and Ryan broke up, I was really sad. When Jen and Brad broke up, I almost shed a tear. If Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson ever break up, I will lose all hope in celeb marriages.
* The exception to this rule is Heidi and Spencer. I wish they would have never even met each other because, as ridiculous as they are apart, they are even worse together. And that's saying something.

But something I truly despise about Hollywood is all the speculation about weight and who is too skinny or too fat. I sometimes feel bad for the women in Hollywood because they have so much pressure on them to be in amazing shape all the time. And the old cliche about the camera adding 10 lbs is true (which is the only reason I look so large and in charge in my belly pics towards the end of my pregnancy). If you've ever talked to someone who has met a celeb in real life, one of the first things they'll say is, "She's way skinnier in person."

I especially feel for the pregnant celebs. Tabloids and paparazzi (is it bad that I can't say that word anymore without cuing Lady Gaga in my head?) are constantly speculating about their bellies, even before they announce they're pregnant. So if they happened to have a large lunch, the paps are selling pics of them to the National Enquirer, who then splashes the pics on their covers under some ridiculous headline like, "Angie's pregnant again! Sources say the daddy is Barack Obama!"

This insanity leads to these poor women having a ridiculous idea of what they should look like when they're pregnant. (And don't even get me started on how fast most celebs "slim down" after they have their babies.) Take one of my favorite Housewives, Bethenny Frankel (of New York fame), for example. Here she is, 7 months pregnant:

Please give me a break. The only thing about her that looks pregnant are her boobs. Here's a picture of me approximately 7 months pregnant (not like I should be the standard, but for the sake of comparison):

I guess it's pretty easy to lose the "baby weight" if the only weight you gained during pregnancy was that of the actual baby. I found that picture of Bethenny on some gossip site, and there was a forum for comments below it, and of course everyone was like, "She looks great for seven months pregnant! She's so awesome. Gold star for Bethenny." I don't know why my feathers are so ruffled about this, but I guess I just hate the implication that to look "great" during pregnancy, you should barely look pregnant. If you looked quickly at the picture above, you might just think it's a weirdly distorted picture of her toned abs.

I'm not saying that pregnant women have to balloon up like the Michelin Man, but if you're pregnant it's ok to actually LOOK pregnant. Do you hear that, "celebrities" everywhere? It's ok to gain weight when you're growing a human. Believe me, that baby you're gestating wants you to eat. If you don't eat, they don't eat!

One celeb I appreciate is Kendra (Wilkinson) Baskett. I know that term should be used loosely with her, because really, what is she famous for? But I have to give her serious props for being open and honest about her pregnancy weight gain (as in, she actually gained some). And since her adorable baby was born, she has had to work her butt off to lose it. So thanks, Kendra, for being a normal person. I like that about you.

I know the next time I get pregnant, I will not let myself go completely off the deep end with the eating like I did with L (famous last words). But I'm certainly not going to be following the Hollywood-prescribed method of barely eating during pregnancy and working out at insane levels. I will flaunt my bump with pride. And if the baby wants curly fries from Arby's, who am I to say no?

Sometimes you just gotta laugh

One of the reasons I love D (which is how I will be referring to Dan from this point on, and Lucas will be L) is because he thinks I'm hilarious. It's very important to me that people think I'm funny. Maybe it's a bit of an ego thing, who knows. I knew I would never marry a guy who didn't get my humor, which really narrowed the playing-field when I was husband-hunting. I guess I view my humor as the type where you have to know me to love me (which is one of the main reasons I don't thing I'll ever be a blog celebrity because the reality is that there are only so many people I know, and a fraction of those think I'm genuinely funny. The other people have a firm handle on the pity laugh.). But D, he's gotten me from the beginning. Even when I'm sassy, he thinks it's hilarious. One of the foundations of our marriage is the fact that we crack each other up.

Some people probably wouldn't believe it, but D is pretty funny. He's not always funny in the ha-ha sense of the word. Sometimes he's funny in the wow-that's-really-strange-and-quirky-and-I-don't-understand-you kind of way.

