tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89985213225876676892024-02-18T21:40:59.770-05:00Holy Crap, We're Having a BabyA mommy-to-be blog with a lot less unbridled excitement and joy and more sarcastic, neurotic musings.Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.comBlogger148125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-67152885338265643332013-02-01T14:44:00.002-05:002013-02-01T17:05:59.916-05:00Nothing Is SacredWe don't give kids enough credit. They are sneaky little bastards; programmed for survival from Day 1.<br />
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To anyone who has ever said, "the most wonderful thing about children is that they don't lie," I present...my daughter.</div>
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For the past three months or so, we've had the training potty prominently displayed, but never used - much like a bad tchotchke - in our bathroom. We have these lofty hopes that one day The Bean will suddenly decide to start using the potty and we can all leave our diaper-changing days behind.</div>
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So far her favorite thing to do is take her stuffed animals for boat rides in the removable bucket of the potty. Potty training? Nailed it.</div>
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Before her bath each night we go through the same routine:</div>
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<b>Me: </b> Do you want to go potty before we have a bath?</div>
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<b>Bean: </b>No!</div>
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<b>Me: </b>If you have to go pee-pees, we need to go in the potty - not the bathtub, right?</div>
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<b>Bean: </b>[pointing at the tub] No pee-pees. [Does a little wriggly dance.]</div>
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<b>Me: </b>Do you have to go potty?</div>
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<b>Bean:</b> [immediately stops dancing] NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!</div>
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Then we start the bath; which is, by far, her favorite part of the day. </div>
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At some point in the bath, she'll stop all the bouncing around and singing (a sign that things are about to get serious) and she will stare intently at a spot on the wall. 10 seconds later she suspiciously starts singing, "pee-pee, pee-pee, pee-pee!"</div>
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<b>Me: </b>Did you just go potty in the bathtub!?!?!</div>
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<b>Bean: </b>[stares directly into my soul...hesitates...]...noooo...</div>
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Then she'll pick up a cup and start drinking the piss-filled bathwater.</div>
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*****</div>
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So The Bean lies, but the truly aggravating part is she's not consistent about it.</div>
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The other night, The D-Zo clan was cuddled up in bed watching the original Muppet movie as a nighttime treat.</div>
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Now, we had Ethiopian food for dinner that night and so what happened next shouldn't have come as a surprise, but...well..."toooooooot."</div>
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It just slipped out! </div>
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And before I could blame the intrusive noise on my daughter (one of the perks I was told about this whole parenthood gig), she stands up, points at me and says, "Mama toot toot."</div>
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Sold out by a one-and-a-half year old.</div>
Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-22634507779231896702013-01-23T15:02:00.000-05:002013-01-23T15:02:26.183-05:00How To Lose a Binky in Ten Seconds (or Less)Roughly 1 hour and 23 minutes into our careers as parents, it became clear Mr. D-Zo and I were in the "we can just let that slide, right?" camp - quickly abandoning our previous positions in the "we should establish some baseline expectations and try to raise our child properly" camp.<br />
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The first breach happened when The Bean was rolled into the hospital room for her first feeding and had a pacifier sticking out of her mouth.<br />
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Oh no you didn't! I was NOT, NO WAY, NO HOW going to raise a child who was a <i>binky</i> user.<br />
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But then there was all that loud, annoying, inconvenient crying and it happened every time we took the pacifier out of her mouth. And, oh! Praise be to the Lord! How quickly the noises stopped when you shoved it back in.<br />
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So the pacifier stayed and we became those parents.<br />
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Then The Bean started getting teeth.<br />
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Not wanting to be the parents of Piranha Girl, we decided pacifier limitations were in order.<br />
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The pacifier was only allowed at bedtime.<br />
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And nap time.<br />
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And when The Bean was starting to get cranky.<br />
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Then we realized toddlers are always cranky. So a pacifier intervention was needed, but Mr. D-Zo and I weren't quite ready.<br />
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<b>Me:</b> I asked nicely, but The Bean didn't seem interested in going to bed without the binky.<br />
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<b>Mr. D-Zo:</b> I know! I tried to take it, but she started crying. She stopped when I gave it back.<br />
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<b>Me:</b> Thank goodness you held your ground...it's like she doesn't even care that we're trying to ensure she doesn't have warped redneck teeth, while also maintaining a healthy sleep schedule for ourselves.<br />
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<b>Mr. D-Zo:</b> Did you give her a bottle?<br />
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<b>Me: </b>Yeah, but she started yelling for the binky when she was done...this is impossible. Let's just reason with her when she's 25.<br />
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<b>Mr. D-Zo:</b> Deal.<br />
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We were out of ideas.<br />
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And just when it looked like the pacifier was to remain a permanent member of the family, fate and a mother's conniving ingenuity saved the day.<br />
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You see, <strike>Piranha Girl's</strike> The Bean's teeth had become quite sharp and one day she bit the nipple clean off.<br />
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I'll admit, my first thought was to panic and run out to get a replacement pacifier STAT. But The Bean is my daughter through and through and immediately knew SHE had broken the binky and was besides herself with guilt.
I seized the opportunity for us to part ways with her stinky, ratty, teeth derailing best friend.<br />
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Guilt and shame: helping parents win for 250,000 years and counting.Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-58679860128990356152012-09-10T19:25:00.000-04:002012-09-10T19:25:33.861-04:00Rebel without a CauseWhile The Bean has been busy growing into a real girl, I've been reliving freshman year at college.<br />
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The Bean is an awesome sleeper most nights; which means I get to do things I enjoy in the evenings. And I may have gotten drunk and carried away with my newfound freedom.<br />
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When you're making your sixth jar of pickled okra, you can put down the tongs - you've canned all the things.<br />
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You'll be glad to know, I'm inept as ever at this whole parenting this. Once you think you've got it all figured out, the child learns something new and ruins everything. You might remember how the Moby saved my life and allowed me to food shop.<br />
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Boy. Those were the good ol' days...<br />
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<br />Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-53929575190938324322012-07-12T19:01:00.000-04:002012-07-12T19:01:48.660-04:00The Last 3 Months...Clip Show StyleSo I've been gone. It's probably something you did. But thankfully I finally forgave you.<br />
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When last we met, it was Mother's Day and The Bean and I shared cake OCD style. Since then, things have happened. Nothing earth-shattering.<br />
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Except this:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Why yes, that is a vacuumed carpet. You may start worshiping me any time now.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Then there was the Baby Bird Rescue of 2012. Did you hear about it on the news? No? Well, it was more of a regional story. In my backyard. It consumed my life for a week and a half as I rescued the same baby robin no less than three times. Once after he fell out of a tree; once from the jaws of my cat; and once when he got trapped in a fence. He lived and flew away with not so much as a thank you.</span><br />
