Is it a prerequisite to have at least one hot fireman in your firehouse? Do they actually screen for hotness when looking for new recruits? Sure, there are the not-so-hot firemen, but every firehouse I have come across has at least one drop-dead-gorgeous firefighter in it.
Today, for example, at the $.31 scoop at Baskin Robbins a few firefighters showed up with the truck so the kids could play. Even the ugly one was cute. And the hot one made me want to punch myself in the face so I could get CPR from him.
I posted a couple of autotunes a while back featuring the scientific philosophies of "the greats" set to music. You can find them here: We Are All Connected and A Glorious Dawn.
Turns out there is a whole website, called the Symphony of Science, dedicated to making these wonderful pieces. They are breathtaking, humbling, moving, and most of all beautiful. Here are another three that I've fallen in love with.
*side note: Look for my sexy astrophysicist boyfriend Neil DeGrasse Tyson. *sigh, he is so dreamy* The Poetry of Reality
I don't think anyone but a stay-at-home mom can relate to the beauty of that concept. We are with our children 24/7, from morning to night, day in and day out, 365 days a year, holidays, weekends, and leap years. They're with us when we shower. They're with us when we shave. They're with us when we go to the bathroom.
Yes, even when we go to the bathroom. There's no use in closing the door because you will have a very curious 3 1/2 year old banging on the door saying, "Mommy are you going poopy in there?" or "Mommy, what is that smell?", or "Mommy can I see your poopy? Does it look like a Transformer?". I'm not kidding here. Guys, you have such a luxury of sitting in the bathroom, with a magazine or your thoughts, with no pressure in "finishing up". How I long for the day I can go to the bathroom and "meditate".
So imagine my utter joy and excitement when I awoke this morning knowing I was going to order, I mean, ask my darling husband to take Dante to basketball at the YMCA so I could get some grocery shopping done. My husband, gotta love him, has no concept of how much "alone" time I lack and thinks that my once-a-month Book Club is sufficient, and usually when I tell him that I am going grocery shopping, he looks at me with his puppy-dog green eyes and says, "Family Outing? Can we all go?" and we usually end up trekking en masse to Publix to grocery shop.
*big sigh*
It's tough to grocery shop with children. It's impossible to grocery shop with children AND husband. Seriously, you may think you are organized with coupons, a list, a map of the store so you know what goes where and which aisle has what, and every sale flyer available from the Sunday paper. But no, you're only fooling yourself. When you are with your husband and children, you will stray from the list, find yourself in aisles you have never visited getting an earful from BOTH sides of "please can we get this? pllleeeaaaasssseeee?" or "hey, we need this gigantic bag of cheese puffs/toy cars/pepperoni slices/chocolate pretzels/$8.49 a pound prosciutto/maraschino cherries/olives".
So, moms, bask in my glory as I shipped off "the kids" to the YMCA this morning and I sat down, alone, on my couch, eating last night's Chinese food, and took my sweet ass time to get ready to be Alone in the Grocery Store. I got dressed, got into my car, put on MY music, and drove to Publix all the while screaming/singing Duran Duran's "New Moon on Monday".
And then I got there. I could almost hear the heavenly operatic songs of the highest cherubim singing "Hallelujah" as the sliding doors opened as I was blasted with that oh-so-familiar smell of Deli/Fish/Baked Bread and cleaning products mixed in with stale flowers and bleach. I had my list! I had my coupons! I began my mission.
For almost four years now, Dante and I have been a team. With the long hours that Randy works and goes to school, Dante and I have been a duo since jump street. When he was a baby, the bond was there but it wasn't as strong as is it now. He couldn't talk, walk, and was just a sleeping, feeding, pooping machine. As the years went on, and he grew and developed, we became "Two" and our bond definitely became stronger and solid. He's not only my son, he's also my partner in crime, my partner in adventures, and the person I spend 98% of my time with on a daily basis. We have conversations about anything and everything, we talk about monsters or dogs or feelings or space, we read together, sit on the couch and do puzzles, go for walks, swim, play, snuggle and fall asleep. Anything and everything, it is always just the two of us.
With the impending arrival of the new baby, my biggest fear is that my relationship with Dante is going to change. I am so worried that this "partnership" that he and I have developed is going to suffer. I know that it's not longer going to be "just the two of us" and it makes me very sad. No, I am not going to hate the new baby or resent it, I just know that the second this baby is born, my relationship with Dante will change forever.
And it breaks my heart.
Are we still going to have our chats? How can we, when I have to get up to nurse or focus my attention on the baby? Are we still going to have our special adventures into the Secret Place? I don't know. Are we ever going to get alone time to have our "dates" at Starbucks? Is he going to drift away from me as he sees me focusing more attention on the new arrival than him?