Exhibit A: D loves his truck. We're talking hard-core love. So much love that if I ever got into an accident while driving it (God help me), he would have a hard time deciding whether to ask "Are you ok?" or "How's my truck?" first. Sad to say, I think he'd probably think, Well if she's calling me to tell me she got into an accident, she's probably ok so..."How's my truck?"

One of the things that's unbelievably irritating about this is that he flat-out refuses to park around other vehicles if at all possible. Even if this means parking in the far, far back of the parking lot. Even if there's fifty bazillion spots up front. If those fifty bazillion spots are near other cars, they are not options. This goes for parking near cart corrals, too. Those are off-limits. He did this even when I was 9 months pregnant and could barely walk from our driveway to the house. Even when we went to Babies R Us and the "Expectant Mother" space that was right up in front, an easy distance from the entrance was free.

Exhibit B: Laundry is generally my responsibility in this house. And by "my responsibility" I mean that I wash the clothes and either fold them and leave them on the couch/chaise or leave them in a clean and unfolded pile on the couch/chaise. Or the clothes that we don't wear often stay in a dirty heap on the basement floor. (Don't judge! The core of the problem is that we both have too many clothes and not enough storage space. We are working to rectify this situation.) But my point is that if I don't do the laundry, it doesn't get done.

The thing that drives me nuts is when D runs out of work clothes. In this situation, he will start a load of work clothes in the laundry sometime in the afternoon on days he works. As easy as it would be to pull some of the other dirty items of the basement floor (towels, my clothes, L's clothes, anything not belonging to D), D is somehow incapable of doing this. If he doesn't have enough work clothes to make a load (essentially all the time), he will literally pick through the pile on the basement floor to find only his clothes. Occasionally he will find a towel or two. But never any of L's or my clothes. He first told me that he did this because he didn't want the chemicals he comes into contact with at work to ruin any good clothes or towels. I believed this until I noticed that he didn't have any problems throwing his good jeans, shirts, sweaters, etc. in with his work clothes. I have asked him repeatedly to please not purposely throw only his items in the laundry and have had little to no success as of this time.

Exhibit C: One of D's chores is to take out the trash. I simply refuse to do this. I don't know why, but I despise to take out the garbage. It's not even that I'm grossed out by it, because in addition to laundry, one of my chores is to clean the bathrooms, which I think everyone will agree can be a nasty job. There are just some chores you hate to do and can't explain (another for me is sweeping and washing the kitchen floor. Actually, mainly sweeping. I HATE to sweep.). So Dan does the trash. But I think he is physically unable to put a new bag in the trash can once the old bag full of garbage is removed. He will leave the trash can bagless, with the the lid to the can in the middle of the floor. I don't get it. He will take the garbage out, come in the house, step OVER the lid to the can, and sit on the couch. Then I almost break my neck tripping over the lid to the can. I've tried everything: yelling, asking nicely, refusing to do it myself, do it myself and slowly explain what I'm doing as I do it (like I would explain it to L if he was older and capable of doing chores, which I am really excited for) in hopes that he is embarrassed by his behavior. Nothing works.

So maybe the whole intro to this post was a shameless smokescreen that I used to complain about things about D that kind-of peeve me. But it is true, sometimes D and I can laugh about these things.

I had the day off today, so D, L and I had lunch and ran some errands (including paying off my car, what what!!). At the restaurant, D parked in the furthest-away parking spot possible. I heaved the sigh that meant I was irritated, and he just laughed, knowing what I was sighing about.

"You know what? I'm going to blog about this," I threatened.

He laughed and said, "Go for it, I'm glad that I give you so much to blog about!"

After lunch, we went to Babies R Us (which is amusingly now one of my favorite stores) to get some things for L. When D was parking, he knowingly ignored all the spots up in front of the parking lot and once again parked in BFE.

