I'll Take a Double

So on the flight home from Thanksgiving, we had a little bit of technical problems. It was a real hoot. Here is what happened.

The flight is fine, we get a little snack, The Baby is playing on my lap and it is all good.

Then, we start to descend. Nothing major, but it was enough of a drop, and fast enough, that all 6 infants on the flight can't regulate their ears and start screaming.

All at the same time.

It was kinda like that Family Guy episode with the four singing Peters singing Christmas songs. Except less singing and more ear shattering screaming....and not as much harmony as parents trying (unsuccessfully) to quiet the babies in the six row radius we have all been seated in. But just like that.

So we hang out at the lower altitude for a little bit, and we see the flight attendant put her little cart away and take her seat. We then start to ascend a smidge thinking that we are going to be flying into a storm or something and the pilot was getting around it.

Not so much.

After we regain our altitude, the pilot decides to rip out the landing gear. Which, at 30,000 feet, sounds like the wing has just been ripped from the side of the plane.

I start kinda freaking out but The Husband tells me some BS about the flaps and whatever. I know he is full of it, but I appreciate the effort, so I let it go. Plus, in his head, I can see the mouse turning that all the years of watching uber nerdy airplane shows on the military channel is finally gong to pay off. And I don't want to ruin that for him. Even in a crisis, I am a giver.

So we are hanging out, the noise is unbearable and I am getting more and more, apprehensive.

Then, the pilot does an abrupt 180 and we are going the other way. It really appears that I am the only one who is even alarmed by this.

The bitchy mom three rows behind me is still cussing out her husband, who is sitting three rows ahead of her, for not being able to find her wireless card.

The couple behind me are still reciting their lines for something. (Although I think their lines should have been "No we shouldn't have gotten married, because you are actually my sibling"...yeah, they looked, um, well, off).

So I decide to call the flight attendant and find out what is going on. Her name is "Jessica" but I am pretty sure her name ends in an "i" because she just seems like the type of girl with a name that ends in "i". Like a "Brindi", or "Cami" or "Tiffani". You know who I mean. She is of no use to me, giving me some excuse of "running some tests and that is all she knows". Damn you Miffi.

Then the pilot comes on the PA and I almost totally lose it. The guy is so middle eastern that I am shocked he is actually a pilot, and not the owner of a shipping store/dry cleaners that also dabbles in air-terrorism. I could hardly understand what he was saying. Every other word sounded like "Puff-puff. Ding-ding." Yeah, I did. But it's my blog and I can racially profile if I want to.

Maybe, and this is just a suggestion, but maybe, it is a better idea to have the co-pilot, John from Utah, make the announcement that we have a failed hydraulic pump and have to make an emergency landing in Nashville to "fill out some paperwork". Huh. Just a thought.

So we land, get the pump changed and it is all good.

Except, the bitchy mom behind me immediately starts to gripe to her husband that "the kids are really,really thirsty. We didn't get anything to drink. Go get us something." I wanted to slap her and hug him.

But he ended up getting his....as did The Husband and I.....and that would be the complimentary drinks (Ah, thank you Punjab).

In the end, tough, the joke was on us. When we finally landed and I needed to go to the bathroom, it was so backed up it resembled the windshield washer bucket at the gas station and not an airplane bathroom.

So I happened to learn a few things over the Thanksgiving holiday.

Such as:

No matter how cold it is, The Baby will still overheat in a sweater. Yes, we live in Houston and we were in Ohio. No kind of cold is going to get him. Bad for his Burberry sweater, but good for all of his summer clothes that still fit.

My Mam will always find a way to bring up death and/or dying. Like when we were talking and she mentions someone who just died (because she happens to know all the people who have just died, and how to bring them up in the conversation)...and her reply is usually "Gee, Jerry, that is only 9 years older than you."

Or, half way through your flight home, it is suddenly redirected, and then makes an emergency landing, the captain decides that drinks are free from that point on.

