Driving Miss Daisy Crazy

So I've been making the hour commute to the hospital to see the baby. I'm his mom by day and the other 3 kid's mom by night. What I've found during this process is that there are some crazy bastards out there and they were all given a license to operate a motor vehicle.

Yes, it astounds me too.

The speed limit is 65 miles per hour on the highway. I usually go 6 miles over the speed limit and drive 71. Technically, this means I'm speeding. According to the other drivers, I'm not driving Miss Daisy, I am Miss Daisy. These people are whizzing past my sedate 71 and going at least 75, 80, maybe even 85. (I told you they were crazy bastards!) I wish I had one of those awesome radar guns to see what speed they're actually going. (Or an actual radar gun wielding cop to come pull their asses over. Either way.)

What I most want is to stay in my middle lane and stay the hell away from these whack-a-doodles who only have one goal: scare the bejesus out of me. I figure that staying in the middle lane gives them two sides to pass me on and leave me alone in my safe, highway cocoon. These cars are bobbing, weaving, swerving and making lane changes this close to the car they're cutting off. It's truly nerve wracking. I don't have enough medication to be able to do those kind of vehicular maneuvers. I'd need pills to treat nervous breakdowns on a daily basis.

I think this is the sign they must be seeing.

The best part though? The speed limit changes about halfway through from 65 to 55. It is a super secret speed change. I am the only one who can see the reduced speed signs and the new speed limit signs that show the lower speed. I know this to be true because everyone is driving faster than I am. Every time I get passed by a car I want to say, "The speed limit is only 55! I'm even going a few miles faster than that!" (Actually, I have said that but since they're going mach 10 past me, I don't think they had time to read my lips.)

So if you pass me on the highway, please be kind. Don't beep and scare another year off my life. If you swear, make up some new words so that I can't figure out what you're saying. And most importantly, remember that I've had a rough few weeks and to take it easy on me. (Hey, I'm not above using the pity vote!)

Don't You Dare Grow Up On Me!

In a scant eight months I will have one high school senior and one high school freshman. Clearly they did not listen to me all these years I have been ordering them to stop growing up so fast. Since they are such a sore disappointment in that area, I have turned to the youngest two as my salvation.

They better never, ever grow up. I'm serious this time.

Actually, I'm on opposite ends of the spectrum with the youngest boys right now. On one hand, I want the baby to hurry up and get a little bigger so that he can come home and be with the rest of his loud, crazy and boisterous family. (But that's it! No more growing up after that! I mean it!) On the other hand, I want my six year old (oops, I mean my six and a half year old) to stay six forever. I think he's great the age that he is now.

Remember when you were a kid and all the adults told you not to be in such a hurry to grow up? "You'll look back on these years and wish you could be a kid again." Remember secretly scoffing at the idea that you'd ever not want to be anything other than a cool grown up who can drive, eat all the junk food they want, AND get to have a job so you can make money to buy things? Well, now I'm the grown up telling my kids that same old crap. (I don't think they're buying it either.)

Why do we gain all this "wisdom with age" if no one listens to us when we're all prophetic and knowledgeable? What good is the experience doing for us when our hard headed kids have to make their own mistakes before they realize their parents might actually have a clue about something? (And why can't we just skip that phase where our kids think we don't know a single thing about anything? Wouldn't that be nice?)

Here is a perfect example of why my kids need to stay little: Yesterday I bought the six year old a watch. It wasn't expensive, just a small trinket of a digital watch that will probably get washed in the shower (because he won't want to take it off) or lost under a bed. But do you know what? I was the greatest mom ever for buying him that watch. He said, no less than 4 times last night, "This is great. I always wonder what time it is and now I'll know." When's the last time you were excited about knowing what time it is? Um, how about never? Because adults always have a complaint about time. Not enough time. Already time to go to work. Too little weekend time. We're just never happy. A six year old doesn't have that problem. He's thrilled to know it's 3:30 in the afternoon.

So to my "baby" boys, please listen to your Mama. Don't be in a hurry to grow up. Stay in cozy jammies as long as you can. Continue to think that farts are the most hilarious thing ever, even when it's just the ketchup bottle making that same noise at the dinner table. Most of all, never outgrow the size of a hug or a snuggle with your Mom.

Aw, can't I get mine super sized?

Happy Anniversary Mayhemville!