I did the big, heaving sigh again and D just looked at me and said, "Blog about it!"

Open mouth, insert foot

I often say really stupid things and immediately wish I could un-say them. If they ever invent a surgery to remove feet from mouths, I'll sign up because I need it that bad. So normally, I have a really high tolerance for people who put their feet in their mouths with me.

But there are some things that should just not ever be said. If you are my facebook friend (which you probably are because I don't think I have any readers whom I do not know), you probably already know what I'm referring to.

It all started when I decided to treat myself to a manicure. I love getting my nails done but I never do it, so I thought Easter would be a perfect occasion to step out of the ordinary. I made an appointment at the place I get my eyebrows done at because they are super cheap but won't talk about me to their fellow manicurists right in front of me in a different language. I've been getting my eyebrows done there for years and I know the two main eyebrow ladies and have seen the owner around a lot too. I really like the two ladies. The owner, not so much.

The owner is generally sweet and friendly, but I don't really like it when she does my eyebrows because she takes for.ev.er. Also, she says awkward things. I went to get my brows done about a month after I got married, and she remembered because I'd been there with my girls to get my nails done for the wedding. She asked if I was pregnant yet and I said, "Well, no, I just got married a month ago..."

Then, 2 months after my miscarriage, she happened to be there again. And of course, she asked again if I was pregnant yet. I said no and she hinted that she thought I was waiting too long and that my clock was ticking (at age 23). I got defensive and blurted out that I'd recently miscarried and she said, "Oh well, I guess it's for the best, the baby probably had defects and God knew you couldn't handle a baby with special needs." Yeah. The comment provided therapy fodder for a solid month.

So pretty much every time after that, if I saw that she was in there doing waxing I would keep walking and just browse around the mall and go back later. But eventually that became inconvenient and I just started going in whenever I was there. Because in reality, I know that she wasn't being malicious (even though it sounds like it in an isolated context like that). Thanks to an awesome therapist, I was able to come to grips with the fact that most people just don't know what to say when you tell them you had a miscarriage. And in awkward situations like that, people are bound to say stupid things. So I got over it.

And I went there throughout my pregnancy with Lucas and had her once or twice at the end. Then two months after Lucas was born I went in there again. I told her I'd had my baby, showed her some pictures and talked about how big he was already (which is pretty standard stranger conversation. Babies are awesome for that.).

So today when I went in there for my manicure, they were packed and I had to sit by the brow waxing chairs to wait for my manicurist to finish up her other client. I saw the one lady I always liked to go to and we smiled and chatted a bit. Then the owner said to me (in this very small, very packed and suddenly very quiet nail salon), "Ah, you're pregnant again! How many months?"

My gut reaction was to be insecure and answer quietly. But a split-second later, my insecurity was replaced with indignation. First of all, I most certainly do NOT look pregnant, and I know it! Second of all, unless a woman is literally delivering her baby before your very eyes, you never, ever, EVER assume she is pregnant. And even if you think she might be pregnant, you do NOT say a single word until and unless she mentions it first. Seriously, that's just common sense. Because Newton's Law about social situations specifically states that the moment you assume a woman is pregnant and say something to her along those lines, she will not be pregnant and you will stumble all over yourself trying to make yourself look like less of an idiot, making yourself look like a bigger idiot in the process.

So I pulled myself together and said in a strong, clear voice, "I'm not pregnant. I already had my baby."

Silence. Seriously, if you have ever been in a nail salon, you know how loud they usually are. And let me tell you, it was so awkward having a conversation that silenced the whole place. It should have only been awkward for the owner, but it was awkward and embarrassing for me too, because suddenly everyone in the whole place was giving me the side-eye, trying to see if I still looked pregnant.

The woman who was having her eyebrows waxed by the owner tried to break the king of all uncomfortable silences and asked, "How old is your baby?"

"Five months," I answered. And the room got even silent-er. Which I didn't think was possible, but apparently it was.