I think we all win on that one.

Screw You Universe

So, The Husband is hunting. What does that mean? Well, other than saying an extra prayer that the Special Doe-lympics are being held in another part of Texas so the "cooler of death" will remain extra storage for old baby clothes? Well, that and, The Husband has flown his mom in to hang out with me and The Baby. Let me tell you, The Mother In Law is super great. She loves to read books and talk them to death (as do I), and hold The Baby (which means shopping and a mani for me). She is also so low maintenance, I truly believed her when she told me the peanut butter sandwich she made from the heel of a crusty bread was "a great lunch". She also has zero judgement when it is, say, 2 in the afternoon and we are still in our jammies.

So, since I know I have a seasoned grandma in house, that also happens to have a slight case of insomnia, I am sure that I will be able to sleep in while she gets up for the morning feeding. Not that my Mam wouldn't, but I can bet that The Mother In Law is already up reading in the next room and drinking her zillionth Dr. Pepper.

So, imagine my utter shock, and immediate anger, when I awake at a very early 7 am to my head seriously pounding. Was it the fact that the night before The Husband and I had a date and I decided to consume all the Cosmos? Usually a safe bet. But today? Nope.

At first, I actually think the dog is having a dog-mare and that explains the horrible twitching rocking the bed. Nope.

I then thought that the pounding in my ears was simply The Husband thinking that watching Point Break while we fell asleep was a good idea. Uh-uh. But, for what it is worth, Point Break is really never a good idea. Although I have actually heard of lifelong friendships actually ending because one friend named their dog "Bodie" when clearly the other friend called it.

So I pour myself out of bed (what did you think I was going to say??) and follow the noise. It is outside my door. Now, let me tell you, we live in a town home that has a layout like a New York brownstone...so as I look down my front stairs to the street and what do I see??

At 7 o'clock in the freaking morning?

On the day I have baby care and can not only sleep off the box of wine I drank, but also stay in bed and watch re-runs of ER???

On the same day that, evidently, the Universe is about to end, because a Mexican construction worker decided not to hang out under a tree for an extra hour and actually start their job early?

So there is Paco....with a mother f#&$!%# jackhammer. (And I can't handle the "Jean, why do yooou have to taaalk with such a dirty mouth" talk from my Mam, so pardon the fill-ins).

Yeah. Just going at it. It is so early, my dogs are even a little ticked off.

And to top it all off....I finally watched The Proposal....and it was so bad.

Like, really bad. All the Franzia in all the land could not pull it our of it's pit of humorless predictability.

In fact, please do not tell me if you liked it because I just might rethink our friendship.

So the score stands.

Universe: 1

Jane: 0

For Sale...Or Trade

For Sale or Trade:

**Chocolate Lab, Male

**Aged 7 years

(I guarantee he is cheaper than scotch....unless you are an alcoholic.....and your drink of choice is Macallan 30 year.)

**Fixed. Correction: Neutered

(He hasn't humped anything in years)

**Housebroken

(Kinda, but will probably eat his own poo, so it is the same, right??)

**Built in Security System

(This dog will bark at anything. Your home will be totally protected. There is no way anyone, or anything, will infiltrate your home when he is on the clock. He is so overprotective, he has been known to bark at nothing. See? He was just thinking there might be something there.)

**Good Eater

(He will eat anything. In fact, if you have any other animals, he will pick up after them too. He doesn't discriminate. He will eat any other dogs poop, no question asked.)

**Athletic

(He will fetch for hours....and hours...and hours...and hours. He is so dedicated, The Husband and I were worried that he had over worked himself because he was limping after playing really hard one afternoon. Not so. Turns out, he had been fetching for 9 hours straight and was just a little sore. We cut him some slack.)

**Helpful

(Please refer to "Housebroken")

**Fuzzy

(If there were any sort of apocalyptic ice age, you could totally skin him up and either keep yourself warm, or sell him on the black market for some gruel.)