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Ungrateful nit. Should've let the cat eat you.<br />
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Then The Bean turned one. Which most people say is a momentous occasion. I celebrated by vacuuming the carpet again.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">We also felt since she was now a mature young lady, this was the right moment to teach The Bean that the world is a cruel place where mothers bake you cakes that look like giant turds, force you to stand in front of a room full of strangers in a bathing suit and let you grab burning candles.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">After that we went on a trip. I realize now that I have a child the word vacation will never again apply to my life. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">As our fortune would have it, the trip coincided perfectly with Death Hotness from Hell Week which added an extra fun element - t</span><span style="background-color: white;">he 'let's stay in the air-conditioned hotel room where we will eat teacups and not go outside' element.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Z5vOwfzpQJmLpy-VUAfYv_AJUi-oTWbWWR76Isuqz9a1K-kmM1VXvfvwkb4DK_lDD9N4vgUa3ZU0uliZKh8EZIM8UWC-A_ObFxdJx8rAosHVLpJNBjbMFEOmnf7bRrM1KhbUQe40Bb4/s1600/Boston_03.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Z5vOwfzpQJmLpy-VUAfYv_AJUi-oTWbWWR76Isuqz9a1K-kmM1VXvfvwkb4DK_lDD9N4vgUa3ZU0uliZKh8EZIM8UWC-A_ObFxdJx8rAosHVLpJNBjbMFEOmnf7bRrM1KhbUQe40Bb4/s400/Boston_03.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Then we did a bunch of boring things and The Bean barely enjoyed herself.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Until we met boys...at which point I determined The Bean will be home schooled and enter a nunnery at the ripe age of 16. Her behavior was completely inappropriate for the first date (of which she had a few - little hussy)...</span><br />
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Not napping or sleeping for 10 days straight because you're afraid you might miss all the things is exhausting, especially for a young lass. So she's been sleeping for a week.<br />
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And now you're about caught up.<br />
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She walks (like a drunken sailor).<br />
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She talks. "Babry (Baby)," "Dahg (Dog)," "Cah (Cat)," "Uh-oh (Uh-oh)," Da Da (Da Da)," and "Mum-Mum (as in the rice cracker snack - not me...I don't actually have a name)"<br />
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And is pretty groovy.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Zo8C5FDdEiQ" width="420"></iframe>Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-54290664802949893442012-07-12T15:11:00.000-04:002012-07-12T15:11:19.664-04:00Two Minutes HateDear children's book "authors,"<br />
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Thanks for ruining what I used to think would be one of those highlights of parenthood: <span style="background-color: white;">reading with my daughter</span><span style="background-color: white;">. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I'm looking at you, creators of the crafts-gone-bad "books" (felt, glitter and yarn glued onto a few photos of animals barely qualifies as a camp project, let alone a book).</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">There I am dutifully reading our animal book like every other parent of an infant:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
"Cow. Moooooo."<br />
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"Pig. Oink, oink."<br />
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"Horse. Neigh, neigh."<br />
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"Tiger. Rawr."<br />
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And then, you coy, sadistic little a-holes throw in a picture of a turtle. W<span style="background-color: white;">hat am I supposed to do with that?</span><br />
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The Bean looks up at me expecting a noise and I got nothing; you know she's thinking to herself "Jesus, this woman doesn't even know what a turtle says...I'm doomed."<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">She's my daughter...I assure you, she's judging me.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Thanks.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Mrs. D-Zo</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span>Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-27134638067373088582012-05-14T16:45:00.001-04:002012-05-14T16:45:52.340-04:00A Post about Quirks, but Does Mention Mother's Day So the Other Mommy Bloggers Don't Spurn Me<div>
There is a special level of embarrassment saved for those moments when you realize you have unintentionally broadcast a personal idiosyncrasy to the general public and are suddenly forced to defend it so you aren't admitted to the closest mental health facility. </div>
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I am repeatedly faced with the unsettling truth that my life is a sham. No matter the lengths I go through to appear like a sane, functioning member of society, there is one undermining and undeniable fact: </div>
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I am a weird eater. </div>
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Not a picky eater. God, <i>those</i> people are annoying. I can say that because I dated the King of Picky Eater Land and making fun of picky eaters is the prize I won for those grueling years of my life. </div>
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You're dying for details, aren't you? </div>
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At Taco Bell there could be no lettuce on whatever he ordered. Like none. At all. One time he unwrapped his burrito for <b>The Mandatory Food Inspection</b> and found a sliver of lettuce inside; we had to get back in the car and get a new burrito. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVdj0svjwPblXCzOEIB1ytm69sH1T-YfJiAIE-uvMefDDtQZkH1VdP601KCJvRb6VM00UhBuL4R22fpXGhwpIXtv5W-WLX9fLADPw6WdQwU0_R0PNrDDGMTYo9dq8HrakG6keVSPw5O1w/s1600/Taco+Bell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVdj0svjwPblXCzOEIB1ytm69sH1T-YfJiAIE-uvMefDDtQZkH1VdP601KCJvRb6VM00UhBuL4R22fpXGhwpIXtv5W-WLX9fLADPw6WdQwU0_R0PNrDDGMTYo9dq8HrakG6keVSPw5O1w/s640/Taco+Bell.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="text-align: left;">I am the type of person who, if I ordered a hamburger and received a cabbage milkshake, would just power through the shake. Confrontations - and most social interactions - are not my strong suit.</span></div>
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However, I am not a picky eater; I am a weird eater. My weirdness manifests itself in 3 distinct levels of awesome.</div>
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<b>Level 1: When I Say Organization Is a Way of Life, I Mean It.</b></div>
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When confronted with a bowl of fruit salad, most people react this way:</div>
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I am not most people.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnbU6bGHLu4_s4u3pQMgVrNUBZSD12ythzdzIKzkUdESt9pgXihY642IOzJQrUMF6rAAVBJaOnLZu5vePFlXyu9arQUgJ_lFO4PNlAvEwgl0UqzBcTcCBfWTzA9t2F3CuJctQrJmHq2ZQ/s1600/Fruit+Salad+Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnbU6bGHLu4_s4u3pQMgVrNUBZSD12ythzdzIKzkUdESt9pgXihY642IOzJQrUMF6rAAVBJaOnLZu5vePFlXyu9arQUgJ_lFO4PNlAvEwgl0UqzBcTcCBfWTzA9t2F3CuJctQrJmHq2ZQ/s640/Fruit+Salad+Me.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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A girlfriend and I were splitting a fruit salad at brunch one day because we wanted to save our calories for the bottomless Bloody Marys. We were mid-conversation when she suddenly stopped eating and stared at me in disbelief. </div>
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Unconsciously, I had done this to our plate:</div>
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She gave me a lovely psychological dissertation on the need to have control over minor things in life when one is avoiding dealing with bigger issues...blah, blah, blah.</div>
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Little did she know, she had only caught me mid-act. Had she let me continue on to fruit salad harmony, the plate would have looked like this.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ObfPdMvu4v6a-uAB_KbIxdT8hAx5i7tJfDjhWMvOhv5Nuu-FFELi2G5V8lQxotFKVFqhVF97kFzdB8Zl4ZMAyBpmEmyJEljYra7W8NIm9HbwkqMFe7PcVu2BTgbPb7al0aGyX9WuQKM/s1600/Fruit+Salad+Best.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ObfPdMvu4v6a-uAB_KbIxdT8hAx5i7tJfDjhWMvOhv5Nuu-FFELi2G5V8lQxotFKVFqhVF97kFzdB8Zl4ZMAyBpmEmyJEljYra7W8NIm9HbwkqMFe7PcVu2BTgbPb7al0aGyX9WuQKM/s640/Fruit+Salad+Best.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Why yes, there is an equal number of fruit pieces in each color-coded category, thankyouverymuch. This way you can eat in a circle and have an equal amount of each fruit at the end instead of a plate of cantaloupe with nary a strawberry in sight. THE HORROR.<br />
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And people are surprised when I tell them I analyze data for a living.<br />
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<b>Level 2: Order Sits at the Right Hand of Our Holy Father, Organization</b><br />
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I am a terrible conversationalist during dinner. Mostly because I am so busy. After organizing comes the prioritization of foods. [It's at about this point you're probably thinking to yourself, "Wow...I have really got it together. This one's a nutter." You're welcome.]<br />
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My goal is to make the last bite of my meal a forkful of the most delicious item. There is one flaw in this plan. I married my husband.<br />