Holy crap! It's been a year since I took to the blog like a fish to water, ranting and spewing out sarcastic commentary like it was my God given right. Hmm, well, I guess with the First Amendment giving me freedom of speech, it's my given right, although not so much from God. Unless you want to get technical and say that since God created man, and it was a bunch of men who came up with the constitutional amendments, it really was given from God. But that is a philosophical discussion for a place that is not here. Too much thinking make brain hurt. Me no like brain hurt.

So, since a year has passed, I thought I'd do a little "Year in Review" type of thing. Because it's been one heckuva journey so far. Thus, I've deemed this my "List of Mom-ly Mayhem Moments of 2013".

Livin' La Vida Lotto- We found out that I secretly long for a cook to take me away from the hum drum monotony of dinners. Someone who will willingly put up with picky six year old eaters and drama queen daughters who have specific ways of having to have her food prepared. Sure, it would be because I'm paying them to put up with it, but it's still a win for me.

Who Are You and What Are You Doing in my House?- I introduced you to the special creatures who dwell in our cozy cottage. Creatures like the Battery Behemoth, the Milk Monster, and the Toilet Paper Troll. They pretty much stay out of sight and keep to themselves so we've learned to live a peaceful coexistence.

It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's a....Flying Bra?- Here I let you in on the woman's secret ritual to achieving happiness: The daily bra removal dance. Sure we need support for those milk making mammories by day, but by night they're footloose, fancy free, and living the swingers life!

A Guy's Guide to Gift Giving For His Gal- Just in time for Valentine's Day I gave the guys some vital information on what gifts guys should be doling out to the special ladies in their lives. (Spoiler alert: It's NOT lingerie.) I can only imagine my very practical and wise advice saved a lot of men from sleeping on the couch. You're welcome.

The Meatball Magician- Yes, I'm truly a culinary genius when it comes to meatballs. At least, in the eyes of my family. (This isn't a challenge for Bobby Flay to come judge my Betty Crocker cookbook made, regular and ordinary ol' meatballs!)

Is That A Parachute on the Clothesline?- Here I shared my epiphany on how granny panties come into our lives. It's truly a marvelous insight if I do say so myself. Of course, I don't really have any qualifications to back that up but I'm going to pretend that I didn't admit that out loud.

Dasherobics? No, Prancercise!- Oh, I just wouldn't be the cynical, sarcastic Mom that I am if I couldn't poke fun at a (legitimate) infomercial for a new type of workout called "Prancercise". Complete with 1980's style cheese factor.

One Down and One More To Go- A detailed pro and con list for making it halfway through summer vacation. Can I make it through the second half with sanity intact? Probably not since I haven't been sane since kid number 2 came along.

Dear Tooth Fairy, Please Go The Hell Away- Here I vent to my favorite readers (that's you!) that the tooth fairy is costing us a fortune. Not to mention that we have a definite case of third child syndrome and can barely remember to do the job without blowing the whole thing for the poor kid at age 6.

More Mom Mayhem and Maternal Paranoia- There's a fourth little bundle of joy on the way to my house. I'm hoping it's not like the cartoons and the stork is over tired and drops off a baby kangaroo instead.

Guys and Their Junk- I poke (pun!) at the reasons that men feel the need to feel their, uh, needs. I mean physically. Like with their hands. And by their needs, I mean, well, their, manly bits.

All That Crap and More!- Here I'm taking a hard look at the baby paraphernalia that's available in this day and age. Like bathtubs that double as scales and (triple?) as thermometers. For the low price of seventy dollars, you too can buy a tub trifecta of your very own!

Yep Mayhemville, all of that (and more!) happened in just one year. I can hardly wait to see what's in store for 2014. Here's to hoping I have half as big of a mouth (and opinion) in this year as I did in the last! Thanks for reading y'all!

The Great Facebook Flood of 2014

So, with social networking being what it is nowadays, everyone can stay connected at any point of any single day. Among these social sites, Facebook is the top dog of connectedness. (Apparently that's not a real word but I'm being a rebel and ignoring the squiggly red line of spelling disapproval. Ha! Take that!)

Add a smart phone to the equation and you can literally take a crap and post about it instantaneously. With a picture. And tag your bestest buddy Bob who will think that's totally hilarious. (Although just because you can, doesn't mean you should. So just say NO to poo poo pics!) Sometimes this level of of access can be fantastic. Particularly if it involves a great sale, a great party, or traffic reports. Sometimes, however, there are people on Facebook that you wonder if you can block without them noticing and hurting their feelings.