I was praying that the activity would just pick up and the whole thing would be forgotten, but the owner said, "Oh I'm so silly. Well don't feel bad, it usually takes your stomach a while to get down to normal. You'll get there!"

I wanted to throttle her. Seriously??? Not only have I lost all my pregnancy weight, I am 5 pounds down from where I was when I got pregnant! And yes my stomach is a teeny bit mushier than before, but it certainly does not look like it contains a baby.

So, Ms. Owner Lady, you are lucky I'm a forgiving person. You are lucky that this blog allows me to purge my acidic thoughts so they don't gurgle around inside me and make me want to punch your face every time I see you. I will probably see you the next time I'm in there to get my brows done and I'll be nice to you and even friendly. Because it's not worth it to me to hold some sort of drama-queen grudge against you for the rest of my life. It takes too much energy. But just know that it is NOT OKAY to say things like that. Ever. And even though I won't be mad at you anymore after I type the last punctuation mark in this post, I probably won't hesitate to throw down gently call you out if you ever say anything like that to me again. Sorry, but three strikes and you're out.

Crazy Psycho Weirdo, Party of One

I think it's safe to say that my self-confidence is shot beyond all recognition.  I thought I was doing better.  As of last Saturday, I was a smidge over half-way to my goal weight, and as of last Tuesday I had worked out at a semi-intense level twice since Sunday (did you get that?  Because it's kind-of late and I'm not quite certain that made sense).  

My weigh-in day for WW is Saturday, which means tomorrow (or today - however you look at it), I will have to step on the scale - a stern mistress - and face the music.  This past week I received a visit from what has become the bane of my existence since Lucas was born - good old Aunt Flo.  Well, I sort-of take that back.  Aunt Flo does bring with her the relief of knowing that Lucas won't be expecting a sibling any time soon.  So I guess that's something.  But otherwise, she's a real jerk.  And she makes me feel like I'm in my third trimester: fat, bloated, and ravenous.  

So before I get all sidetracked by this topic and scare off all two of my male readers (which is a grossly exaggerated estimate - besides my dad, I don't know of any other male readers I might have), I'll just flat-out tell you that I pretty much ate everything that wasn't nailed down this week.  Which you wouldn't think would have too much of a terrible impact, but I just bought a scale this week (yeah, I've been going to my mom's to weigh in all this time) and have been weighing myself every day because I'm so excited about having a scale, and the numbers have not been pretty.  I'm actually afraid of weighing in tomorrow.  I know you're not supposed to weigh yourself more than once a week, but I did so I guess the joke is on me.  

And if I'm being honest with myself and everyone else, I have absolutely zero plans of getting back to eating within my points until Monday since I'm anticipating a high intake of deviled eggs on Sunday, as well as other Easter deliciousness.  (I stupidly looked up how many points were in a deviled egg and it made me want to cry - 4 per half egg.  I'll just pretend I didn't do that.  But misery does love company, and now you know how many points are in a deviled egg and you can feel guilty with every bite right along with me.)

So there's the whole weight issue dragging me down.  And then today, Good Friday, I decided to get dressed up to go to church.  I usually don't get too dressed up because any time I put on anything that does not resemble jeans and a t-shirt, it's pretty much a guarantee that Lucas will either spit up, pee or otherwise bodily emote on me.  And even in jeans, there's no promise that I'm safe.  But I risked it today because I'm just totally BA that way (I've decided that I can't really swear or otherwise say bad words here because my parents and other family elders do frequent this blog.  And also, I'm trying to give the stuff up because I don't want my son to have a potty mouth like his mommy.  S0 if you ever come across an abbreviation you don't get, it's probably a swear.  And armed with that knowledge, you can probably figure out what I'm trying to say.)