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Early on in our dating career, my husband made an epic mistake. As he was finishing up his salad course, his fork strayed onto my plate and took a heaping pile of blue cheese and bacon lardons I had meticulously avoided. My anticipation level for this grand finale of porky saltiness was on par with the release of the final Harry Potter novel (hey, you already think I'm insane so I may as well throw nerdy into the ring too).<br />
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To be fair, he thought I was eating around those items because I didn't want them - hence, fair game. The scars on the back of his hand serve as a constant reminder to not interfere with my dinner routine.<br />
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<b>Level 3: Portions Bring Us One Step Closer to World Peace</b><br />
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At the end of each meal, Michael's plate looks like a crime scene. An experienced investigator could recreate a play-by-play of Michael's meal by examining the bloody clues left behind. You could return my plate to the cabinet because I ate my portion of food. Every last drop.<br />
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Whenever we eat out, my to-go box is an exact replica, in miniature, of the meal I had (Level 1 and Level 2 of my food insanity help drive this). I am not left with a monster pile of green beans, 2 bites of a steak and the hint of mashed potatoes served. If I opened up a to-go box and saw those proportions, you might as well shoot me in the face because what's the point of living another day?<br />
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Which leads me to yesterday.<br />
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For Mother's Day, The Bean and I visited the local coffee shop to split a slice of cake while we sipped on coffee and gabbed about our girlfriends behind their backs. <div>
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The cake was enormous and I knew I would need to take half of it home.</div>
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Have you been paying attention Dear Reader? Which of these do you think were my leftovers?</div>
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<br /></div>Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-1034537450985112232012-05-05T21:45:00.000-04:002012-05-07T12:04:26.379-04:00Mothers, Daughters and Other People's DaughtersThe day my mother realized I was never going to embrace shopping as my one true savior, she died a little on the inside. It is also the day she began praying to the Lord of Sparkly Dresses, Designer Labels and Great Deals to grant her a granddaughter who would make up for her own daughter's tragic flaw.<br />
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The Bean will turn one year old next month and I have an amazing fact to share with you: Humans are born with nearly <a href="http://voices.yahoo.com/why-humans-270-bones-birth-but-only-206-bones-520064.html" target="_blank">300 bones in their body, but only have 206 bones</a> by the time they reach adulthood. Also, I have only purchased one item of clothing for my child. Ever. And she has not even worn it yet.<br />
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Nana has been busy.<br />
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When I first informed my mother I was pregnant with a baby girl, she showed up with enough clothes to outfit The Bean for the first few hundred years of life. This was great; especially since, at the time, I was blowing extreme amounts of money on supporting my ice cream habit.<br />
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Every few weeks since The Bean's arrival onto this planet, I end up shouting, "Holy crap kid, quit this growing business! You're going to force me to go shopping because we're out of clothes you fit into. And if I have to go shopping, I promise I will torture you with a closet full of corduroy pants when you hit middle school."<br />
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Lucky for The Bean, Nana's superpower is sensing when a fashion catastrophe is imminent. Within the next day or two a new shipment of clothes comes in; keeping The Bean baby chic and me from having a mall meltdown. Win-win-win.<br />
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Recently, my mother asked me how The Bean was enjoying her newest shipment of fashionable frocks she lovingly picked out piece by trendsetting piece.<br />
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Crap.<br />
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My daughter inherited two things from me. An inappropriate love of pickles and a complete lack of interest in sparkles, ruffles, glitter or Ralph Lauren.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pretty sure Nana was envisioning this.</td></tr>
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The reality is, every time a new box of clothes from Nana arrives, The Bean looks inside and then crawls off to make raspberry noises as loudly as possible, preferably while banging on metal objects. Meanwhile the nanny's daughter lovingly pulls out each item, examines its craftsmanship and beauty then struts around the house with her favorite pieces as if she was working the runway in Milan - glancing down at us proletarians and style simpletons.<br />
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I did what any daughter would do. I told my mother the horrible truth - that her granddaughter was also fashion-backward. Because daughters like nothing more than getting under the skin of their mothers; even when the child is 34. (And yes, I realize I will be getting my just desserts someday soon; that's the joy of it all.)<br />
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Last week's fashion delivery consisted of two matching shirts (in different colors). As Nana put it, "One for The Bean and one for The Fashionista." A truly lovely gift for the girls, but mothers always have the last laugh. Nana's one request: send me a picture of the girls in their shirts.<br />
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Do you know what's impossible? Getting two toddlers to sit still at the same time for a photograph.<br />
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Here is our photograph(s):<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgitxrNvcAiDO0AyNcjezgdWRDYYvdvhyVJAHq2kc2WnzhtwnjY6GJSA7Sk_CXk7CWLAx4yPnZjE0NRMjTIca-5RSHCvIuDXTHL99uSg-HN6LVgMEd9dv4M6VWpc_l8YHqrZShyRu4dmOM/s1600/Epic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgitxrNvcAiDO0AyNcjezgdWRDYYvdvhyVJAHq2kc2WnzhtwnjY6GJSA7Sk_CXk7CWLAx4yPnZjE0NRMjTIca-5RSHCvIuDXTHL99uSg-HN6LVgMEd9dv4M6VWpc_l8YHqrZShyRu4dmOM/s640/Epic.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKdRa2LScmfZhIdNIJq3aWz-1MaLX0OqUKqVArHBZUSlpWBhIWjdba1_2dBLUXNooD3J3_se_2RH5zSxtjdr9lW75P1sYpDtTqbzGhaAyKiS580VvkSlXJTDJqOEqCH3WFgFdClWXxf2A/s1600/For+the+hills.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKdRa2LScmfZhIdNIJq3aWz-1MaLX0OqUKqVArHBZUSlpWBhIWjdba1_2dBLUXNooD3J3_se_2RH5zSxtjdr9lW75P1sYpDtTqbzGhaAyKiS580VvkSlXJTDJqOEqCH3WFgFdClWXxf2A/s400/For+the+hills.JPG" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fashionista: I'm out of here.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bean: No seriously guys. She's gorgeous, I must kiss her.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhQErkVC6Ksv0EImvWFr3_6yzYv6OWNwnFOqgMa8PSiemR__ZI_sZswo1oem7ROSeEax8t7vmr1lyWB0BMb7cdxS3lX7Rhvqcgo-Fa6X_eZIX3n2GVjAjnKPqBZk9SmJ8hYJcufG8JKXQ/s1600/PUFFS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhQErkVC6Ksv0EImvWFr3_6yzYv6OWNwnFOqgMa8PSiemR__ZI_sZswo1oem7ROSeEax8t7vmr1lyWB0BMb7cdxS3lX7Rhvqcgo-Fa6X_eZIX3n2GVjAjnKPqBZk9SmJ8hYJcufG8JKXQ/s320/PUFFS.jpg" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OH MY GOD!!!! PUFFS!!!!!!!!!! I need my fix.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3DZOoq-1dqKeliEccGtgoRegH4X3T7Svikl2mSKuXrEH0tNPS8PA2L4rmjIx5jXYlhhCxSuO7l8b6LZf9U7lCEfI0wkr7Zp3kkb7CqodPZ-SFoH2giF4lryNYng6_3lC9rgmo567KEIk/s1600/You+got+more.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3DZOoq-1dqKeliEccGtgoRegH4X3T7Svikl2mSKuXrEH0tNPS8PA2L4rmjIx5jXYlhhCxSuO7l8b6LZf9U7lCEfI0wkr7Zp3kkb7CqodPZ-SFoH2giF4lryNYng6_3lC9rgmo567KEIk/s400/You+got+more.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why did she get more than me?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyYrXmwXXGOjxfDlZApD-dKGZfdAzbOI1XGnA1Svh_v50Mg04oGpPw5jrO3khsdaWrtvMrZ8JuzSNdIFIDyYjy43iBSvgjbqkzOWkah9QojRrjNEijPss3Lp_xu4VKdXgfeAZgUbZWRgQ/s1600/Puff+protection.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyYrXmwXXGOjxfDlZApD-dKGZfdAzbOI1XGnA1Svh_v50Mg04oGpPw5jrO3khsdaWrtvMrZ8JuzSNdIFIDyYjy43iBSvgjbqkzOWkah9QojRrjNEijPss3Lp_xu4VKdXgfeAZgUbZWRgQ/s320/Puff+protection.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This'll show you, you greedy biatch. POW. The rest of the Puffs are mine.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRoCYTMlQbGJCP6HLZD0gKTqNlQPJ84WNE7PVmgcriM6O9e8TdE8QkeFkckwD8xR1Y5tY67ddyCg4gig2umuVT0ojhR7WHpc-49yqBHWU_jkZnY9WutyjeMT3zwDrULOYWDRwImtkXfUk/s1600/No+More.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRoCYTMlQbGJCP6HLZD0gKTqNlQPJ84WNE7PVmgcriM6O9e8TdE8QkeFkckwD8xR1Y5tY67ddyCg4gig2umuVT0ojhR7WHpc-49yqBHWU_jkZnY9WutyjeMT3zwDrULOYWDRwImtkXfUk/s400/No+More.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What do you mean this is the last of the puffs? (Side note: this was the best shot we got of them together.)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDmAThb_Decgz60yM7i0KZVB4m-BUGb5rE9vmfeoJrEEiYdcN4Gq6Ux7aMRwfgBWtzOSlOsAg6FX0YOW0HTNIzbrE80mb0X3TJG4UAY9kTtl-AbWdx_njfKFJ4zQltRKSSZCq1JPxYM1c/s1600/Need+More.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDmAThb_Decgz60yM7i0KZVB4m-BUGb5rE9vmfeoJrEEiYdcN4Gq6Ux7aMRwfgBWtzOSlOsAg6FX0YOW0HTNIzbrE80mb0X3TJG4UAY9kTtl-AbWdx_njfKFJ4zQltRKSSZCq1JPxYM1c/s400/Need+More.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Must have more puffs...</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO9R0xody_ihCqx1Upv8lbGS63zekOhKGNdo7kGjONB4Nb5np15tPawHKt2GEAv8AAiv0fFyuPvTjqlMQev3H5CICSkUGg-WPeCLfWfGvWNow9Y_A8g6tTDim2bQzyLIIjaJT6eVq1PuM/s1600/Are+you+sure.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO9R0xody_ihCqx1Upv8lbGS63zekOhKGNdo7kGjONB4Nb5np15tPawHKt2GEAv8AAiv0fFyuPvTjqlMQev3H5CICSkUGg-WPeCLfWfGvWNow9Y_A8g6tTDim2bQzyLIIjaJT6eVq1PuM/s400/Are+you+sure.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Are you sure there are no more puffs? I'll sit still.</td></tr>