I'm pretty sure I've become one of those people this week.

Since the baby is still being cared for in the NICU, (Which seriously sounds much scarier than it can be. Not that it's not scary but just saying NICU brings terrifying images of  tubes and wires and monitors.) I have been updating my friends and family of the progress via social networking. In essence, I've become a Facebook junkie. A repeater post offender. (That's when people post a ton of things and clog your feed.) A status updating obsessive compulsive freak.

I take about a dozen new pictures of the baby and post at least 1 (or 3) daily with an update about how he's doing. The problem is this: a one day old baby looks a whole heck of a lot like a two day old baby, or a three day old baby, or a four, five, six.....and so on and so forth. If you think about it, I'm really just posting the same picture every day. And it's not like he's big enough to be really interesting right now. He's brand spanking new so he eats, sleeps, poops, and repeats. If you want to get technical, there are really only two picture possibilities: awake or sleeping.

And how many different ways can you say that's a cute baby? How many pleasant platitudes can you think up that say "Your situation kind of sucks right now but day-um that's one cute ass baby and you're totally in our thoughts and prayers!" (Well, how many ways other than that?) How many times do you have to click the thumbs up "like" button before you're done being deluged by baby photos? "Ugh, she's posting another baby picture of her sad NICU baby! What can I say today to be supportive and uplifting? What did I say yesterday? When is she going to stop tormenting me with these things?" (This is what I imagine my Facebook friends saying.)

Of course, please don't think I'm going to stop. That's not my intention at all. If you don't like pictures of brand new, shiny human beings (even ones that need some help with medicine right now) then that's your problem. Me? I'm going to stare at pics of that sweet little face until I get the overwhelming urge to share him with the world. Or at least the contents of my Facebook friends list.

I Blame Hollywood

I blame Hollywood. (Yes, I realize that statement could preface about two dozen different complaints.) Specifically, I blame them for the notion that women pop out those babies, all pink and round and perfect, and then their stomachs deflate like a balloon that a kid lets go just to hear the fart noise it makes as it races around the room.

To add insult to injury, they then have the audacity to portray these post partum women wearing their size 2 pre-pregnancy jeans while holding their three day old infant. Excuse me? That's not realistic. (Yes, I know there are women out there that can actually do this but I reserve the right to pretend they don't exist since they make all of us normal women look bad. I also reserve the right to hate them since the closest I've ever come to a size two is when I got lost in the ladies section and ended up in the juniors.)

Outside of the movies, the woman gives birth and still looks like she's packing fetus up in there. The only difference is that it's all jelly jiggly now instead of baby carrying firmness. The sad thing is, that it's now four kids later, and I'm still shocked to see that the baby bump (A.K.A. the baby mountain) remains after the baby is removed from the equation. You'd think I'd remember how this process works. Apparently the baby amnesia extends to that too. (For those of you who don't know what baby amnesia is, it's the process a woman goes through where she forgets all the pain and fear of childbirth, making it seem like a vague memory. It's how we end up having more than one child.)

Reality called and it looks a lot like this.

What this means is that women get to feel super fantastic about their post baby bodies by continuing to wear their maternity clothes! Nothing says "I created a miracle and feel great about it!" like wearing pregnancy stretch panels when your newborn is a week (or twelve) old. I was all excited to have my wardrobe back too. All the new clothing combinations now available! Until I looked down and saw a humpback whale where my stomach should be. Oh, yes, that's right. I forgot that was there for a minute.

So thanks Hollywood, for lying to me. For making think I could look like Jennifer Aniston does after she gives birth on the big screen. For portraying those post partum chicks as skinny, clear eyed, well rested women. In the meantime, I'm going to invest in Spanx. Lots and lots of Spanx. And possibly some duct tape.

The Little Prince and Getting Lost At Home

If you told me three weeks ago that I would spend 19 days in a hospital waiting for the moment I could go home, I wouldn't believe it. If you then told me when I was finally allowed to go home that I would want to stay, I'd say you were straight up smoking crack. Yet, that is exactly what happened.

