Annie Valentine

Well, it’s Monday and according the the internet the world did not end last week. I’m sure this is highly disappointing for some believers; I would hate to be one of those people who had put my entire wad of faith in that basket.

The whole world ending bit has me thinking of the Mayan calendar and how it ends in 2012. Has anyone stopped to think that maybe it ends because they ran out of space? Or maybe the crazy Mayan who was working on it finally up and died and no one was interested in finishing what appeared to be a pointless project?

And speaking of pointless projects, let’s talk about my house. I will be living in my house for 13 more days before we head out to spend June up in Washington. The day we get back the packers start boxing it up.

Someone, quick, give me a reason to clean because I can’t seem to find one.

Housework is like wood stacking. You stack an entire pile of wood, go to bed, and while you’re sleeping the wicked little trolls throw the wood all back into a pile so when you wake up you can stack it again. Every. Stupid. Day. Now throw on top of that the fact that you know in 13 days you’re going to have a bon fire and torch the pile, so why waste time stacking it?

The baby is screaming and while I would like to take time to discuss other important topics like bleach stains and homemade baby food, I must attend. Later gator.

It’s  May, school is out in three weeks, and my child is getting an “A” in “How to be sick and stay home from school.”

It all started two weeks ago when he got the spring flu. It was one of those colds where he was too sick to go to school and hack all over everyone, but too healthy to stay home and not pester me (also too healthy to warrant any real sympathy).

“Harrison,” I said, “You’ve missed two days this week and today you are going to school!” It was a Thursday which meant I had the honor of volunteering in his classroom.

“Achoo! Cough cough hack hack Oops-there-goes-a-lung!” he said.

“No, you can stay home for an hour until your cough medicine kicks in, but then it’s back to school with you.” He had been well enough sit around and play video games, run errands, ask me to buy him a toy at McDonald’s, and back talk.

“Fine,” he said, coughing his way  back to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

We made it to his classroom and I started in on the day’s activity. Harry quickly forgot about his cold and proceeded to joke and play with his buddies.

He also coughed, sneezed, and wiped his nose all over his sleevesThere were three other mothers volunteering with me and I could practically feel their germ radars zeroing in on my walking petri dish.

At the end of the hour I couldn’t deny it; he had to come home.

“Harry,” I said, “Grab your sweat shirt, you’re coming home with me.”

“YES!” he did a fist pump jump and skipped to his cubby. Poor little invalid.

We made it through the weekend and his cold finally trickled down to a casual runny nose and the occasional sneeze. On Monday morning I was all business.

“Harry! You’re going to school today, so hurry it up!”

“What?” he asked, coming from his room. “My stomach hurts so bad! I think I’m going to throw up, you should NOT send me to school.”

“Really?” I said, “Well by all means, feel free to throw up any time you want. For the record, that is the only way you’re staying home this morning.” I watched him walk away, shoulders slumped and hand on his poor little tummy.

He had been at school just long enough to finish first recess when my phone rang. “Mom?” came the weakened voice on the other end of the line, “I’m so sick, I think I’m going to throw up!”

“Harrison–”

“Just come and get me! I’m really sick, I’m not faking it!”

I hung up the phone and slowly loaded my three little kids into the car.

As I walked toward his classroom I decided to give it one last shot.

“Hi Mom,” he said with a pitiful moan.

“Hello son,” I said, “Before you sign out, I  need to tell you something. If you choose to come home right now, you will go straight to your bed. You will have nothing but water and plain bread for the rest of the day and you will not leave your room. In the event of a sudden recovery, you will spend the rest of the day cleaning the bathrooms, all three of them, and then the garage. There will be no television, no video games, and no computer.”

His mouth flew open. “What?!” he said.

“Are you sure you’re sick?” I asked. He looked back over his shoulder at the friends sitting quietly, listening to his teacher read a book aloud.

“You know,” he said with absolutely no shame whatsoever, “I think I’m actually feeling much better. See you after school!” With a little wave, he was off.

The Summer flu sure has a quick recovery period.

Last night I had lithotrypsy. In case you are wondering, this is a surgical procedure where they blast the “&%* out of your  kidney stone in an attempt to obliterate it. Mine was big, but they think they got her good.

Today I wanted to die.

Even without any cutting, I feel like I’ve been through major surgery. I spent all day long flat on my back, begging for help just use the potty. And of course, using the potty made me nauseous so I would then need help barfing. So sexy.

My husband doesn’t do sick, by the way.

Around three, he came in with that,”Time to get over it!” look on his face we recovering surgical victims hate.

“Honey,” he said in his best all knowing I-spent-one-summer-as-an-emt voice, “Let’s get you up and walking. That’s just what you need to feel better. Come on now, out to the television!”

I moaned and groaned and draped my nauseated self over his shoulders as he slowly plodded us out to the kitchen.