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<br />Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-42085193176393166532012-05-01T21:38:00.001-04:002012-05-01T21:38:02.557-04:00StumpedI've got nothing. So please pardon this break while I try to find my funny again. In the meantime, go ahead and follow the blog on Facebook if you want a notification of when I manage to get a new post up.Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-1663877450545731972012-04-18T22:01:00.001-04:002012-04-18T22:01:34.604-04:00I Went Away...But Can't Post Because of the Sex DollsI am desperately trying to write a post about my first true trip away from the child. A momentous occasion on many fronts.<br />
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But I can't.<br />
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I turned on TLC and have been sucked into episode after episode of My Crazy Obsession. Every time I try to concentrate on writing, they show a piece more bizarre than the last. Culminating in one about a husband who buys sex dolls (some used!!?!?!?!) - a habit condoned and encouraged by his wife. Because it's not sexual for them (uh, maybe not for you lady) and has brought them together since now they have something to talk about again (cut to the scene where they are having tea with one of the dolls and the two living humans are talking to the silicon doll and not each other).<br />
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So you can understand why I am finding posting so difficult. The level of judging and ridicule these people deserve requires a large amount of my time and brain power. I have nothing left for you people.<br />
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But I will pull myself together enough to share with you the photo I received this morning from my husband ASSURING me the child and he both made it through the night alive without being under my watchful eye.<br />
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VERY. REASSURING. Isn't it????Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-81109862901159324802012-04-11T12:08:00.001-04:002012-04-11T12:08:07.263-04:00ALVIIIIIIIIIIIN!!!!!Somewhere in the house a noise caught my attention. As a mother, you become acutely aware of all types of noises and can instantaneously sort the noises into categories. "Act NOW. Go go go!" or "Ignore. It's just a dog licking some inappropriate body part for the 10 billionth time today."<div>
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This noise set off the "Hmmm. What <i>IS</i> that?" reaction series.</div>
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I followed the noise into the hallway where the cat was scratching feverishly around the litter box. Not IN the litter box...around the litter box.</div>
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Well that is odd.</div>
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Then Edison let loose with his battle cry - a distinct cross between a broken sprinkler and squeak toy on its last squeak. </div>
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Oh no...he's hunting.</div>
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I cautiously looked behind the litter box to see if Edison had removed the legs from a spider, punched a hole in the wings of some unsuspecting moth or if there was a crumpled up ball of tinfoil stuck in the corner. That's when I saw the tail.</div>
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20 minutes later, I stopped screaming and peeled myself off the ceiling. </div>
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This was not just any intruder. My initial thought before I was gripped with the panic of being eaten alive by a rodent the size of a Snickers bar was "Holy crap! A mouse." But upon closer inspection (read: as he darted from behind the litter box into the open door of The Bean's room and sent me screaming into the living room), I saw we had a chipmunk on our hands.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Somehow I bypassed my natural hunting response of paralysis and closed the door behind the cat and chipmunk. I was half hoping for an epic cage match to ensue - clearing me of any involvement in chipmunk removal. But it was The Bean's room and chipmunk guts aren't good for growing girls. Besides, within 5 minutes the cat was clawing and mewing at the door to be let out. </div>
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Stupid cat had given up the chase once the chipmunk had crawled into the furthest corner of the room; safe from cat claws...under THE CRIB.</div>
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That's when the nanny showed up.</div>
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<div>
In retrospect, I deeply regret not having a nanny cam set up. By this time we would be internet stars and I could retire on my YouTube fame.</div>
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<div>
There was the screaming. The jumping back in terror for no reason roughly 203 times. The moving every piece of furniture in the room with extreme trepidation and dropping it and running in fear every time a tuft of dog hair moved. All from two grown women seemingly responsible enough to raise children.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The following items were used in The Chipmunk Hunt and Extraction of 2012:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
* A Mary Kay box emptied of my skin care regiment</div>
<div>
* A stuffed giraffe from Crate and Barrel</div>
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* A burp cloth</div>
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* A lazy, disinterested Labrador Retriever</div>
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* A cookie sheet</div>
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<div>
Shockingly, this arsenal of weapons wasn't working. It was time to get serious.</div>
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<div>
I marched out of the room and detailed the new plan to the nanny, "OK. We need to go old school. All the old cartoons show people chasing rodents with a broom and a shoe box. Those are our new weapons. When I find the chipmunk, you'll know because I'll start screaming like a little girl. That's your cue to come in behind me and catch him in the box as I chase him with the broom."</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Yes. That was my plan.</div>
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Yes. It was as hilarious to watch as it sounds.</div>
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Yes. It worked.</div>Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-42545050697425207542012-04-03T18:58:00.002-04:002012-04-03T18:58:33.875-04:00Maybe Rednecks Do Have it All Figured OutThe child is growing her top teeth. <div>
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I'm willing to let her go toothless just to make the whole experience stop. How important is corn on the cob in the grand scheme of things?<div>
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<div>
When one's gums hurt, everything hurts 500,000,000 times more. So when The Bean touched a paper box, her head popped off her neck. When she sat on the carpet, her neck started shooting flames into the air. And when she stepped on a piece of dried grass one of the dogs dragged into the house, one of those flames landed on her pajamas and set her whole body on fire.</div>
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The upside is I've convinced her baby Tylenol is delicious candy and not poison.</div>
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So there's that...<br /><div>
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</div>Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-65985488957370449872012-03-28T19:56:00.000-04:002012-03-28T19:56:32.396-04:00Impulse Control<div>
The Bean sat herself down in front of the toy and began pounding the crap out of it. Buzzers were going off, lights were flashing, plastic pieces were popping up and down - she was having a great time with it. Until the little girl next to her stole the toy right out from under The Bean's nose.</div>
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No worries. There was a full box of toys. </div>
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<div>
We reached in and pulled out an equally annoying xylophone and handed The Bean a stick which she used to pound out a sorrowful ballad of love lost. Until the little girl made a beeline for the xylophone and ripped it out of The Bean's hands.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Michael and I took a collective deep breath. </div>
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<div>
The Bean found a calculator to play with. The xylophone was forgotten. The Bean meticulously pushed buttons and finished our tax returns. Until the little girl swiped the calculator from The Bean.</div>
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<div>
My eye started twitching. </div>
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<div>
