DFW Moms

I know. It’s not Thursday. It’s Monday. But for some reason I’ve been so constipated with words, as it were (or weren’t), that I somehow got on a writing jag last night, probably encouraged by the glass of Pinot Noir I drank after the evening feeding — otherwise known as a “writing enema” for all you Creative Writing majors out there.

I don’t know what your level of education is, but I imagine you don’t have a lot of trouble conjugating English verbs. Good for you. As for me, when it comes to talking to Madeline, my grammar goes the way of the dinosaurs and Paula Abdul’s career. I actually caught myself saying this yesterday: “ARE IT HUNGRY? ARE IT? OOOOO….IT ARE SUCH A HUNGRY GIRLSIES!”

When was the last time you got out of the house? Really? My goodness, what supplies did you take? Are people still driving in cars or is Scottie now beaming them from place to place?

“Clogs! It’s got clogs in it!” This incoherent specimen of verbal ballyhoo is what (I believe) I said to Gordon at approximately 3:42 a.m. on Monday morning. I was changing Thing Two’s diaper in her dimly lit room, and the very moment I got her diaper off, she shot a bowel movement across the room. More like a bowel Mach 3. It was everywhere. “HEY.” I moaned.

You may be wondering how I’ve been holding up this week with the new baby fresh home from the hospital. Or not. You may just be wondering what you’re having for lunch. But in case you’re interested, here’s the run-down: Day One Home: Greeted in the a.m. by my hubby bringing me breakfast in bed. Could this be heaven?

I didn’t think I’d be writing the “Introducing Madeline Mae” blog until two weeks from now, but as life goes sometimes…suddenly here we are. Her arrival was fraught with high drama and all the trappings of movie cliché: a fast-onset labor brought on by spicy Mexican food and the luring beams of a Texas full moon.

When I attended Casa Mañana’s “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” last night at Bass Hall, I entered as an amazingly preserved specimen of tabula rasa, having had no previous exposure to “Joseph” whatsoever. Not even the soundtrack. I know, I know, where have I BEEN all these years? But don’t get me wrong.

Disclaimer: This blog is not about sex. If I were a good blogger, I would lead you on to believe so until the very last possible moment, but since I like to think I have one last wispy shred of integrity left, I will just be up front with you. There. Now go read Perez Hilton or something if the following is of no interest… (Resume normal blogging now) “Yips,”

I realized today — while folding laundry and feeling smug about it — why I have my babies in the late summer. It's actually not because I'm a glutton for punishment. It’s because I’ve always loved back-to-school. And having a new baby is a lot like going back for a new year in a new grade with a new teacher and new gear and new challenges.

Drew has many loves in this world. He loves stories, swimming pools and golf. He loves trains and balls and fireplaces. (Fireplaces are the only objects he asks me to draw when we’re playing with sidewalk chalk. He likes them in all different colors.). Drew loves the letter L even though he cannot yet make the “L”

I was reading a day or so ago that in her third trimester, a woman begins losing grey matter. That’s “brain goop” for all you literalists out there. This happens, in evolutionary theory, so she can focus on the truly important tasks at hand instead of going crazy with a bazillion unnecessary things that could wear her out and do more harm than good.

The other morning right after he woke up, Drew informed me he wanted to go to the “park, basketball and golf course.” Exactly like that. As if you could “go” to a basketball. He said all this minus the letter “r” sound, so it was more like “pawk, basketball and golf cose.” Whew, I thought to myself. Quite the itinerary.

Last night we ate dinner at Taco Bell. This was a result of being homeless (due to home beautification projects) and me being so hungry for Tex-Mex and my husband being so anti-Mexican- food-yet-amenable-to-the-Bell, that all roads began leading to Rome. In case you are not breathlessly following this blog week to week, I am almost eight months pregnant.

“When are you coming?” asked the elderly lady at the lab. She had just gotten her blood drawn, and I had just drunk massive amounts of tepid flat sugar-water to test my blood glucose. I assumed that the phrase “When are you coming?” in context, must be a 95-year-old way to ask when are you due.

Today, I saw my daughter on the sonogram. She took a big yawn then smacked her lips like a fat dude on the couch. Of course, this was all in that fuzzy 2-D world of skeletal structures and cavernous eye sockets, but there was a moment when a 3-D view of her lips came into full view, and that’s when she took that magnificent yawn.

The other day at Tom Thumb I spent 10 minutes helping a little old man find the prune juice. I did this even though my husband is the Eagle Scout, not me. I grocery shop at the headquarters for all Fort Worth geriatric shoppers, the Tom Thumb at Hulen and Bellaire, and I love shopping there because I love REALLY old people as a general rule.

As I type, I am sitting in my new dining room. It’s made of the same material my old dining room was made of — wood, sheet rock, paint — but it feels like it has been dropped down from heaven’s angel workshop. Late Friday night, we were still not 100% out of our old house.