“I’m feeling better,” I said fakingly, “This is just what I needed.” I then proceeded to eat ten saltine crackers, because we all know saltines settle your stomach.

Fifteen minutes later, much to his total dismay, I was once again on my bed regurgitating the ten previously mentioned saltines with more zest than I’d like to remember.

And for the record, you  know a girl is sick when she can’t even lift her Kindle to read. Yeah, it was one of those days.

The good news is that tonight I’m walking and writing and making really lame kidney related jokes (that no one gets or laughs at). I’m sure tomorrow I’ll be back to my chipper, less vomity self.

We can only hope.

Yesterday my boy waded into the waters of salvation and came out sparkling clean.

It lasted 37 minutes.

Let me just say, Harrison was way more ready for baptism than I ever was. He actually prayed on Friday night that he would have joy and happiness when he received the Holy Ghost. I’m pretty sure that if I prayed at all, it was something like, “Please don’t let me drown or get water in my nose.”

So after the baptism Harry’s primary teacher gave him this awesome mini poster board. She’d written a little paragraph and taped a few candy bars onto it for key word emphasis (Symphony, Extra gum, Starburst, etc.). This is because children will read anything Hershey puts on the outside of a chocolate bar. If I ever run for office I will first invent some chocolate peanut butter madness and call it the Votannie Dream. And yes, I’m available for all your wedding planning and campaign needs.

“Harrison,” I said as we left, “We’re going to Chuck-A-Rama and you are NOT allowed to touch that candy until after, understand?” He looked up at me with those beautiful sinless green eyes and nodded. Then he climbed into the back of the Sequoia without a single complaint. Such a little saint.

With 14 people and two cars, we played a quick game of “Shove Your Granny in the Trunk.” Rexy was last to be placed, and I opened the back hatch to toss him in by Harrison.

And there sat my little sinner, covered in chocolate and surrounded by 13 Starburst wrappers.

Today he is taking the sacrament. Apparently he needs it.

“Honey?” My husband said the other night, “There’s a cat in the house.”

This probably wouldn’t have come as such a shock if we actually owned a cat. I looked around the corner and sure enough, there sat a pretty little gray and white kitty, perched quietly by the front door.

Holy feline, where did that thing come from?

Before I could blink, our five-year-old (who had been in bed for two solid hours) rushed out of his room, took one look at the kitty and exclaimed, “Rucifer! What are you doing here?”

(In case you haven’t seen Disney’s version of Cinderella lately, “Rucifer” is what the mice call “Lucifer,” the evil cat. Nice, I know.)

The little kitty was so starved it could hardly manage a meow. I cracked open a can of something, fed and watered it, and in no time he was purring and loving on us like one of our own children.

We’ve never owned a cat before. At one point we had a beautiful black half Standard Poodle, half Golden Retriever (affectionately called a Goldendoodle), but when our wonderful dog was barely a year he was hit by a car and killed. It was devastating. We cried like babies and vowed to never, ever love an animal again (until the kids were older and we lived on a different street).

By midnight the cat thought he was a permanent resident. We almost kept him inside, but what if he belonged to someone? Besides, we don’t need a pet right now. We’re moving half way around the world, an animal will only complicate things. We decided if he was still there in the morning, we’d reevaluate.

He wasn’t.

Thanks to my loud little five-year-old, my children sat by the window off and on the next day, talking about Our Cat. They discussed names, fought over his sleeping arrangements, and waited. And waited and waited and waited.

It was a school night and I finally had to put them to bed. I made one more pass by the front window, just in case, and what do you think I saw sitting in the courtyard? Oh yeah, the cat came back.

For two days I fed him at night, and turned him out in the morning. I checked the ads, asked the neighbors, but no one was missing a little gray and white kitty. Finally I did the only thing I could think of: I called the Animal Master of the Universe, my friend, Caroline Clark.

“Caroline,” I said, “this cat keeps coming around and I have no idea what to do with him.” I ran through the details and waited for instructions.

“Oh, the sweet little kitty, take him into the vet for tests, make sure he doesn’t have an owner’s chip, and if he looks okay, bring him out here and I’ll fix up his coat.”

A pet? Now? All I could think of was the plane ride overseas–four kids and a cat. Circus material.

The next morning I drove to the Heartsong clinic in Clearfield (they handle basic vaccinations and “fixings” for a great price). The receptionist took one look at our little kitty and yelled for their cat expert.

“Hey,” she said, “Look at his ears!” The tech took a look and asked, “Where did you get him?”

I told her the story and she smiled. “Looks like you won the cat lottery, this little guy is worth at least $600, you could probably get $800.” She left me, mouth ajar, and took him back for testing.

When they emerged again, she asked, “Are you sure you want him? He’s a sweetheart, if his test come out clean our vet would really like to keep him.”