Yes, that's right, I got to go home. Since I was there until delivery, that must mean that the baby was born, right? Correct. My littlest prince was born on the fifteenth at the god awful hour of 1:17 in the morning. His brothers and sister had the consideration to be born during normal, waking hours. This kid, however, had already given me low platelets, anemia, and premature labor. So really, what was adding a birth at a time when most normal Moms get to sleep? Sure, by the time he's born and they do strange things with my placenta and monitor my vital signs and make sure my head doesn't spin around and let me go back to my room it's almost 5 am, but that's okay, right mom? Sleep is really over rated and you'll hit your second wind with the adrenaline rush and the graham crackers you're munching on because apparently giving birth is hungry work.

Since I'm not small (quite the opposite) and early, I got discharged after the normal 24-hours-after-birthing-a-baby stay. My little man, who was a mere 4 pounds, 8 ounces at birth, gets to stay at the hospital for awhile longer. This means I had some mixed emotions about being home. On one hand, I really missed my bed. A lot. I was excited that I got to sleep in my lovely bed again. On the other hand, my poor little baby is still in the hospital. Not to mention that the hormones swimming inside changed from pregnancy hormones to post partum wah wah hormones. (Although, there's really not that much of a difference when you're blubbering on your husband's shoulder about one thing or another. He has a wet shirt, a hysterical wife, and the panic of wondering if she's ever going to be able to get through a day without crying since it's been forever since he last remembers it happening.)

And here's a fun fact: You can get lost in your own house! Or maybe it's just feeling lost in your own house. I walked around in a daze the first day and a half, not quite knowing where I should be. You'd think I had been gone for six months. I was part excited, part overwhelmed. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do first: Wash a load of laundry, or lay on my bed for an hour, rejoicing in its non-pneumatic qualities. (Look! It stays still the entire time I lay on it!) All those times that I wished the laundry would just go the hell away and here I am, exuberant by the small fact that it exists and it needs me to clean it. No, it definitely doesn't take the sting out of coming home from the hospital without my baby boy, but it will absolutely mean that my family will have the cleanest clothes in the tri-county area when we visit him!

Where do Moms channel energy that cannot be focused on the intended target? Well, I don't know about other Moms, but this one turns it into elbow grease. So if you were thinking of coming for a visit, now would be a really excellent time. The house hasn't been this clean in, well, ever.  You better hurry up and see the anomaly while you can though. Once I have my little boy home, I can go back to my "If I don't see it, it's not dirty" mind set. And with 4 kids, how much time do you think I'll have to look?

10 Reasons I Could Never Be A Nurse

After working with nurses for almost ten years, I've known for quite awhile that this is a profession that I'd never be able to do. Not because I don't want to (which I don't) but because I wouldn't be capable of carrying out the various and assorted nursing tasks that come with the job. Since being in the hospital and being tended by the fabulous nurses here, it's only reinforced that idea. So because of that, here are ten reasons why I could never be a nurse.

10. You can't choose who you want to work with. Yes, that's right, they don't allow you to play favorites when you're a nurse. You might have the nice ones, or the pretty ones, but you also get those who are stinky, dumb, or just plain assholes.

9. You have to play with needles. Um, yeah, those sharp, pointy, stabby things? Not my idea of a good time. I don't want to see them, touch them, heck, I barely want to know they even exist. And if you think I want to jam one of those into someone's body? Think again.

8. You're NOT a doctor. It's like having an older sister who is a super model and being the awkward, not quite as pretty younger sister. Sure, people might listen politely to what you're saying, but they're waiting for the important one to come along.  No matter how many years you're on the job, well, you don't have that M.D. behind your name.Who wants or needs an inferiority complex like that? (But I'm sure this archaic way of thinking is on the way out since we're now all about equality and fairness, right?)

7. Testicles and hoo has. Listen, it's great that you're seeking medical attention for that itch/drip/mole/rash you've had on your no no spot, but I really don't want to look at it. And by really I mean please poke my eyes out with toothpicks rather than make my eyeballs bear witness to the genitalia of strange men and women.

6. Being a drug dealer. Sure the docs might be the one to actually order the meds, but nurses are the ones who get to push all those pills and tonics and what not. They are the ones who get to deal with the bitching and moaning from patients not to mention the ones who get to stab all of us needle-phobes. (Refer back to number 9.)