ANYWAY, back to getting dressed up.  I managed to find my leggings (I honestly think they hide from me) and I pulled out a tunic I wore on New Years.  I was happy to observe that it looked a lot looser on me than it did on NYE, so that was a bit of a boost.  Also, I have these new sandal-heels that are totally hot AND they come from Naturalizer so they are actually comfortable.  I know, I know.  Hot sandals from Naturalizer is an oxymoron.  Well I defy anyone to look at these shoes and tell me they're not hot.  And it's ok for me to own Naturalizers because I'm a mom now.  I would post a picture of them from the website but they were on amazing clearance and are all sold out.  That's right - I found the trifecta, the Holy Grail of shoes: hot, comfortable and cheap.  Go me.  

So I put on this outfit and checked myself out in the mirror.  I decided that I looked pretty good; chic, young, relatively fashion-forward, and my legs looked pretty skinny (thank you God for black leggings).  I did my gym walk into church and took my adorable son out of his car seat, basking in the "aw, how cute's" that we usually get in church.  And then they say, "And your son is pretty adorable too."  Ba-dum-psh. (That's a drum dealy.  Not sure what it's called exactly.)

I noticed that some of the teens were involved in the service, and passively observed them getting ready.  I noticed that one of the girls had a cute dress on over leggings.  And then I realized that it was my exact outfit except she had belted the tunic.  I mentally told myself this was not a big deal.  It's not like I have an iron grip on Kohls.  I couldn't reasonably expect to be the only person in the world to buy the same tunic.  

As usual, reason did not automatically win out in this situation and I immediately started observing her head-to-toe look and comparing it with mine.  We both had the tunic and the black leggings.  She had the belt, and belts over tunics seems to be "in" right now.  One point to her.  But don't forget - I had the SHOES.  Ha, my secret weapon.  The belt got her one point, but my shoes had to give me at least five.  

And yet, I could not leave it at that.  As a true indicator that I really am not feeling too good about myself these days, what I did next is embarrassing me to remember.  I actually started comparing which of us was skinnier.  And OF COURSE she was.  Why wouldn't she be?  She's probably a whole fifth-grade student younger than me.  When I was her age, I thought I was fat when I weighed 130 lbs.  And just to put that into perspective, I will never, ever, ever again see a number on the scale that begins with 13.  I would have to give up eating entirely to get there, and even then it would probably take a month.  I don't even want to weigh that, it's not a healthy weight for me.  

When I went up for communion, I had to walk right past her and her friend.  And then there was a hold-up and I got stuck standing right next to her pew.  And she took one look at me, covered her mouth with her hand and started frantically whispering to her friend.  Instead of mentally shaking myself and yelling at the insecure 13 year old living in my head, I got mentally defensive.  I was all like, "Listen you, this tunic was in the LADIES section of Kohls.  I was not the one shopping out of my department, you were!  So this tunic is rightfully mine.  And I bought it in December, when it was as close to full price as I'll ever spend.  I bet I had it first!"  

And if I had said that out loud, I would be writing this from the loony ward with round-the-clock observation and 4-a-day therapy sessions.  I can barely even believe I'm sharing this.  It's coming across as totally pathetic to me, and I'm the one who thought it!

So after I enjoy all the Easter yummy-ness that is coming my way, I'm going to have to get back on track with WW and working out.  Working out really boosts my confidence, and I clearly need that more than ever these days!

Debbie Downer

I knew that being a working mom would be hard.  I knew it before Lucas was even born.  When I was pregnant with him, I was exhausted.  The fear of being tired all the time was something that really plagued me during my pregnancy.  Some people can do amazing things without much sleep, but I've never really been one of them, and I think the majority of people in this world do not fit into that category.

Well, amazingly enough I got used to the lack of sleep.  And now that Lucas is sleeping almost 12 hours a night, things have gotten so much better.  I have time in the evening to watch something on the DVR or read a book for pleasure or whatever I want.  Then I can go to bed and get 6+ hours of sleep.  