“I really don’t know,” I said. I took the kitty from her and sat down to wait for his test results. Maybe giving him to someone more stable would be best. I couldn’t bear the thought of our family getting attached and then losing him.

As I sat there thinking about handing him off, the door bell rang and in walked a dog. Not just any dog, my dog. The dog we had loved and lost. A big black goldendoodle.

And my cat sat there happily, relaxed as a blanket and purring like a vacuum.

Holy kitty litter, it was a sign.

In that moment I knew it was time to love a pet again. Yes, sometimes it’s a gamble, and sometimes they leave us too soon, but that kitty on my lap needed us.

My mother always says that the right pet will find you when you need it most. Rucifer, I hope you know what you’re in for because you’ve got us now.

It’s true, I have vanity issues. We all know I am happy to obsessed about my weight and my shoe collection, but there are other things that I don’t care about. Take cars for instance.

I found this photo on the internet and IT'S MY OLD CAR! How crazy is that?

In college I drove the World’s Ugliest Car, a cat poop brown 1987 Celebrity Chevy. We called it the couch because it was so comfortable. Sure I would have liked a Jetta, but my car was free and got decent gas mileage. Also it had no miles (the old lady who bought it let it rot in her garage for ten years before it fell into my desperate little hands).

We drove that car the first four years of our marriage. Then when Rexy came along it was time to get something that had working blinkers and doors that locked (I didn’t say the car was perfect, just ugly).

And that’s when we bought our Taurus station wagon. Coolest. Car. Ever.

Honestly, in hind sight I realize we had reverse pride. We weren’t prideful about our beautiful trendy car, we were prideful about the fact that we didn’t own a beautiful trendy car. Humble, right?

But then. Then June and Utah winters came along, and what do you think we landed with? Our Sequoia. Silver, posh, addicted to gasoline…what a car. We’ve driven that baby for over three years and I’ve mostly loved it. I do not love having to get out and walk around China to buckle June into the backseat when she’s naughty. I do not love hoisting the baby carrier into the back. But for the most part, it drives like a dream.

Drove. Past tense. That’s right, it’s gone.

The last ride. We didn't let the kids inside because it cost a cool $100 to have it detailed.

And today I’m sitting by the phone, waiting with baited breath for news of our newest family member. That’s right, we’re getting a Mazda 5.

Yes, it really is this much smaller than the Sequoia.

It’s not a minivan, it’s a microvan. Seating for six with a super simple inside.

We went with the Mazda for a number of reasons. First, I’m pretty sure Sequoia’s are illegal in Europe since they can’t fit in most of the parking spaces. Second, this baby gets nearly 30 mpg which is amazing. I used to cost us a cool $80 to fill up the Sequoia so I could drive car pool twice a week.

Consumer reports gives it a hefty 95% which is about as high as you can get, and just when I thought it couldn’t get any better than that, they featured it on The Biggest Loser this week. That’s right, skinny people drive this car.

In the end I’m going to  love this affordable little guy, but I’d be a lying turkey if I didn’t admit that I’ll miss my ritzy toyota. Man she was a beaut.

No, this post is not about fowl.

Also I should warn you that my breasts might explode at any given moment, so don’t get too close. (I’ve told my husband this repeatedly, he still doesn’t quite get it).

So the whole weaning Georgia bit sounded way better before I went 24 hours without nursing her. At first, it was mild discomfort. This was closely followed by cold sweats and milk glands so ripe for the nursing you could bounce a quarter off them.

I made it through the second night with the help of two painful showers, one drowning nightmare, and a baby who slept peacefully until dawn.

Georgia, on the other hand, is doing swell. The first day she cried the first three times I went to give her a bottle, but took them anyway. Since that time she couldn’t care less where her nourishment comes from; I might as well be hired help demoted to diaper duty and bib removal.

Finally, after letting numerous girlfriends feel me up (seriously, they were so hard I felt like a walking carton of liquid laundry detergent), I took an ace bandage to them in an effort to contain the madness.

Yesterday was day three, and by five in the evening I was one milk gland and 26 seconds away from mastitis. We were having an early birthday party for Harrison at the park, and seeing that I’ve never done the whole bottle thing, it won’t surprise you to hear that I completely spaced bringing the formula.

The baby was crying, I was sweating, the party was swinging, and just when I thought I might go bananas, it dawned on me: I could solve both our problems by simply nursing the baby.

So I did.

In ten minutes flat she emptied me out on both sides. I cinched those girls back into their bindings, recommitted myself to the bottle, and this morning I woke up for the first time in two days and didn’t bump my chin on my engorged shelving.

Saints be praised, I think we’re gonna make it.

And Happy Mother’s Day!!

This is the day my baby and my tata’s part ways.