5. Twelve hour shifts. I know that this isn't a standard, but a lot of nurses work 12 hour days (or nights). I can barely manage to get through an 8 hour workday. Adding another half of a shift? Yeah, I'm pretty sure I'd need a caffeine infusion for those last few hours.

4. IV's. Having had a few of these in my lifetime, I feel completely qualified telling you how much they suck. Having to be they one to jam a needle into someone's vein and then leave it there for god knows how long? Nope, not signing up for that.

And my top 3 reasons for not wanting to be a nurse?
3. Puke.
2. Poop.
1. Pus.

Basically, any fluid that comes from the human body is a fluid I feel a desperate need to avoid. I barely like my own bodily fluids, let alone those of people I don't even know. I don't know where these people have been or they last time they were disinfected! I'm not sure I'd be able to get through an entire shift without taking at least 3 baths with soap and water and 3 baths in sanitizer. Or maybe bleach. I'd end up being like that movie with the sick boy who has to be contained in a bubble only mine would be from being a crazy germaphobe.

Luckily, there are fantastic, non-squeamish people out there who are more than willing to take on these positions. And to them I say, "God Bless You". Meanwhile, I'm just going to go sit quietly at my paper filled desk job and breathe a sigh of relief that the only fluid I have to deal with is white out.

The Never Ending Quest for 40 Winks

I'm tired. Not, "Goodness gracious, I should have gone to bed earlier last night!" More like, "I haven't had an uninterrupted night's sleep in so long that I would kill to see the back of my eyelids for more than an hour or two at a time."

Now, as a Mom, I'm pretty used to being tired. There are so many things I try to cram into a normal day that by the time I fall into bed at night, I sleep like the dead. Since the pregnancy, however, I've gotten used to the nightly "What-the-hell-why-is-this-kid-bouncing-on-my-bladder-at-3-AM-I-guess-I-better-get-up-and-go-to-the-bathroom" routine. Still, once a night wasn't bad since I still managed large chunks of time in which I was blissfully sleeping. I was still fairly coherent during the daylight hours when I needed to be able to function on all cylinders. (Ok, honestly, maybe 85% of my cylinders. Happy now?)

Since being stuck in the hospital though, those large chunks of happy, sleepy time have dwindled to about an hour at a time. Two if I'm lucky. And do you know why? Because hospitals are evil and they get their kicks from waking you up 18 times a night, that's why!

Okay, okay, that's not why. I totally get that they are just being conscientious and doing their job. I understand that they need to wake me up every four hours to check my temperature and that they can't help it that this falls at midnight and 4 AM when I'm trying my hardest to get my beauty rest. It's not their fault that I had woken up two hours earlier when I rolled my massive belly over, realized I had to pee and got up then too. I appreciate that these lovely nurses and PCAs are looking out for me and that I have to have vitals checked and my baby's heartbeat listened to. I just ask we do it while I'm awake. No, let me re-phrase that. I only ask that we do it between the hours of 7 AM and 10 PM.

As if that wasn't bad enough, you also have the doctors that make their rounds. The problem is that they like to do it between 5:30 and 6:15 in the morning. When normal people want to be in dreamland. I guess when you work overnight shifts, you forget that people like to be sleeping at 5:30 in the morning. Or at least this gal does. Now if you give me an hour, I'm already up because I've given up the pretense of trying to get any more shut eye and decided to call it quits for another night. This morning a lab tech came at 6:50 to draw blood. I think she was probably disappointed to see that I was already up.

You know how some people can get 4 or 5 hours of sleep a night and wake up and be annoying assholes with their "Life is awesome and I didn't even have to have caffeine to think that life is awesome and what do you mean you don't you want to have deep, meaningful conversations before you've had your coffee?" Yeah, I'm not one of those.  I'm more of the "I need at least 7 hours a night of quality shut eye followed by a large dose of caffeine and until those two things have happened your voice is going to sound like the teacher on the Peanuts cartoons and not make actual sense." type of person. Take one or both of those things away and you should probably fear for your life. (My husband is the first type. The man wakes up every day smiling and in the middle of a conversation. Usually I make scary, grunting noises so he goes away until I've had a cup of coffee. Or 12.)

So if you happen to see me in the next few days, please make sure that you don't mention the large dark circles under my eyes. Yes, I do realize that those bags are so big I could probably fit a week's worth of luggage for an entire family of five in there. Shut up. Remember, pregnant woman always glow and when we don't, LIE. It could save your life.