If you make me an offer, I will even include a box of personal effects that include some Christmas ornaments, stocking and Halloween costumes of Robin (of Batman and Robin, naturally) and a rooster.

We really didn't think it would come to this. Charlie had so much hope in the beginning. Even with the poop eating, and the constant blank look in his eyes, we thought there was a glimmer of something. But, when he decided to stare me down, and pee in front of The Baby's crib, infecting the imported silk crib skirt, painstakingly maid by moi (and actually, it was quite easy to sew, but whatever), I just knew something was amiss. Too bad.**

**By the way, all you animal lovers, I am totally kidding. Unless your offer is good enough, that is. Waaaaa?

Nice.

You know what's fun?

Fun is cleaning a bucket of poop off your baby....

off his shoulders.

Luckily, the Universe returned the favor by putting The Proposal on my DVR this month. Finally, I can watch this feel good movie in the quiet shame of my own bedroom.

Good times.

Please, Send Cold Weather...To Wherever You Send Cold Weather To...

To Sally Struthers (Or anyone else who can help...),

Please let it get cold soon. Houston is hot. Really hot. But, seeing as it is now November, I feel the need to ask someone, anyone, for help. It is not for me, but for The Baby.

You see, The Baby is really hot natured (he gets it from The Husband). The kid gets so overheated that when we wear jeans, he is still in shorts. I think he has only worn socks a couple times in his short life...and one of these was while he was in the airport, because, well, ew.

The thing is, is that when The Husband decided to surprise me with a trip to London for my 30th birthday, we had just found out The Baby was a boy. Like, 4 hours earlier. Sooooo, when Harrod's was having an a.maz.ing sale on Burberry and we got a little out of control. Whaaaa?

Did we need the lambs wool sweater? Maybe not.

Did we have to have the jean jacket with leather patches on the elbows? Actually.....did I mention the leather patches? Yes? Well, did I mention the detachable Burberry hood? That changes things, I know.

Was the double insulated, feather lined, fur-trimmed hood winter coat really necessary? YES! By God, YES!

We have already gotten him into the super cute sweater vest, so we are safe there. But the thing is, is that we got them in size 6 month. Although The Baby is only 5 months, in European sizes, I either need to get him on a pack a day habit or seriously start restricting his rice cereal to keep him in that size for a few months until the weather here will be permitting. Somehow, I think there are parents, pediatricians and fashionistias alike that will agree that is not a good idea.

If you could please help me out with this and toss around a couple 60 degree days I will promise to send monies to wherever you send monies to.

If not, please let me know so I can put some clothes in the fridge.

Sincerely,

Mom of The Year

(No Title....Just Envision Me Rocking Myself in a Corner)

With The Husband working late, and The Baby teething (AKA crying all the time), I have been stuck in the house all day.

Alone.

By myself.

All.Day.Long.

After sinking to a new low and watching old reruns of 90210, I cornered the poor window guy who was innocently just trying to give me an estimate for some rotting windows we need replaced. I would not let the poor guy leave. (Did you know he was originally from Oklahoma and went to OU and that the OU alumni meet at Fox Sports grill and watch the football games and he also has kids and like dogs? No? Well, he is, they do and he does.)

It hasn't been this bad since The Baby was a month or so old. I blocked the isle at Target and kept a little asian lady from continuing her shopping going on and on and on about a rotisserie chicken cooker. I think at one point I even told her I had been to China. And I may have even asked her if she knew anyone there.

Mental note: to those of you who may see me out and about....be advised that it is in your best interest to avoid me at all cost. Unless you either A) don't have any place to go for about an hour. Maybe two. Or, B) want to hear all about I thought my dog was so smart one year that I tried to teach him how to read. Although I will say, that those who know Jock will agree.

I had better go. I have some flash cards to make.

**And, yes, Sarah, I fully expect you never to talk to me again after this.

Is There a Doctor in the House?

I need help. Actual, real help.