It happened much faster than I anticipated, she’s only 8 months and I’ve always nursed at least ten. I love nursing this baby. She’s sweet, she loves me, she wants to be close and cuddly and will snack as long as I’ll let her get away with it. But there are some things that even all her cuteness cannot trump (and no, I’m not referring to her jealous father): teeth. Three. New. Teeth. Yesterday.

For the record, we’ve had a number of false alarms, where I thought her teeth were through/almost through/moments away from appearing through. But the actual gum breakage? Yesterday.

Oh holy tiger cub, I cannot do this.

I know what you’re thinking, women all over the world have nursed tooth encrusted babies for centuries. But what you don’t know is the result of that nursing. I am convinced that if you looked under their shirts you would find those poor women are forever maimed and scarred and partially traumatized for the rest of their lives. (Husbands hate traumatized wives, BTW.)

Exhibit A is going to be literal since I’m pretty sure the internet couldn’t handle a photo. My daughter broke two bottom teeth about three weeks ago. Shortly after, she broke me (please do not make me explain this). For two weeks I’ve been nursing her while simultaneously trying desperately to make my girls heal between feedings.

I’ve tried bag balm, A&D, Boobie ointment, Lansinoh, Neosporin, Liquid Band-Aid, rubber cement–there is no help. She nurses four times a day, but battle wounds need more than a few hours if there is any hope of recovery. And forget the nipple shield this time around, it’s the most miserable messy thing ever. I will not change my clothes four times a day because of flooding.

Yesterday was particularly brutal. I couldn’t figure out why until I looked in her mouth and saw those three glaring white spots on top. And let me tell you, there’s no tongue to shield me from those little blades.

It’s incredible how quickly our feelings about a baby can change from “I wuv you,” to “OH MY GOSH GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME.”

I know we’re supposed to love and treasure our last mothering moments. I wish I could hold her in my arms, look down in her dimply little face, and cry about our last feeding. But I guess if I felt that way I wouldn’t be ready to wean her.

You know you’re ready for the next phase when you feel hopeful about the potty chair. Or when they draw blood.

For future reference, when sisters fail, Peanut M&M’s never let you down.

“I had a day last week. It was a “something’s wrong” day, and it took me about five hours to figure out what the problem was, and five seconds to realize there was not much I could do about it.

In retrospect, the day started right around midnight when my daughter rolled over (Daddy’s gone and she begged to come snuggle), cuddled up, and flat out wet the bed.

My bed.

Good morning, Vietnam.

The day progressed and I began to get that post-Thanksgiving too-tight-of-pants sensation, but it was affecting my aura instead of my zipper (actually, my zipper wasn’t feeling so great either). During the first few hours of the morning, I spoke with lively intent (yelled), walked with purpose around the house (stomped), and basically squinted my eyes and showed teeth when anyone came within four feet of me.

At one point I actually spent thirty minutes scurrying around putting Stuff Left Out away, trying to scratch that obnoxious unsettling itch. When the house hit 75% clean, I knew wiping the counters off one more time wasn’t going to make me feel better.

I turned on the television, but Law and Order was a rerun and Rachel Ray was annoying.

I checked my email, but no one types anything that matters anymore.

Finally, after wasting an entire morning wallowing in discomfort, I gave it up and called my sister.

“I’m…bothered,” I said.

“Why?” she said.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Yes you do, think about it. There’s obviously something irritating you. What is it?”

And with one little tap, the nut cracked and out my problems came.

“The house isn’t rented, J Bird is in Florida, June is regressing so bad that the orphanage won’t even take her this week, the kitty’s going to the vet tomorrow, the baby has her top teeth–a very stupid invention if you ask me–I’ve got new wrinkles, the scale was up two pounds, and I spent the last of my grocery money on socks and will have to cook dinner for the kids tonight instead of pizza. Besides that, we still haven’t sold our Sequoia.”

“Yeah, that stinks,” she said, “And you’re never going to sell that car, with gas prices rising every day.”

For the record, this is the worst thing to say to someone trying to unload a vehicle that averages ten yards a gallon on the highway. My sister obviously hasn’t read How To Cheer Up Your Sister In Ten Words or Less, a book that I’m planning to write sometime next week.

“That’s not what I needed to hear,” I said.

“Oh. Well, is there anything you can do about any of this?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“I didn’t think so. Well then, did you watch What Not To Wear last night?” And just about that fast we both moved on.

Life gives everyone problems. It felt good to acknowledge them, even if they couldn’t be resolved right away. And thank goodness for a sister who doesn’t always try to fix things.”

(PS – We’ve sold the car and rented the house. Yay!)

This month’s online blogging magazine, The Barrel, is here. Check it out for fun ideas on photography, fashion, etc. I’ve got an article in there on Mother’s Day ideas that’s just plain brilliant.

Check for a link to the magazine right here. Or click the button on my sidebar.

Happy Mother’s Day!