The Strongest Woman In The World

During the last week with this premature labor scare and subsequent prolonged hospital stay, my husband has repeatedly told me that he thinks I'm strong.

Which is funny because I don't feel strong.

I feel like child who's lost her favorite stuffed animal and can't sleep because she's afraid of the creepy, scary monster that lives in her closet and is going to come out and eat her if she dares closes her eyes for even one single millisecond.

I feel like a spoiled brat who believes everything in life is equal and wants to shout "It's not fair!" at any injustices. (A.K.A. Having a total Veruca Salt moment)

I feel like I've gotten lost in a maze and can't find which way leads to the freedom of the outside world. (Even if everyone keeps telling me that I'm not missing anything because it's been so freaking cold outside. Yeah, I'm missing something. It's called the ability to leave the f'n hospital!)

I feel like an impatient ingrate, wasting my time on wishes that this can all be over and seem like a bad dream. One loooong, bad dream that involved creepy, pneumatic beds and antiseptic smelling corridors.

Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty okay with the fact that my husband doesn't seem to realize what a sad, weakling his wife really is. But it made me wonder, what other times has he considered me be strong when I was really just phoning it in?

When I was a full time working mom of two, balancing a full time job and family life and still finding time to make fun crafts projects with the kids, did he think, "Wow, I have an amazing wife."? Did he not know how guilty I felt that I couldn't spend more time with my family because our household needed two working parents? Or that I felt like I was missing my kids childhoods because time was going by too fast? Could he see the fun filled craft projects were born of a desperation to make a fun memory for the kids so that they didn't look back and only remember Mom working?

When our youngest son was born, did he think that I was strong to be raising 3 kids, working full time, and keeping everything organized on who was going where and when and for what? Did he miss the circles under my eyes and the number of nights that I half-assed dinner with grilled cheese sandwiches? Does he know how many nights I got back out of bed to fill out a permission slip or a book order at the last minute that I almost forgot? Could he not see the days that I was running in circles and barely keeping up with the flow of things? Was it not obvious that I had scraps of reminder notes squirreled away just to make me feel like I was a teensy bit organized?

And when I was newly pregnant with baby number four and still taking care of the kids and house and working, did he marvel at the stamina of his awesome wife? Did he not realize that I was a bag of hormonal exhaustion that cried at the smallest thing and hated all food smells for 3 months? (Okay, this I think he knew.) Was I good at hiding how miserable the summer heat and early pregnancy were making me or that I felt like I was losing my mind due to "pregnancy brain"? Did he wonder how I found time to juggle everything but not be able to see the balls that I dropped because I was trying to juggle too much?

I recently told him, "Sometimes women are strong because they have no choice." And it's true. Women might be inherently strong creatures, but most of the time we're just doing what has to be done. We might really be a mess of insecurity, nerves, and fears, but are wearing our "Strongest Woman in the World" facade. The fact that people choose to see that as a strength is just beneficial to women's reputations everywhere.

In fact, maybe I shouldn't have disabused people of our fabulous reputations. On second thought, forget everything you just read. Women rock. "Nuff said.

Some One Has A Case of PMS

Well it looks like Mother Nature has a raging case of PMS and has decided to take it out on the rest of the world. This isn't any normal fit of menses induced mad either. She is on a major rager. This means the past few weeks have had some messy, cold, and snowy weather. With some ice and freezing rain thrown in. Oh, and negative wind chills.

Now, when you live in the Northeast, you're pretty much used to this. The South, however, is used to being the place where us poor Northern folk go to escape our wintry misery. But even they are getting bitch slapped with Mama N's temper tantrum. The national newscast showed a temperature of 26 somewhere in Florida. Twenty six! They start throwing on cardigans and slipper socks at 55, can you imagine what 26 degrees is doing to them?

Meanwhile, in New York, we get exciting news like, "A high of 5 degrees today but the wind chill will make it feel like it's negative 20 out there." Of course, they always think they're being clever by following it up with some pithy remark like, "So if you're going outside, make sure you dress warmly with these bitterly cold temperatures." Thank you Mr. News Guy! I wouldn't have been able to figure out that my snot is going to freeze to the inside of my nostrils 1.2 seconds out the door or that my car, even though it's only 3 years old, is going to whine and cough like an a 1970 Ford Pinto because even it doesn't want to have to be out in this weather. I know that wearing jeans in this weather is suicide because your legs will be chafed raw from the sub zero denim scraping against winter white legs. I'm a New Yorkah for crying out loud!