Here is the thing. I have this problem and I don't know how to deal with it. Lately, I have been drawn to something that is so unnatural and out of the norm for me. Frankly, it scares me to death.

It all started about 6 months ago.

I was about to pop out The Baby any day, and The Husband and I were at the movies. We were enjoying the air conditioning and super comfy chairs, my cankles kicked up after I just got back from my eleventy-ith trip to the bathroom....when I saw it. At first glance, it was nothing. But since, it has shaken me to my very core.

A preview for The Proposal.

That's right. The one starring Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds.

While I agree that Ryan Reynolds is yummier than the Birthday Cake ice cream from Marble Slab, the fact that I would be so drawn to this movie just isn't like me. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a good romantic comedy as much as the next gal. However, this predictable tale of "a fish out of water comedy about a reformed mean-girl coming into her own and ending up with the guy" isn't something I would, say, consider scheduling my c-section around.

But I couldn't get it out of my mind! I seriously thought it was the hormones.

Really and truly.

I mean, I was fixing to have another human removed out from under some organs, but by God, I wanted to know what was going to happen when they went to Alaska to keep up the shenanigans of this fake marriage.

True, that The Baby was over 9 pounds, but is that bigger than the drama of watching the tables turned on this mean boss, who is now at the mercy of her underling? How will he pull the strings??

I have these feelings of unforeseeable interest in something that isn't part of who I am. But, as the birth of The Wee One had come and gone I was convinced that this slight error in judgement was simply a result of the huge sure of hormones. Much like my massive hair loss.

So, imagine my sheer horror, when I see a preview for The Blindside.

Hanging my head in shame, in the darkness of my own living room, while The Baby is asleep and The Husband is at work. Nothing but me and the preview. This is so much worse than becoming addicted to 16 & Pregant on MTV.

And the shame. Lest we forget about the shame.

I must see this "based on a true story". I have to know how this homeless kid makes it out of the ghetto and into the NFL. Who is the little boy he bench presses?? How is his blue "homeless guy shirt" always so clean?

And you want to know what is the worst part?? The fact that this time.....this time, there isn't even yummy Ryan Reynolds to hide behind. No eye candy. And Sandra Bullock has this horrible southern accent that is about as good as my English accent. This is the very one that I like to use when I have had just a little too much to drink....or when I am in London. But really, that is just to assimilate. And because The husband loves it. No, he really doesn't.

Where have I gone?

What has happened to me?

I should have known that something inside of me was shattered forever when I got sucked into the Twilight series. And then, proceeded to hide the fact that I loved it, by claiming it was a selection for my book club one month. I mean, it totally was.

Who am I kidding. Maybe Sandra Bullock could team up with Robert Pattinson some day.

As if I could be so lucky.

The Incident

So, before I had kids, I never wanted to be one of those parents.

You know the type. The one who is constantly over correcting people, giving semi-dirty looks to someone who isn't doing something for your kid the way that you would be doing it. Someone who is constantly making lists and schedules and making sure I appear to be raising the most uptight baby on the planet. I never wanted to be a parent that was so rigid, if you looked at my baby, you doubted if he was able to sit on his own, or if the stick up his ass was holding him up.

Why am I bringing this up, you ask? Well, here is what happened and please, please, please tell me if you think I am going a tad bit overboard.

Here goes.

So my parents are in town this weekend to see The Baby. We have a super fun time when they visit. Lucky for me, my parents are actually more scheduled than The Baby is, so their trip is predictable, but fun.

Example.

Every Friday, after they arrive, we always go to Truluck's. It is this amazing seafood restaurant with the world's best happy hour. The food is amazing and the drinks are also great. So great, in fact, that I am pretty sure just setting a Cosmo by a breathalyzer would set it off. It was on their last trip that my mam learned that The Baby likes to take little naps in the booth while we eat. Throw a blanket down and instant crib. He loves it as much I love their carrot cake. We are all winners!