Michael grabbed the first toy, now strewn aside and neglected by the thief child, and placed it back in front of The Bean. Friends reunited. The pounding of switches and snippets of the alphabet song filled the room. Until the little girl pulled the toy from The Bean's grasp. She must have heard Michael's agitated foot tapping. The next thing I knew, she was shoving the calculator back into The Bean's hands, nearly knocking her down in the process.</div>
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Since the thought was there, despite the violent execution, we said a falsely cheerful 'thank you' to indicate sharing is nice. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
But child law being what it is, as soon as The Bean started tapping on the calculator keys, the little girl needed the calculator. Now. And having 3 years and about 30 pounds on The Bean, it was quickly hers again. And The Bean was toy-less.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Michael was rolling up his sleeves and cracking his knuckles. I quickly reminded him that good hippie parents do not interfere in such social interactions. Rather, they let the child figure out how to handle the situation on their own so they do not turn into miserable, entitled adult gits looking for handouts. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
We focused our attention back on The Bean who had found a plastic box with a marble inside it. A treasure that the little girl promptly pried from The Bean's increasingly tighter grip.</div>
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<div>
I sighed. Michael stood up to drop kick the little girl to the next room when The Bean having had quite enough of this rude behavior let out a little shriek of annoyance. There was only so much she would tolerate. So The Bean crab crawled her little butt over to the little girl and stole the box right back.</div>
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We couldn't be prouder.</div>Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-50169797229630414022012-03-21T21:27:00.000-04:002012-03-21T21:27:37.503-04:00Apparently I Fell Off the Earth, But Then I Came Back Because I Missed PizzaYeah, yeah. It's all or nothing with me; what can I say? I'm probably in the top 54 bad people on the planet because I can't keep a blogging schedule to save my life.<br />
<br />
But I can explain.<br />
<br />
You all...you're not going to believe it, but I'm having a great time in the land of Mama. People say it takes 4 or 5 months until you start to reap the benefits of parenthood and really begin to enjoy yourself. I guess the "give or take 5 months" was implied.<br />
<br />
The Bean has turned into a human over the last month or so and we actually have fun together. That or my standards for what I find interesting in another human has dropped significantly - which is entirely possible since I work in a home office and am surrounded by 3 annoying dogs and a pissy cat all day.<br />
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But it's a nice change to hang out with someone who thinks life is pretty super and we should probably just laugh at all the things.<br />
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<br />Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-42676659866013865022012-03-15T02:30:00.000-04:002012-03-15T02:30:02.092-04:00She Has the Grace of Her MotherThe Bean presents: Her impression of a peeing dog, but someone dropped a piece of steak off the table and they need to get to it before the other dogs do...but man does he have to pee...<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/GpGnaxhmXUs?rel=0" width="420"></iframe>
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<br />
I apologize for my grating voice over, but be thankful I managed to drop my Long Island accent in college.<br />
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So now we have a mobile baby and you can tell me how different life is going to be from now on, because having a baby didn't change anything.Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-61750914798636009672012-03-14T03:30:00.000-04:002012-03-14T03:30:02.995-04:00Things That Go Bump in the NightAs is wont to happen, The Bean tossed and turned so much the other night, she found herself in this position:<div>
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Sitting straight up. Asleep.</div>
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You know when you wake up in the middle of night and are convinced it's time to get up and go to work? The Bean woke up a few moments after she had hoisted herself into a sitting position and clearly thought, "oh, I'm awake and sitting up in my crib. Guess I better get my day started."</div>
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<br /></div>Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-37479896179059815322012-03-13T03:30:00.000-04:002012-03-13T03:30:01.785-04:00I Turned Into My Husband, The World Collapsed and Then We DiedThe other morning I was putting The Bean down for her morning nap. As you may remember me mentioning 1 or 8,000 times, we are on The Schedule now. Messing with The Schedule results in immediate dismemberment and/or death by me pulling your kidneys out through your eyeballs.<br />
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Your choice.<br />
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The moment I laid The Bean down, He Who Is The Most Annoying Dog in The World (right after our other dog, Turd-Eater Extraordinaire) began his morning ritual of bark at all the things. This normally just pisses me off and we all move on with life, but today the barks sounded oddly distant.<br />
<br />
"Goddammit. Michael forgot to latch the front gate behind him this morning when he left for work because he is the worst human being in the world and is purposely trying to ruin my life. Now that stupid dog is probably down the street eating little children and pooping on the lawn of the creepy old guy."<br />
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Turns out none of that happened. Bear was just in the far corner of the backyard giving hell to the neighbor who has lived here longer than us. Typical morning.<br />
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Once back inside with The Protector of Great Annoyance at my side, I hear The Bean on the monitor; clearly still not napping. I tap on the video and am greeted with the face of my child against the camera. Let me be more specific, she was STANDING with her face against the camera as she was preparing to fling herself out of the crib. Perhaps she was on her way to play with Carl the wooden caterpillar or maybe she was looking for Elmo to hold a jam session to "Elmo's Song" and "Elmo's Ducks."<br />
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Either way, I ran into the room to prevent certain disaster.<br />
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I flung the door open and she knew she was caught in the act. The Bean giggled and gave me a goofy side grin as if to say, "It's OK mama, I'm cute and it's all going to work out."<br />
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That cemented it.<br />
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The child was scooped out of the crib. It was time to lower the mattress.<br />
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Right at this point, my face must have caught fire and someone shoved an ice pick in my ear. It is the only logical explanation as to why it was so mother-loving difficult to perform this task.<br />
<br />
For starters an Allen wrench was needed. Not any Allen wrench...this Allen wrench. You know, from the crib someone else assembled for me 10 months ago. Thankfully I obsessively hoard Allen wrenches from the 10,007 pieces of IKEA furniture I've assembled during my lifetime and one fits. I undo all the screws I think are applicable to the task at hand. I guessed wrong. I undo all the remaining screws on the crib. The crib defiantly stands tall - unmoved that I've taken away ALL the pieces holding it together.<br />
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There is no discernible way to figure out what to do next.<br />
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Thank goodness for the interwebs (which I only remembered about after I had screamed all the curse words ever at the top of my lungs - it's my husband's go-to technique for assembling furniture and I was out of ideas). The interwebs told me to rip the crib apart with my bare hands. No really.<br />
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So I did and it came apart.<br />
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30 minutes later, the mattress was dropped, the crib was reassembled and I had calmed The Bean down from her tenth meltdown because I wouldn't let her eat Allen wrenches the whole time. <br />
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All this before I settled in for work at 9 AM...it was a long day.Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-66185962415277820372012-03-12T03:00:00.000-04:002012-03-12T03:00:13.232-04:00The World, She is A-EndingI would like to send a shout out to the mother-loving god of snails and baked beans.<br />
<br />
The child slept through the night. And by "the child," I mean <b>my</b> child. And by "through the night," I mean, entirely...from 6:30 PM to 6:00 AM with nary a peep, whimper or blood-curdling scream.<br />
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The Bean's most recent *phase* has been waking up at 3:30 AM to demand a little nip of a bottle. Because who doesn't want a warm little tasty treat in the middle of the night? Except it means someone has to wake up and prepare said bottle and bring it to Her Highness and someone has to change Her Majesty's diaper since she's filled her overnight diaper to the brim from all the nips of milk.<br />
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And if you think that someone is my husband, well, I laugh in your general direction.<br />