Yeah, but even though we're New Yorkers, we're still going to piss and moan like this is the first ever winter we've seen with temps this bad. It doesn't even matter if it's warmer than the previous winter, we're still going to count down to spring and lament how cold it is. And if we can top our family/friend's/co-worker's story, the more gleeful we become. "It was negative 6 at my house this morning. It was so cold that it took me five whole minutes to convince my car just to start." "Yeah, I hear you. It was negative 10 at my house and the dog went outside to pee this morning and it turned into an icicle before he was even finished, poor thing." I guess when you deal with weather conditions like this and being cooped up inside, you have to find some form of entertainment and we amuse ourselves with Tall Tales: Extreme Weather Edition.

These are the exciting maps our weathermen have been showing us.

I'm not sure if maybe we should look into topics like "Sacrificial offerings to make to ticked off weather controlling divas" or "Weather dances to appease and amuse that special Weather Woman in your life." Do we need to find some eye of newt and chant around an ice hole in a lake on a full moon? We should really look into it before someone freezes a nipple off......crap. Too late. Note to self: Check if nipple-ectomy is covered under health insurance plan.

I Don't Mean To Complain But....

Don't you hate when people say something lame like, "I don't mean to complain but..." and then proceed with a lengthy list of complaints? Isn't that exactly the opposite of what you just said? Isn't that like saying, "Well, I don't mean to be a douche bag but I just crapped in a paper bag and set it on fire on your front porch. Have a good day now."

I just think maybe we should be a little more honest. Maybe instead of saying we don't mean to complain we can say, "I don't want to complain because it'll make me sound like an ungrateful schmuck but I can't see any way around it and I'm just going to have to look like an ungrateful schmuck for the next ten minutes." Or maybe even something like, "Yes, I should be grateful for all the wonderful things I have in my life like breathing air, waking up with my health, having beautiful, smart children and a great spouse BUT.....instead I'm going to bitch about third world countries, the economy, a bunch of other stuff that really has little to do with me and finish up by lamenting about all the things I don't have but really wish I did for the next half hour. Ad nauseum. Until you want to stab your ears with a screw driver just to stop hearing my voice."

Although, admittedly, if someone said that last one I'd be forewarned and probably not even bother listening so maybe that's why no one wants to be honest. Maybe everyone just wants us to think that they wouldn't need to complain if it wasn't for this one, teensy tiny thing that just upset the entire apple cart. "Well, I'm normally very happy go lucky and appreciative but it's just this week has really been awful what with stubbing my toe, losing my car keys, AND getting that chain letter. I just can't find the strength to go on after the stressful week I've had."

Maybe we should start by being honest with ourselves. That might be the key. Maybe we should just say, "Self, you're kind of spoiled and selfish sometimes and you definitely take a lot for granted. You should count each and every blessing and realize that all these small annoyances will pass at some point and make you stronger for having endured them. Oh, and God really loves you. Amen." Mostly, we just lie to ourselves and say trivial things like, "It's the economy's fault." or "I'd just be happy to have a week off from cooking." Yet we end up all, "OMG! I totes just broke a nail and it's like, super bumming me out and like, the totes end of the world and stuff." (Okay, we probably don't sound like that but I love that new commercial with James Earl Jones and the "totes mcgotes" thing.)

Of course, don't hit the other end of the spectrum and be all holier than thou about it either. No one likes one of those smarmy, I-appreciate-every-blade-of-grass-on-the-planet-and-make-you-feel-inferior-about-your-simple-human-level-of-awareness people running around quoting Ghandi or Mother Theresa and basically patting themselves on the back. Seriously, be a little modest dude.

And speaking of modesty, I don't mean to complain but.......well, see the above blog detailing my various litany of complaints!

The Big Hospital Hotel

If you say the words "Preterm Labor" to a pregnant woman, you'll probably freak her right the hell out. Well, depending on how far long she is I guess. Both my boys were born at 36 and a half weeks and apparently, this is considered preterm because it's earlier than 37 weeks. When you're only 29 weeks along, however, there is absolutely no doubt that this is a scary situation.