Then, Saturday, we hit a breakfast spot and then dinner at this little I-Talian place around the corner where my dad will proceed to order the veal and talk about how it is the best veal he has ever eaten, while we rehash how inexpensive the meal was. Good times.

Well, today, we decide to mix things up and take advantage of the amazing weather. October and November are God's way of paying the citizens of Houston back for suffering through the summer months. So we head to a great park.

We start strolling around the park and looking at this and that. We pass the yoga class that is going on that my parents accidentally talk a little too loud around causing a few people to break from their fancy-schmancy yoga poses and wonder where the noise is coming from.

Strolling, strolling, strolling and there is a vendor making little mini-doughnuts. By the way, I don't know why the gal is churching it up, they are funnel cakes pure and simple. But that is neither here nor there. So my dad, having just polished off an omelette, ordered a 1/2 dozen. Followed by another dozen and a half so the doughnut gal "doesn't have to make change." Naturally. (I really can't give him too much crap. They were delish).

So while I am taking pics of The Baby looking super cute in his little halloween outfit, I find myself actually having to say the words:

"Um, Husband...maybe we shouldn't be feeding our baby a doughnut".

Seriously.

And you know what he says??

"Whaaaaa? He is a mini-me. His digestive system is just like mine, just smaller. I will just give him smaller bites. He can take it."

Really?? Our (almost) 5 month old can handle a bite of a powdered, fried doughnut???? He has never eaten anything that didn't require me to mix it with water before consumption.

So, now, because I said something....because I thought it wasn't the best idea to give The Baby a piece of fried, doughy carbs topped with artificial sugar, I am all of a sudden "Super Freaky Mom".

Seriously.

If I am wrong, please tell me....but I know where most of you live.

Family Circle

So my brother and sister in law are the proud parents of a beautiful, amazing baby girl who is smart and gifted and actually opened for Conan the other night. You should have seen her. She rocked it. Their precious bundle is about 4 months younger than our itty bitty baby. And, my brother and I have had so much fun talking babies and pregnancies and all things about our lives to come being parents.

Honestly, Tam, as I call him in my Mam voice, is good people. Instead of "should-coulda's" I have "wishes and wants"....

Like I wish I was as funny as he is. He is hysterical. People have actually lost bodily control when around him. I am not just missing the math or spelling gene from my family pool, I am also missing the humor gene. I once thought of going on a humor mission trip, but they didn't have Franzia there, so I was out.

I also wish we lived closer. He is in Kentucky. I am in H-Town. Bad times. It is hard to kick ass at a game of spades when you live, roughly, 20 hours away. Or, it is hard to recount that time when we had a few cocktails (AKA: 97 solo cups of keg beer) at Dave Simpson's house and then tow' da goal posts down after whooping the Sooners. One of the best days ever, BTW. (Tam, 'member when we tow' da goal posts down?? You don't want to say it in your office, but you soooooo do).

Another, is that I want his daughter, Annie to know how much her Aunt Jane loves her. Not just when she is 13 and shopping for her first bikini or when she wants to "try" some Wild Island flavored Boones....but all the time.

However.....

In talking with Tam I have become increasingly more neurotic about being a parent. See, Tam was a better parent than me when I was still pregnant, and they still had a long way to go. One thing he is fearful of, as most parents are, is SIDS. I have found myself checking on The Wee One much more frequently since Annie's arrival-I guess my senses are heightened too. So, I check The Hammer (oh, that is his UFC name) all the time to make sure he is still good.
But, all this parenting has made me think about my own Mam. What she must have been thinking. Her parenting ideas, the way she wanted to do things....

And in all of this I realized.....

When she would sneak into my room at night when I was a teenager and feel my feet? She wasn't checking to make sure that I hadn't stuffed my bed with some pillows and snuck out my window...she was making sure I wasn't a victim of SIDS.

Sure I was 15, but can you ever be too sure?

Good Mam.