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<i>I'd like to interrupt this blog post to formally withdraw my love of Dr. Weissbluth, the traitor. I trusted you sir. Considering The Bean is now sleeping in her own room which is noticeably not in my bed, I have to admit your techniques work. BUT...when this new phase of waking up at 3 AM started and I consulted you for help, you took pages 263 and 264 of your book, made an origami knife and stabbed me in the back.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>And I quote, "...babies may still awaken once or twice in the middle of the night. I consider this behavior normal, natural, and not changeworthy - if it's for a brief feeding and not prolonged playtime."</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Not. Helpful.</i><br />
<i><br /></i><br />
<i>Back to your regularly scheduled post...</i><br />
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So when I woke up and rolled over to check the clock and saw 5:30 AM glaring its fluorescent green hate lasers into my eyeballs, I flew from the bed to The Bean's room since she obviously was dead.<br />
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Just as I was about to turn the knob to her room, I checked the monitor and she rolled over.<br />
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And by "rolled over," I mean she wasn't dead.<br />
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We may all survive this after all.Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-66336999131265126552012-03-08T10:43:00.000-05:002012-03-08T10:43:01.325-05:00Sisterhood of the Traveling Shoes<div>
Working out of a home office means I go to work in my socks and shower once every other month. So imagine my dismay when my boss unexpectedly asked me to go to a client meeting with him and I would need to wear A SUIT.</div>
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Since I'm a Fatty Patty right now, I had to go out and buy one. Which depressed me because it's nice living in the land of ignorant fat bliss. The solution? Spanky new shoes for the soul. </div>
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The 4 inch heel should have been a deterrent, but their sexy siren call was irresistible. Wearing these shoes would surely make everyone look past the 20 extra pounds I'm carrying around and see me as an insatiable sex kitten.</div>
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Seeing as the vixen heels were in the running for world's most uncomfortable shoe, I wisely brought along travel shoes for the airport, taxi, lobby, elevator - every situation where I was not standing directly in front of my client.</div>
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Being me, I chose the world's second most uncomfortable shoe as my travel shoe. </div>
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Hear me out...these shoes look like they should be comfortable and I fall for their lies every time; forgetting they are about 10 sizes too small.</div>
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Did you know it is next to impossible to buy women's shoes in an airport? Men's shoes? Every other store including the newsstand. Women's shoes...nowhere to be found.</div>
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By the end of the trip I found a pair of travel socks.</div>
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Less sex kitten and more furry muppet. </div>
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<br /></div>Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-84746307182995501902012-02-29T20:20:00.000-05:002012-02-29T20:20:15.775-05:00Parental Adjustments8 months in and I'm still in the adjustment phase of becoming a parent. I'm quickly coming to the conclusion I may have to get used to it here.<br />
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Through a series of extensive trial and error experiments, I created what I thought was a completely attainable to-do list for this weekend. Let me map out the Herculean efforts I had in mind:<br />
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<ol>
<li>Going to The Container Store to get some fabulous solution to fix my kitchen pantry </li>
<li>Finish assembling the guest bedroom bed - this task consisted of screwing together 12 drawers
</li>
<li>Order a photo and a frame </li>
<li>Organize under the kitchen and bathroom sinks so my child doesn't accidentally poison herself</li>
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4 items. F.O.U.R.</div>
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Pre-child, this list would've taken me two hours - including travel time - to get through. Post-child? </div>
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Monday morning, I took stock of my situation:</div>
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<ol>
<li>Mission complete! We had two dirty diapers, a lost container of rice puffs and 1 massive meltdown (by The Bean; The Container Store is my happy place) to show for it. All the things we bought are still in the car. </li>
<li>1 drawer fully assembled. 1 drawer abandoned mid-screw. Still.</li>
<li>I just did this 10 minutes ago because I didn't remember about needing to do this until I started writing this post. Done.</li>
<li>Yeah...not so much.</li>
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Everything gets in the way. </div>
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Nap times mean no travel and no hammering of nails into drawers (we now know for a fact this will wake The Bean up and she will be displeased). Bringing out the computer or iAnything means wrestling a technology addicted mongrel and his daughter from the keyboard. And doing anything in the house requires at least one free adult to watch this:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvwQk1TvjnhoW2WyTEkTykZBPZh-kJ9VsKU2aAWNhyDPCJjEsjqlsp1VveusorzHegN9xlWBp0JCORTa4xpFxgIUznuGEfUyd1SJHbmaI9JXv_TxaMsXRnkGDe4NTegLpj1QBbKtVXggw/s1600/Standing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvwQk1TvjnhoW2WyTEkTykZBPZh-kJ9VsKU2aAWNhyDPCJjEsjqlsp1VveusorzHegN9xlWBp0JCORTa4xpFxgIUznuGEfUyd1SJHbmaI9JXv_TxaMsXRnkGDe4NTegLpj1QBbKtVXggw/s400/Standing.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
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Why yes, this is my secret squirrel spy photo of Cadie pulling herself into a standing position. Something she does every free minute she has because sitting is for suckers.</div>
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We are in trouble here at the D-Zo household. The child refuses to crawl. Let's face it, it's demeaning. But she spends her days with an 11-month old who is tearing around the house like an Ethiopian marathoner. Guess what The Bean wants to do? At 8 months...</div>
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Now accepting resumes for a personal assistant to handle all my chores.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUqyGf_jCT40dTNchJTOork3AK0aGWrYuz5ebYsg-8OMp0TZKC0-GX-_lrW2csc7b9KQRpnAiRCRVogY-VzThJwSJgwQt-ZJ7BZUF-q2Vcix7-nwuQI2yMk5d-ryX2PYIa2QTH3X1HMfs/s1600/PayingBills.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUqyGf_jCT40dTNchJTOork3AK0aGWrYuz5ebYsg-8OMp0TZKC0-GX-_lrW2csc7b9KQRpnAiRCRVogY-VzThJwSJgwQt-ZJ7BZUF-q2Vcix7-nwuQI2yMk5d-ryX2PYIa2QTH3X1HMfs/s400/PayingBills.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can handle paying the bills, Mama.</td></tr>
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<br /></div>Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-32341705333983630212012-02-27T21:47:00.001-05:002012-02-27T21:51:16.079-05:00First, Just Throw Away All Your IdeasMichael and I were big fans of the "I'll never..." game. It's a fun game parents-to-be play to give you a sense of security and allow you to go through with parenthood because thank God YOU have it all figured out, unlike every other parent before you.<br />
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You have such a good time playing this game, you begin to share the better rounds with your friends; some of whom are already parents. "I'll never let my child watch TV, listen to 'kid' music or use a binky." Rest assured, this demonstrates unequivocally your naivety, absurdity and pretentiousness.<br />
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While I knew there would be some <i>adjustments</i> on my plans and schemes for parenthood, I didn't realize "I'll never" is completely useless. The game should be called "There's no limit to the desperate things I'll do to make it go smoothly-ish."</div>
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This seems like a good spot to send a universal apology to all the parents out there I judged silently (and not so silently) on the "choices" you made raising your children. I now know there are no choices. There are simply ways to make it through the day alive and sometimes with your sanity intact.</div>
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Parents out there are nodding their heads. </div>
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Parents-to-be, are telling themselves how I just didn't have the discipline to set standards and now (they whisper knowingly to themselves) I'm letting the child run my life. Good luck you guys...call me in 8 months, we'll chat then.</div>
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Don't slit your wrists or send your child to live with wolves just yet. It's not entirely hopeless. You still have a say over what diapers they wear and (for now) what food they eat.</div>
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<b>Top Moments in Parent-to-Be Delirium:</b></div>
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<ol>