So really, the sleep is not the problem.  I guess I'm just feeling kind-of bummed today, so please excuse this depressing post - a temporary departure from the norm.  This morning when I dropped Lucas off at daycare, Brenda and I were talking about how Lucas hates tummy time.  (By the way, things have gotten exponentially better in the Brenda arena.  I think we all just needed an adjustment period.)  We were discussing how we both just keep on doing the tummy time, even though Lucas screams and gets angry.  And then she said, "But he's rolling over really well, so I'm not too concerned."

I was pretty surprised when she said that.  I could count on one hand the number of times I'd seen Lucas roll over, and every time he did it you would have thought someone just handed me a stack of cash that went up to the ceiling.  Lucas rolling over is a big deal to me because I can't get him to do it on his own.  But apparently, he's rolling over regularly for Brenda.  

As I walked out to my car, it hit me how much of my son's life I am missing while I'm at work.  I know it's not good to dwell on things like this because I can't do anything about it at this juncture.  But it just doesn't sit well with me that for Brenda, Lucas rolling over is a regular occurance; with me, I can coax him and encourage him and put a zillion toys around him (everything Parenting magazine could ever possibly suggest) and nothing.  Well, not nothing.  There's always the ear-splitting screams and the frustrations the reach a fever pitch if I leave him there for longer than 30 seconds.  And some kids when they get frustrated being on their tummy, they try to roll over to rectify the situation.  But Lucas gets so mad that he usually plants his face into the floor and screeeeeeeeams.  

And the screaming is something I have a really hard time with when I've just gotten home from working my big, flat butt off all day.  I've never been what one might call a patient person.  And lately at work, I've been forced to use any patience reserve I might have for the day.  And then some.  Because at work, you can't just blow up and say whatever you might be thinking at the moment.  (Oh how I would love to.)  

So when I get home from work, I'm zonked.  I know I shouldn't be whinining about this.  I am very thankful to have a job, especially one that has been so generous to me and treated me so well.  You just don't find jobs like mine in Michigan anymore, and I am so painfully aware of that fact.  In fact, if my job weren't so darn good, it would have been easy to cut bait and stay at home.

But therein lies the battle.  There are so many people out there just waiting to fill a job like this.  I'm not the only one who can do this job well.  In fact, there are probably people out there who can do it better.  But even though I'm not a perfect mom, I'm pretty sure there's no one else out there could could be Lucas' mommy better.  God gave Lucas to me, not to someone else, so I know there's some reason for that.  Even if I don't understand why, God must have thought that I could be a mommy to Lucas better than anyone else could.  

I wish there were two of me so my job and my family could both get the best of me.  That is a waste of time thing to wish, and I'm frustrated with myself for even typing that.  I'm not trying to be all "poor me, I have to work."  Believe me, I am mentally kicking my butt for even writing this post.  I've almost deleted this at least five times.  But I won't, because I feel like I need to put this out there, to get it off my chest.  And also because I really don't think there's anything wrong with saying that I'd rather be at home with my son.  

I'll be back to my regularly-scheduled program of dazzling wit and intelligent humor soon, but I guess for right now it's Debbie Downer.                            

I don't have a clever title because it's Monday and I'm annoyed about that

This morning was a disaster. I woke up at the time when I should have been leaving for work, which made me super late and now I'm going to have to stay in for part of my lunch hour to make it up. And it's pretty much all Dan's fault. I'm sorry to say that, because I know he's my husband and he's wonderful and I'm only supposed to speak kindly about him. But facts are facts, and the fact is that it's his fault.


This disastrous morning started before I even went to bed. My mom called around 9:30 last night to confirm that my dad was not watching Lucas at all this week. I was confused, because I had thought that my dad had him the next day (today). Turns out, my mom was right. So there was the first monkey wrench in the works. I'm the kind of person who plans things, and I had already been mentally preparing my morning. I would get up, shower, get Lucas ready then take him to my dad's. Now, because he would be staying home with Dan all day, I got to sleep an extra hour. Ordinarily, this would be good news. But I didn't get to enjoy it as much because my mental preparations were completely messed up. (The exception to this is a snow day. I am nothing but overjoyed when my boss calls me at 6 to tell me that the office is closed because of snow.)


