"Routine Checkup" (and also too many quotation marks")

Today was our “Routine” 3 year check-up. I went armed with my usual list of ridiculous problems so I could discuss them with our pediatrician. Our discussion usually consists of me rattling off behavior that I think is strange and him shaking his head at me like I’m the dumbest person on earth, patting me on the head, and telling me “it’s perfectly normal”. I then get to leave the office with a nice reassurance that my child is in fact “normal”.

Today was different. Today when I spoke, he listened…intently. When I described his behavioral problems, he nodded and looked concerned and scratched his head. When I talked about his speech issues, he wrote things down in his file. Then he disappeared. He returned a few minutes later with 3 business cards, one for a speech pathologist and two for child psychologists.

On one hand, I feel relieved. Perhaps I’m not crazy. Maybe I’m not doing everything wrong. All those times that I struggle to understand what he’s saying, all the “say it like this honey”, “repeat after me, don’t point”. All of those tantrums where he screams and throws things, melts down, glazes over, becomes someone else. They aren’t normal.

On the other, I’m totally freaking out.

To Protect and Serve...or Something

I want to start off by saying that I never wanted a little boy. When I was younger and I pictured my life in the future, I pictured a gaggle of little girls in little pink dresses with little pink bows and little patent leather Mary-Janes. When I found out I was pregnant, my ex told me. “There are no girls in the family”. And my response was “well get ready for the first one!” Then in January of 2004, the ultrasound technician said “do you want to know the sex?” and STUPID me said “of course!” When she said “looks like a little boy!” I nearly had a heart attack. I’ll admit it, I cried…a lot.

But eventually, I got over it, and I had a fabulously wonderful baby boy who has totally changed my life. All in all, having a little boy is totally fun! So fun in fact that I have said, out loud, more than once that if I ever have more children and they are of the boy persuasion, I won’t cry about it. I might even be HAPPY about it!! I had major qualms about raising a boy by myself with no man around the house, but so far, we haven’t run into anything we can’t overcome…until now.

My son will not keep his hands off of his crotch. He has his hands on it at.all.times. At home and in public. This is very…erm…embarrassing. I mean, seriously, he grabs his crotch more than Eminem and that’s just not acceptable. I honestly don’t get it. Is he afraid someone’s going to snatch it? Is he waiting for it to grow? Does he have a raging bladder infection? And most importantly, how do I make him STOP IT???

And don’t even get me started on how he treats it when he’s in the tub…all I’m saying is that if there’s a way to pull it completely off, my son will figure it out.

Now I love the child more than life itself and all that ooey gooey stuff, BUT I’m honestly considering duct taping his hands to the top of his head.

I am now the proud owner of a 3 year old!!

It's official! He's 3!! The birthday weekend is over!! All it took was 2 cakes, 1 batch of cupcakes, 1 fabulously expensive party, 50 or so gifts, and the untwisting of 975 of those stupid wire things they use to keep toys in the box. So in case you were missing the recipe of "how to make your kid totally happy and high on sugar," there you have it!

And to celebrate myself and how wonderful I am for actually giving birth, I had a pomegranate martini and fettuccine alfredo for dinner last night!

I had totally planned to write something meaningful about how happy/sad I am that my precious babeeee has now turned 3 years old which I'm pretty sure makes him an actual little boy and not a baby anymore, but, I'm tired. And so, a picture instead!



"They're mine!! ALL MINE!!!!"

Staying Up Late

It’s 10:36 on a weeknight, and I’m still up. I’m never up this late. I’m that kind of loser that goes to bed early so I can be in tip top shape for work. Except now, I don’t HAVE a job to be in tip top shape for. Ha! Ha Ha! God is soooooooo funny.

In my head I keep telling myself “this is for the best”, “everything happens for a reason” and every other stupid old adage people say to themselves to feel better when something bad happens to them. But the truth is, I loved my job. Really loved it. I loved the people I worked with (well except for two, but nobody’s perfect right?). I liked most of my customers and they liked me. I was good at what I did. I thought I was at least. And then, with no warning, no bad review, no…nothing, it’s just over.

The last time I looked for a job was 3 YEARS ago. I don’t even know where to begin. I have no resume. I don’t know how to begin to put one together. Makes me feel like I’m joining some demented dating site. Please pick me and give me money!! I’m nice and I’m funny and I work hard and I come to work on time and I get along with people and I’m a good salesperson and please please please give me a job because I’m already going crazy and I’m not even officially unemployed yet!!

At least this week I have a birthday party to plan, a cake to order, presents to buy, invitations to mail, things to keep me busy. Things that will keep me from sitting around and obsessing about the fact that I have.no.job.gah!

If it ain't broke...

They'll put a cast on it anyways!

I took a flying leap off of a curb (a very high, very dangerous, evil curb) on Friday evening. By Saturday morning, it had swelled so bad it looked like I had a baseball implanted in my ankle. $75 later, I had a clean x-ray, ace bandage and a promise from a doctor that it was "fine", just a mild sprain. "Follow up with your primary care doctor just to be sure." he said. I should have known then he was a complete moron. Three days later, my baseball had grown to the size of a softball. My regular doctor sent me straight to the orthopaedic who confirmed that the ER doctor was in fact, a complete dumbass. I apparently completely tore through all of the ligaments in my ankle. So now, I'm in a cast. A real cast. At least it's pink so it's not TOO ugly...but still. I thought when I turned 18 without ever having to have a "real" cast, I was home free. After I gave birth to a baby boy, I thought for sure all future ER visits and casts would be reserved for him and him alone.

But no, I had to go and be a rebel and stick my own self in a cast at 24 years old. I feel like a complete idiot!!

In other news, the kidlet has me totally figured out. He knows that I can't chase after him, so when I tell him no, he just picks up whatever he's doing and goes into the other room. Yes, I birthed a genius. Let's hope he puts all those brains to good use and becomes a doctor or something.