So, Um, Yeah....

So here is the thing.

Blogging is hard.

Like "Trying to hide the fact that I get my period while I am still in middle school" hard....

Or "Running the shower for a longer than necessary to hide the fact that I am actually in the bathroom taking a deuce" hard...

Or even "Liking what my aunt gave me for Christmas even though it has a tin-foil lid and Iknow it came from her Gift Closet" hard.

I think it has to do with that fact that I really don't have anything to say. Really, about anything. Or if I do happen to have something to say, it really would not interest anyone...or may totally gross them out.

Or both.

Probably both.

Example.

I have 2 dogs. They are great. A black lab-mix, named Jock (named after the old patriarch from the TV show Dallas), who is 12 1/2 (cause when you are that old, the 1/2 matters).

Then there is Charlie, a chocolate lab who is 7. We named him Charlie, because, well, I told The Husband that if we ever had a red headed little boy, we would have to name him Charlie. To which, he told me, that if we ever had a red headed little boy, we would promptly get divorced. So we settled for the dog name.

Jock is excellent and wise and a total couch potato. Although he is a 90 pound lap dog, he has magical powers. One time we left him at home while we went out of town and the dog sitter had to drag (literally pull) him off the sofa to go to the bathroom. His bladder truly inspires my dad to be all that he can be. He once ate a 6 pack of Sara Lee bagels and chased it with a 1/2 pint of Chinese liquor and was sound as a pound. No joke...we found this out after we came home from church. Upon telling The Husband, his initial response, was "Christ, is he drunk?". Good times. (And, no, he wasn't).

Charlie, not so much. Yes, he is tiny and cuddly and fuzzy, but he barks at everything. Like people walking by, other dogs, little girls in frilly dresses holding balloons, evil. Pretty much everything. He also has a liiiiiittle problem called....

Eating poop.

His poop, Jock's poop, the poop of other dogs. It is very gross. I am, however, thankful that it isn't as bad as a friend of mine...their dog has an affection for lady-time things. They once got in a wicked game of tug-of-war, and I realize it could be worse. However, there is really nothing grosser that after your dog burps and smelling thenastiest fart, just knowing that he brings new meaning to the phrase "Shit Eating Grin". I can't even go into how nasty is has gotten in the past. Really, that is for your benefit.

However, Charlie never seems to eat the poop when it is good for me. Like when he had a wonderful smorgasbord of Jock's Meals Past, only to rid himself of them 9 times......in 3 different rooms of our house. What?? It is like leftovers?? Or when Jock has a slight accident, say on the wood floor landing, and I find it after I realize I didn't just forget a dirty diaper somewhere within the wall of out house. Why could he not pull his own weight and little clean up then?

Then, this week, The Baby is playing in his jump-a-roo and having all sorts of fun and laughing and cooing and basically being freakishly cute. So, I look at him, and think, "Yeah, I totally want a piece of that". I mean, who wouldn't? He is rocking that jump-a-roo and totally making it the master of his domain.

You see, the seat swivels and slides so he can rotate all around keeping him totally engrossed and "learning". However, The Baby is too short to reach the floor, so I put this handy tray underneath it so he can reach it and bounce his little heart away. He lourves it.

Anyway, so I look up at him and am truly admiring how he is swiveling and playing with all the toys. He is rocking this thing more than the You Tube video of KISS singing Rick Astley. (you know you want to.... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vf79MCuQ8jM) I wonder how I could be so lucky to be so blessed with such a smart child. What did I ever do?

Then I realized....yeah...

The Baby had taken a massive deuce and literally was playing in it. He was slipping and sliding in his own stuff while looking so cute in his jump-a-roo.

So I take him out to change him, and basically burn the entire toy. But wait, when I get back to the toy after giving The Baby a bath, and what do I find?? The little tray The Baby was playing on was totally clean.

You soooooo know where I am going with this.

I am not saying he didn't do me a solid, but still.