<li><b>You will not catch me sitting in the backseat of the car with the child. Can you not bear being out of eyesight for the 15 minutes it takes to get to the grocery store? Clingy much?</b><br /><i>Oh...I didn't realize the child will scream as if you tore out her fingernails with pliers if she can't see me. And she won't stop for as long as it takes; 20 minutes to the store, 17 hours to Texas, she can scream the whole way - round trip. <br /><br />Yet, she instantaneously stops summoning the Lord of Death when I sit in the backseat with her; which allows me to go to the store to get food which I haven't done in three months.<br /><br />Call me Backseat Betty...actually don't. <br /><br />(FYI, this stage passed at about 5 months and now The Bean entertains herself fine in the backseat.)</i></li>
<li><b>Clearly the bassinet is something invented by the furniture makers of the world to sucker parents into buying yet another crappy, blocky item to take up space in their house. That child will never sleep in the same room as me. There is nothing she is going to need so quickly that the 10 seconds it takes to get to her room will be too long.</b><i><br /></i></li>
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<li>OK, fine...I can see the merits of sleeping in the same room for the first week or two. Everyone is tired and it's pretty easy to nurse throughout the night. But no longer than a month.<i><br /></i></li>
<li>The first four months seems like an appropriate amount of time for the kid to be in the crib in the parent's room. I read somewhere they become better sleepers because they hear your breathing. But no more than four months.<i><br /></i></li>
<li>Six months tops.<i><br /></i></li>
<li>Definitely no co-sleeping.</li>
<li>Not past 18 years old.</li>
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<li><b>My child will not watch TV or the internet until [some age I deemed appropriate that was not 2 months old].</b><br /><i>Oh hi Elmo! Hey there Wiggles!!! You mean, if I put you in front of my child I will be able to take a shower for the first time this week? Come on in!</i></li>
<li><b>A child with a binky is a clear indication of a lack of discipline and coddling.</b><br /><i>A child with a binky doesn't scream in my ear all night long.</i></li>
<li><b>There is no way this child will interfere with my social life. Children are portable. There are babysitters. We won't go out as much, but we will still go out and have our own lives.</b><br /><i>This one is tricky because for the first 3-4 months you are lulled into a false sense of security. The kid IS portable. They sleep all the time. You can go out to dinner and stick them in the car seat <strike>under the table</strike> on a chair next to you. Life is good and all those other parents just weren't trying hard enough.<br /><br />Until.<br /><br />The Schedule takes over the world.<br /><br />Someone needs to be at the house between the hours of 9AM-11AM, 1PM-3PM, 6PM-6AM. Those are The Bean's sleeping hours and LORD SAVE YOU if you make me miss a nap time. Overtired children don't just go to sleep. They scream at you for 5 hours first so you are clear about how tired they are.<br /><br />Yes. It is that dramatic.<br /><br />Mrs. D-Zo, get a babysitter and get your life back. <br /><br />*ahem*<br /><br />Let me break this down for you:<br /><br />A) We pay TEN<b>S</b> (as in multiple tens) of THOUSANDS of dollars a year for child care. Money exceptionally well spent as The Bean is with someone all day who is doing a better job than I would at raising my child. Do you know what is not included in this cost? Extra hours. Our cost-free social hours (see The Bean's waking hours above) are not particularly aligned with anyone else's. Going out costs an additional $15/hour; which might be reasonable except that...<br /><br />B) I haven't slept in 8 months. Not a single night all the way through. I'm so tired my hair is crying. Which leads me to...<br /><br />C) Things I have no interest in doing: Wearing something other than sweatpants, putting on makeup, going somewhere where there may be noise, having to say something intelligent, having to say anything, not sitting, and staying up past 9PM since...<br /><br />D) The Bean doesn't get memos on schedule changes and she has a tight morning of activities planned that just does not allow for wiggle room. There's waking up at 5AM and yelling until someone gets her a bottle and a new diaper. There's the hour-long discussion she has with her bottle millimeters from the monitor microphone. Then she has to fall asleep for 30 minutes - just enough time for the family to all fall back asleep - and then wake up ready to really start her day at 6:30.</i></li>
<li><b>I'll definitely blog, workout, clean, shower, have a career, walk the dogs, pick up tennis, get my hair dyed every 4 weeks, cook dinner, repaint the bathroom, plant a garden...</b><br /><i>See the response for point #5.</i></li>
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</div>Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-80813800578310084112012-02-20T12:08:00.000-05:002012-02-20T12:08:30.187-05:00A Party Favor Ribbed for Her PleasureLast week was a hellish one, so we will just move along as though it didn't happen. <div>
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We won't discuss how I gave my first client presentation in years and because of that it sounded more like I was auditioning for the role of the next auctioneer on Storage Wars and not informing people on the importance of being value-oriented.</div>
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We won't discuss how I became disillusioned and thought bringing The Bean to happy hour would be a perfectly fine, easy thing to do so I could catch up with friends I hadn't seen in WAY too long. It was neither happy nor an hour.</div>
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We won't discuss how we discovered The Bean is allergic to tomatoes.</div>
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We won't discuss any of these things because we have something way more important to discuss. </div>
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These things:</div>
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On Sunday we went to a birthday party for a(n?) one-year old and these were the party favors. </div>
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Ahem.</div>
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I tentatively pulled one out of the basket and looked across the room for Michael. I caught his eye and displayed the "magic wand" for him with my eyebrows cocked. The grin which spread across his face assured me I wasn't the only person in the room wondering if this favor wasn't better suited for a Vegas-themed bachelorette party.</div>
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But naturally, none of the other parents seemed alarmed that the hosts were handing out massive dildo-shaped items to children. And this was a fairly conservative crowd, so I had to inspect further.</div>
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Hmmmmmm...</div>
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Aha! A bubble wand. </div>
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Now any parent knows (and if you don't, you're welcome for the tip you're about to receive) that bubbles immediately make you a magician in your child's eyes. Blowing bubbles is usually good for at least 10 minutes of stunned silence, followed by 5 minutes of intense joy, quickly stopped by a bubble popping in your child's eye, followed by 2 minutes of screaming.</div>
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But those 15 minutes of quiet joy are totally worth it.</div>
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We got home from the party and Michael had to head into the office. So I broke out the bubble wand and got to work.</div>
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You guys.</div>
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This things blows about 300 bubbles at once. It's intense. If you don't have one, go buy one. Google "Bubble Wands" and be on your way to child sensory overload.</div>
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And that's how on Sunday evening the following sentence flew through space from my phone to my husband's: </div>
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"I just leveled up. The bubble dildo upgraded me from magician to sorcerer."</div>Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-58149915525610556872012-02-13T23:19:00.000-05:002012-02-13T23:19:35.148-05:00A Day in the NightBeing married is remarkably like spending time at sleep-away camp. Or so I imagine. I never actually went to sleep-away camp because that would require you to do *whisper*<i> number 2</i> in a toilet outside of your own house. And once you go there, you are one step removed from running around naked killing baby bunnies. <div>
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The first night I was bundled in my blanket burrito and Michael burrowed in and jutted his ice cold feet against my cozy warm legs, I had to restrain the urge to pull his eyeballs out through his bellybutton. Because I married him and I think that was in our vows somewhere.</div>
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He cackled like a little girl. And yet, he still lives.</div>
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Like many married couples, we're a study of contrasts - particularly when it comes to sleeping habits. I wrap myself in the blankets like it's my job and Michael is busy kicking his blankets off the bed. Michael likes to get his cuddle on and I prefer a 10-foot radius of "personal space" around my person at night.</div>
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This leads to bedroom war games that eventually end in actual truces. When is the last time you had to draw a physical truce with someone so you could get some sleep without fear of being tickled?</div>
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But it's not all kid games. Like many adults (I imagine), we have intense conversations which keep us up far past our bedtime. </div>
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This last weekend, Michael opened up a most intriguing topic which I will now share with you.</div>