So what happens when you find out your water has broken and you might have a 3 pound baby? Well, you cry. (Duh.) It's not like those hormone surges aren't good for something, right? Not to mention that you are being told the future of your unborn baby is now really uncertain. I think the most stoic woman on the planet would crumble in the face of such staggering news. After the crying you have inwardly panicking, followed by lots of monitoring, IV drugs, and nurses. And possibly more panicking, either inwardly or outwardly.

If you haven't figured it out by now, I was one such lucky woman to have "ruptured membranes" at 29 weeks. (Ruptured membranes is fancy speak for, "Oh crap, my water broke.") Since our local hospital isn't equipped to deal with such emergencies, they shipped me to a larger hospital an hour away. Great news for baby, bad news for poor Daddy who has to travel back and forth constantly. It's been an interesting last few days and we're hoping that things might have finally settled down some. Even if it means an extended stay in the Hotel Hospital. (Hey, clean linens and towels, meal plans, and someone always asking me if I need anything? That's almost hotel-like, right?)

After the first night of constant poking, prodding, waking every 2 hours, and redundant questions, they finally shipped me to the "She's out of immediate danger at this moment" room. This was a transitional room until I got moved to my "We're just hanging around waiting now" room. We like this room much better. It means that we are now just hoping to keep that baby inside my lovely, cozy uterus for as long as possible. (If you didn't know that a uterus could be cozy, you've obviously never seen mine. No, that's ok, I don't want to show you. Really. Just take my word on it.)

Who doesn't love wifi?

Luckily, in this electronic age, everything is accessible online or in the sky, or clouds or whatever that thing is. There's data streaming and movies and books and internet banking. So if the little guy decides he just might want to get his money's worth out of his security deposit and stay in there, hubby and I will be able to entertain ourselves. I might even keep my sanity intact. Although honestly, I've met me, and it's probably unlikely.

New Years Resolutions Suck Ass, So Why Do We Always Make Them?

Happy 2014 to all my Mayhem readers! It's officially a new, shiny year with all those possibilities for motherly mayhem, mischief, and um, an M word that means a nice family activity that will leave fond memories of  fantastical childhoods that you could do with your kids. (My inner thesaurus is on the fritz right now and since it's a holiday I either have to pay more for a service call or wait til tomorrow for "The Guy" to come fix it.)

Because it's January, and because the human species are apparently gluttons for punishment, it's time to make our annual lists of "Things I WANT To Do, Probably WON'T Do, But It Makes Me Feel Awesome Saying I Plan To Be A Better Person". (A.K.A. New Year's Resolutions)

Of course the top of 90% of everyone's resolutions lists will contain one, or both, of the following:

1. Lose Weight
2. Exercise

Yes, we always seem to think that if we say we're going to do these things, it will be so. And that doesn't mean that some of us aren't actually strong willed enough to stick to their guns. But realistically, let's just say it's probably gone by the wayside by the time February rolls around.

Then there are those who have guilty pleasures/bad habits. Their resolutions might look like these:

Quit smoking
Quit drinking
Eat less junk food

No matter what our bad habits are, we want to change them. Whether or not we succeed is not the point. It's intentions that matter right? (They always say "It's the thought that counts" when you give a gift so it works when making resolutions too? Right? Sounds good to me.)

Okay, so I bet you're wondering what MY resolutions list looks like. No? Great, here it is.

1. Learn to be more flexible. Being anal retentive is the opposite of this I guess. (Who knew?)
2.  Instead of wanting to smack people on an hourly basis, make it every 2 hours. (I know, quite generous!)
3. Play more games with my kids. Yeah, it's their childhood and they only get one. Let's make it seem like it didn't suck too much with busy, stressed out working parents.
4. Eat more vegetables. It's a failing of mine, what can I say?
5. Be more tolerant of people's stupidity. Not everyone can be Einstein and every village needs their idiot. So try to be mindful that they probably have some sort of useful purpose. Hopefully.
6. Appreciate my family, nuclear AND extended, more. (Enough said!)

So Mayhemville, hopefully  your own resolutions are firmed up and you're working on them as we speak. (Put down that cookie! See resolution #1.) Maybe we can inspire each other and be motivational and all that happy crap so that we don't ditch them until March! (We can hope, can we not?) And have a happy, healthy 2014!