These are questions that plague me. I remember when I was pregnant with Dante, Randy and I would talk about that we would not longer be "two" and that our world would be "three" from then on. I couldn't fathom it. How was I going to share my affection and time with both? Of course, my feelings for my husband differ greatly than those for my son, but how is it going to be for another child? Is it different? Do you love one more that the other?
How do I not lose this incredible relationship I have with Dante? (Knowing that by the time he's a teenager I'll embarass him just by walking into a room).
I have reached that stage in pregnancy where I have begun to resemble the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. No, I am not 80 feet tall and lumbering through New York City trying to eat the Ghostbusters (although I think Bill Murray would be a bit salty), no I am talking about being so puffy, that my shoes no longer fit, my face looks like I was stung by ten thousand bees, and my hands are so swollen that I can't wear my rings anymore.
It's great! I love it! Can you sense the sarcasm? So now, not only I do have the stupidest haircut in the world, I now can't fit into my clothes, wear my rings, and lumber about looking like something out of Lord of the Rings. They had to create a whole new character called "The Fatness", and what it does is waddle about Middle Earth eating everything in sight, sitting down every ten minutes, and peeing every five. Yes, The Fatness is incredibly frightening, especially if you catch it without its clothes on.
Seriously, I feel like my body is no longer my own and I'm sort of "inhabiting" this big fleshy mass of boobs, butt, arms and legs. I feel like that woman who was on a mission of reaching her "goal" weight of 1000 pounds.
I think I may go audition for the role of "Thunder" in the remake of Big Trouble in Little China. I can swell myself up like that WITHOUT the use of special effects.
I have begun to Nest. But, of course, true to form, I'm not nesting the way everyone else nests. As Frank Sinatra once said, "I did it my way", and that holds true to almost everything I do. In this case, I think I have invented an whole new way to Nest: The Italian Way.
For those of you who don't know what the term "nesting" means, it tends to refer to a time when pregnant women begin puttering about the house arranging their "nest" for the new arrival. Whether it be folding, rearranging, refolding, re-rearranging, and folding once again the baby clothes, going on a cleaning binge (ha, that would never be me), rearranging the baby's room, and everything else involved with creating a "nest", that is what "nesting" means. Pretty obvious when you think about it.
I actually underwent the traditional Nesting process when I was pregnant with Dante and blogged about it, but this time around, my Nesting techniques have completely changed. Instead of puttering about the house folding, ironing, and rearranging, I have taken to the kitchen and begun cooking gourmet meals every night.
See, it all started the other day when I rearranged (nesting!) my recipe box. I went through all of my recipes, from Pastas and Sauces all the way to Baked Goods and Sweets and reviewed, removed, and refiled everything. I even added new recipes to the box and created new little category dividers. Thanks to Martha Stewart and her little Everyday Food magazine, I have tons of quick, easy, and delicious recipes to choose from that don't require having strange ingredients in my pantry.
So, for the past week or so, Dante and I (poor Randy is at school, but he gets the leftovers for lunch the next day) have been come quite the epicurians. Last night I made Chicken Breasts in a White Wine Herbed Butter reduction and a spinach cheddar souffle. The night before, Balsamic Glazed Pork Tenderloins, a Baked Potato Gratin, and roasted vegetables. The list goes on and on. Who knows what I am going to make tonight?
Don't get me wrong, I cook almost every night, and I'm quite handy in the kitchen, but I usually wing it or make up my own dishes and just be happy with that. But in this last phase of pregnancy, my nesting has shown itself to be cooking. Now sadly, I did not inherit my grandmother's affinity for baking, although certain friends whom I've made pies and cakes for may disagree, but my sweet tooth is virtually non-existent so I have no desire to venture into the Baked Goods and Sweets part of my recipe box, unless I'm looking for a fabulous Rosemary Encrusted Pizza Dough or my mother's famous recipe for Funnel Cakes (also known as Orgasm on a Plate).
No, my cravings and food loves are strictly made up of cream sauces, marsala reductions, parmesan encrusted this, panko coated that, seared this, and sauteed that, and potatoes, potatoes, potatoes. At my next OB appointment, I have to take a glucose test which requires that I eat no sweets at least 12 hours before. For some people, pregnant or not, that would be tough. For me? As long as Fettucine Alfredo with Shrimp and Calamari is not considered a "sweet", I'll be just fine.
So I've become the stereotypical "Italian" mother in the kitchen. Complete with saggy boobs, a wooden spoon, and a constant garlic smell that sticks to me. I even have a mole on my face that sprouts hair and a slight mustache! I just need the apron and I'm all set!
Because my son is less interested in "kiddie shows" and likes to watch more "teen-agery" type stuff, the programs he watches (Mystery Hunters, Truth or Scare, Tutenstein, and Time Warp Trio) are all on a channel which breaks for commercials.