So then, Dan and I go upstairs to go to bed. This is always an interesting time, because we have this unspoken battle game that happens every night when Dan is home. Whoever gets upstairs first gets the remote and the good side of the bed (closest to the tv, and the side with the clock).


The remote game is actually fun. Here's how it's played:


Whoever gets the remote first gets it and can turn on any channel they desire, within reason. You are not allowed to bring the remote out of the bedroom. If you have to go to the bathroom to brush your teeth or wash your face, you lose the remote. However, if the other person is not upstairs or in the room at this time, you may hide the remote somewhere in the room so that the other person will have difficulty finding it. If they find it, they claim it until and unless they then have to leave the room. (Since Dan never goes online and doesn't read this blog unless I sit him down and read it to him, I can tell you that my best hiding place is under the mattress. It doesn't seem like it, but I actually lift the mattress up and put the remote right in the middle so that any exploratory swipes won't produce the prize.)


The good-side-of-the-bed game is not so fun. Here's how it's played:


Dan sleeps on the good side of the bed for the first year we are married. This is during the time we were sleeping in the bedroom that is now Lucas' nursery. We move the bed to the other room after we paint it a shade of green I now greatly regret, and the whole game changes. Instead of having the tv right in front of us as we did previously, it is now located on Dan's side of the bed (because that's where the cable jack is). Since Dan works nights, I decide that I am there every night and that I will now claim the good side of the bed. Now every night is a constant battle of "it's mine" and "no, it's mine!" Dan says that it's his because he had it when we first got married and also that it is actually his bed, since he brought it with him when we got married. I say that possession is nine-tenths of the law and that, since I possess that side every night, it is now rightfully mine. Kind-of like a common-law marriage. Also, Dan gets to sleep there when he comes home from work because I'm gone. So he gets it for at least part of the week and he should just pipe down and be happy about it.


(You might be wondering why this is all relevant. I actually am too, and I had to sit here for a second to remember where I was going with all that. Luckily for everyone, it came to me.)


Well, as I mentioned, the good side of the bed has the alarm clock on it. We used to have a clock on both sides until I brought the other one to my parents' house while I was pregnant and sleeping over there in case I went into labor while Dan was at work. So now there's one clock and I ALWAYS keep the alarm set for 6 a.m. Always. Dan uses his phone as his alarm, and this is how it's been for a long time.


So last night we went to bed at around 10. Dan was exhausted because he had worked the night before and slept only a few hours because he usually likes to get up early-ish and enjoy his first day off. He fell asleep really quickly, and I was left with the remote all to myself, not a bit tired because Lucas had slept through the night before and I got to sleep in until 8 a.m. (oh the luxury). So I made a huge mistake and got sucked into this movie on Lifetime. Except it was kind-of scary (about this lady who had her house broken into and was held hostage with her daughter) and then I couldn't fall asleep because I was on-edge.


I finally fell asleep and was dreaming that I was home from college on spring break and that I'd just woken up from sleeping in until 3 p.m. (you know, the good old days). And then I heard Dan say, "Katie you're late for work!" And I woke up and said "Leave me alone, I'm on spring break."


And then I realized that it wasn't spring break since I'm an adult in this cold hard world and I don't get a spring break. And then I further realized that my alarm had not gone off. What the what? I know I turned it on...in fact, it's still on, waiting to go off.


"Daniel did you re-set this alarm?" And he buried his face in his pillow and started blaming it on Lucas for sleeping through the night again.


And then I scrambled all over the place trying to get ready for work. I didn't even get a chance to relish in the knowledge that my son had slept almost 12 hours for the second night in a row. We're talking real progress here, folks. I don't know what the definition of "fluke" is, but I'm pretty sure it's not, "Something that randomly happens two nights in a row."


At least it's a only four-day week. Let's hope this all-night sleeping continues so I can enjoy a little sleeping-in to help celebrate the resurrection of Jesus this weekend.