Gordon wants this blog to basically be a big giant public service announcement that says, “Don’t attempt to pick up and move while your wife is pregnant. Just please don’t do it.” He said this probably because I hung up on him yesterday when he called to tell me we were not going to be able to close on our house that day as originally planned.

I just sat down from packing. I should say, “collapsed in a splatter of exhaustion.” I feel like I have been packing since Spring arrived, like I’m some sort of confused squirrel. Last night Gordon told me I should “take a break tonight” as if such a luxury was an option to me.

But only if they have a mind to think of themselves that way. By being a nun, I obviously don’t mean we moms are celibate. I think that’s been pretty much debunked by the evidence at hand, though some husbands would still argue to the contrary. Neither do I mean we moms are Catholic. Some mothers are, but that’s beside the point.

I was at a play date yesterday with several women I only see occasionally. As it turns out, three out of the five of us were pregnant and didn’t know each other was pregnant until, at different times, we each arrived sporting a big Buddha belly.

Have you ever been in a bar, or in a hotel lounge or perhaps even in church, and the live music that had been playing in the background the whole time (but that you had never noticed until this very moment) all of a sudden hit a wrong note? Or changed keys abruptly? Or stopped altogether?

Why is it that when you are faced with a crisis of faith, or a monumental decision to make, that you begin looking for signs from God? As if God must all of a sudden be paying attention to you — for good or ill — and that he must be trying to get a message across, and that he must be wringing his hands hoping we will make the right choice.

Germs. So cliché, I know. Can we moms please start discussing the healthcare bill instead? Anything but germs? No. Because for some reason we feel we have a special jurisdiction over them, having been commissioned by the government — which conveniently erased all memory of the event — to eradicate all such life forms throughout the Continental US.

In case you do not follow me on Twitter ( @BehindTheEars ) or my Facebook Fan Page , let this serve as your final warning: I am bringing a second edition of Yours Truly into existence. (Take cover.) Meaning, I can make girl parts as well as boy parts. Meaning, I am pregnant with a little girl this time in case you have no patience for snarkiness.

Since it is New Year’s Eve, the last day of 2009, I thought it might be appropriate to ignore it completely and write whatever happens to be on my mind. Which is not New Year’s Eve at all.  Really, nothing is on my mind right now. My mind is so shot from Christmas that I challenge you to see if even 50% of these sentences are coherent—least of all in English.

If you are reading this now, on Christmas Eve day, I imagine it is for the following reasons: 1. You have the day off, maybe not from your kids but from your otherwise paid and civilized work, and are indulging in a little “mommy” time 2. You are procrastinating making Aunt Jean’s Holiday Bundt Cake you promised to contribute back in August, or 3.

As a friend of mine recently posted on Facebook, “If I hear any more about Tiger Woods I’m going to beat MYSELF with a golf club.” Can I get an Amen? But I do think it’s ironic that a man who has a yacht named “Privacy” now finds himself in the vast eye of an ever-intensifying media monsoon.

This weekend I had a case of mistaken identity. It was most certainly due to being childless. My in-laws kept Drew for two evenings this Fourth of July Weekend, leaving Gordon and I with two bona-fide, hot-n-heavy date nights in a row. The first evening we spent at a friend’s pool party, drinking margaritas and watching the fireworks explode just over the tree line.

Can anyone out there in the blogosphere translate the following for me: “Meeps!” This is what Drew whines every time he passes the caladium plant on the front porch.  The caladium freaked Drew out the other evening when the storm came in.

“Put your big girl panties on and deal with it” is my new favorite phrase, everybody. I had heard it before, but recently saw it on some little beverage napkins at my in-laws’ house and thought, yes, I really…should.

I would like all of you to know that staring at a blinking cursor in an empty Word document for five minutes IS, in fact, considered WRITING, even when punctuated by the rhythmic checking of Facebook and Twitter every 10-20 seconds. It’s true. This is the kind of mental white space we bloggers require. Especially if an overflowing pouch of Cinnastix from Taco Bell is involved. 

“I am 60% sure it is swine flu and 35% sure it is a reaction to the swine flu vaccine.” This is a sentence no mother wants to hear, number one because it gives no definitive answer as to why her child is burning at a steady 104°, and number two because the words “swine flue” are like a frying pan between the eyes.

Every day is like a new blank document. This of course is a reference to Word when it gives you the option to create a new file. Would you like to open a new blank document? Why yes. Yes I would. I sit in front of each day, coffee cup in hand, waiting to write my life across the page. But the truth is, I as a mom don’t often feel like I am starting from scratch each day.

I suppose there are worse things than falling asleep on your couch and picking your child up 15 minutes late from preschool. Like leaving him at a gas station. Or forgetting him in a hot car. Or exposing him prematurely to Carrot Top.

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