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<b>Michael: </b>So, we used to play this game where you take a movie title and replace one word with the word 'sphincter.' OK, go.</div>
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<b>Mrs. D-Zo:</b> ...uh...(I hadn't yet put on my 15-year old boy hat, so I had no idea what he was talking about.)</div>
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<b>Michael:</b> A Sphincter Runs Through It; The Good, The Bad, The Sphincter</div>
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<b>Mrs. D-Zo: </b>My Big, Fat, Greek Sphincter</div>
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<i>An hour zips by as we play the game. I am in competitive overdrive. I simply must win the best substitution of sphincter ever. My life, and more importantly, measure of intelligence depends on this.</i></div>
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<b>Michael:</b> The Sphincter Josey Wales</div>
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<b>Mrs. D-Zo:</b> The Great Sphincter Caper</div>
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<i>Another hour gone to the sphincter brainstorming session.</i></div>
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<b>Mrs. D-Zo:</b> The Sphincter Strikes Back</div>
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<b>Michael:</b> White Sphincters Can't Jump</div>
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<b>Mrs. D-Zo:</b> Hah! Good one. OK, we have to stop. We will be up all night doing this. You know I won't be able to stop.</div>
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<b>Michael:</b> Yeah. You're right. OK, goodnight.</div>
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<b>Mrs. D-Zo:</b> Honey, I Shrunk the Sphincters</div>
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<b>Michael:</b> Raiders of the Lost Sphincter</div>
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<b>Mrs. D-Zo:</b> Cat on a Hot Tin Sphincter</div>
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<b>Michael:</b> The Quiet Sphincter</div>
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<b>Mrs. D-Zo:</b> Oh my God, we have to stop. I already won't sleep because I'm going to have to beat The Quiet Sphincter now. I'll fall asleep, but will probably jolt awake at 4 AM yelling, "But babe...what about Sense and Sphincterability????"</div>
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And there really is no point to this post, except I hope you're up all night playing the sphincter-movie game in your head.</div>Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-27969886397495548932012-02-09T08:14:00.000-05:002012-02-09T08:14:33.678-05:00A Sad Text Conversation (For Me. For You, It's Funny.)<b>Mrs Dzo:</b> Things that are embarrassing: Having a 9-month pregnant woman be in better shape than you.<br />
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<b>Michael: </b>Hah.<br />
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<b>Mrs Dzo: </b>I could barely keep up with her.<br />
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<b>Michael:</b> To be fair, she is in better shape than anyone. But it puts things in perspective. It's like when my brother and Deets (his doberman) got beat by a girl and her dachshund in that half marathon.<br />
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<b>Mrs Dzo:</b> At least she gives me something to aspire to...? I mean, gosh, if only I could be as fit as a pregnant woman.<br />
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<b>Michael:</b> You should probably be thinking in fractions. Try aiming for half as fit as her.<br />
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<b>Mrs Dzo:</b> Depressing. But I survived the <i>WHOPPING </i>2 miles. Though I was holding The Bean for half of it. She decided to have a hissy fit and wanted nothing to do with being in the stroller. Probably because she was ashamed of me.<br />
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<b>Michael:</b> I'm sure that was awesome.<br />
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<b>Mrs Dzo: </b>Well, it was sort of like being in boot camp and carrying a sack with you while you work out. Except my sack was hollering at me.Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-63003837484105000732012-02-07T22:58:00.003-05:002012-02-07T22:58:54.580-05:00Much Like Being God, But I Need a Video Camera and a MemoryWhen Michael and I bought our house, we knew we wanted to replace the soaking tub in the master bath with a jetted tub. Because hot water being forcefully sprayed all over your body while the room noisily shakes is relaxing.<br />
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The day the install was finished I found out I was pregnant and was petrified I would cook my baby by sitting in a tub. So I immediately didn't use the tub for 10 months. And now that I'm a mother, all my free time is spent...hahahaha...I can't even come up with anything plausible. Free time. God, that's funny.<br />
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But tonight I was determined to take a hot bath. Mainly because I also decided tonight I would start working out again and I was hoping the bath would help alleviate the inevitable pain from finally using my muscles for something other than lifting cheese to my mouth.<br />
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I was all set up. Bubbles, glass of ice water, crossword puzzle, iPhone and the baby monitor.<br />
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I slipped into the bath and, naturally, the noise sensor on the monitor immediately flew into the red zone. I hit the button to turn on the video so I could ensure The Bean wasn't base jumping out of her crib or being eaten by a herd of disgruntled turtles.<br />
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It was far worse.<br />
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The binky had fallen out of her mouth - and she couldn't find it.<br />
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The Bean has been really good about putting the binky back in her mouth. It was part of sleep training. If she wanted the binky, she needed to learn how to use it herself because I wasn't about to be her binky-putting-in-the-mouth bitch.<br />
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But tonight the binky was eluding her.<br />
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<br />
It was like watching a horror movie and rooting on the main character, "Oh my God, the gun is right there. It's right under the table. If you just bend down, you'll see it and can kill the psychotic maniac who wants to eat your earlobes...OH NO! ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS BEND DOWN."<br />
<br />
But much like the earlobe-less heroine, The Bean could not hear my urging and she was getting desperate.<br />
<br />
I reluctantly got out of my bath, donned some slippers and a robe and, like the hand of God, retrieved the binky from its hiding place and placed it in her mouth.<br />
<br />
She immediately fell asleep.<br />
<br />
I headed back to the bath, but remembered I needed to get the trash cans off the curb lest my neighbors start talking because you know how much people care about that sort of thing. So out I went to get those puppies before photos of my house and trashcans showed up on the internet.<br />
<br />
Then I remembered I needed to get The Bean's diapers in the washing machine, then there were the bottles that needed cleaning and then...<br />
<br />
I forgot I had been taking a bath until about a hour later and wondered why exactly I was in a robe and not my pajamas.<br />
<br />
Free time fail.Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8998521322587667689.post-30476044080587946772012-02-02T21:54:00.000-05:002012-02-02T21:54:40.479-05:00Stepford, This is NotIt occurred to me this evening that I am not, in fact, a superhuman. That was disappointing, but I moved on. <br />
<br />
For the past week I've been a royal bitch. Like a "they forgot I don't eat brown M&M's, and it says it right in my rider" diva kind of bitch. For example, Michael came home from work one night and apparently was looking for me to be civil to him. Instead when I started telling a story and he walked into the other room to take his coat off, I decided I wouldn't talk to him for the rest of the night.<br />
<br />
Because...well, I actually didn't have a reason other than HE.SO.DESERVED.THAT. after the way he treated me.<br />
<br />
On Tuesday he had to work late which set me off because I thought I might cook dinner even though I haven't in about 7 months and 15 days and even though there was nothing in the house to actually cook, he managed to ruin dinner. A dinner that didn't exist.<br />
<br />
And yesterday he was breathing. Obnoxious.<br />
<br />
I think it's safe to say, adjusting back to my pre-pregnancy hormone levels has been a little more difficult than I would have liked and I'm really glad I'm back to plain ol' super strength birth control pills come Sunday. We need some hormone control up in this house.<br />
<br />
However, when Michael came home tonight I was in a stellar mood. No, an actual good mood. I "cooked" us dinner (read: made sandwiches), we watched some TV and I didn't think a murderous thought the whole time.<br />
<br />
Because by 6:15 this evening, The Bean, who is on her fifth straight night of sleeping in her crib for the WHOLE NIGHT THANK YOU BABY JESUS, had taken her bottle out of her mouth, placed the binky in her mouth and put.herself.to.sleep.<br />
<br />
And with the remaining 15 minutes of daylight, I went outside to clean up 2 months worth of dog turds from my backyard.<br />
<br />
And apparently, these are the things that make me happy now.Mrs. D-Zohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15355261557325620522noreply@blogger.com2