Bad idea Discovery Kids Network. Baaaad idea.
Now, every commercial that comes on, be it Nerf Super Punch in the Face Laser Gun to Skechers Overprices Shoes That Light Up and Fall Apart in a Week, Dante has to say to me, "Mommy, I want that!!!". Seriously, there was a commercial for Credit Solutions and Tax Breaks, and I hear him screaming from the room, "Mommy, I want a tax break!!!" Don't we all kiddo, Don't we all.
My solution to this "problem" has been to say, "Ok well you will have to ask Santa Claus" in hopes that by Xmas he will have completely forgotten about Transformers Bug Robots That Even Daddy Can't Put Together or Paperoni The Pointless Craft Invented by an Idiot.
But I am worried that this will backfire on me at some point as Xmas approaches because a whole new batch of commercials will pop up that WON'T leave his brain and I may have to fulfill some of these promises.
So far, though, the only consistent toy he keeps asking about is a "double side light saver" (translation: double edged light saber). Ahhhh, I can already see that The Force is strong in this one.
If you know me personally, or have been reading my blog, you know that I am that annoying pregnant woman who is constantly espousing the joys of pregnancy and how everything is wonderful and great when you're pregnant, even when you're barfing your brains out or feeling like Jabba the Hutt's cousin, or pulling groin muscles looking at an ant. Yes, that's me the "I Love Being Pregnant" girl who you want to punch in the face on a daily basis.
Well, I have news for you.
In the famous words of Emily Litella (ancient Saturday Night Live reference, that only a handful od people may get):
Yes, I said it. Or rather Gilda Radner said it for me above. "Nevermind".
Nevermind being all happy happy joy joy with this pregnancy right now because frankly, it's making me a nervous wreck. When I was pregnant with Dante, I had no clue what I was supposed to be doing, feeling, thinking, etc. and I had the luxury of being able to lie down, take a nap, rest, take it easy whenever I wanted. I had no idea what to expect other than the beauty of being big and fat and having a good reason to be.
This time around it's different. I am constantly aware of how much weight I am gaining, constantly trying to keep my cravings in check, constantly chasing after a 3.5 year old who, despite me thinking he has, is not really adjusting well to the idea of a "new baby". Between peeing his pants, to tantrums, to screaming, to turning into Godzilla from one second to the next, my praise for my so well adjusted kid may have been premature. On top of all of this, I have an absent husband (not because he's horrible but because he works and goes to school) who is gone from six in the morning until midnight Monday through Thursday, so my house looks like a shithole because I have been lax in my "housecleaning" duties because, well, I AM EXHAUSTED and honestly, because the LAST thing I want to be doing at almost-six-months pregnant is mopping the floors, dusting, and cleaning bathtubs.
The worst part of this pregnancy is me, though. I am seriously a nervous wreck. I was in the hospital last Saturday because I tore a groin muscle picking up my fast asleep 40 pound child (who feel asleep on top of my ass...seriously, I'm that soft). When I couldn't walk and was in pain, did I think I pulled a muscle? Did the first thought that entered my brain involve a strain or a muscle? No. You know what I, the genius, was thinking? I'm having a miscarriage! I swear, reason and logic go RIGHT OUT the window when you're pregnant.....and me.
But it gets better. What does my paranoid, overly nervous, worried, stressed, not-at-all relaxing ass do last night? I stuff my face with chocolate, sugar, Orange Juice, 3 glasses of cold water and lie on my left side for 3 hours because I haven't felt Mr. Bean move all day. Does the thought that he is sleeping cross my mind? Does the notion that he is extremely small still and I may not feel every movement come into play? Does the idea that I'm just overreacting grace the skies?
No. No. and No. I call my mom and go to the Emergency Room at 10 o'clock at night all the while thinking I have a dead baby inside me.
I swear. Where did this tough-I-can-handle-everything girl go? Where is she because she sure isn't here. Maybe she's somewhere hidden underneath these pregnant layers. I have no clue and no amount of "relax" or "stop stressing" seems to be helping.
Don't get me wrong, I still really love being pregnant, but I hope that someday in the future an invention will come along that will allow expectant (neurotic) mothers to have a little window into their uterus so they can check in everyday and make sure everything is going smoothly. It's all about control issues and in this case, I have no control, and I pretty much think that sucks.
On a side note: Mr. Bean began kicking and moving last night at the hospital the instant a monitor was put on him. I think I may have hear a "nyah nyah nyah you can't catch me" at some point. He has also proceeded to kick me throughout the evening and is presently kicking me so hard that I almost peed on my chair here.
Now can someone please punch me in the face and bring me back to my senses?
