There are those who are considered "morning people" and those who are "night owls". I would say that I have long considered myself to be a solid, functioning member of the latter group and I believe it to be genetic. My mother, for example, will stay up until the wee hours of the morning playing games on her computer (And when I say "games", I mostly mean the card games that come standard with most operating systems because my mother, despite being a highly intelligent and educated woman, CAN NOT, no matter how many times we try and break it down for her, CAN NOT figure out how to navigate the Internet.). (For the record, I still don't know where to put that damn period!.)!. My father will "stay up" with her, but by that I mean, he's actually sleeping on the couch while the t.v. is playing some black and white movie in the background. (Sidebar - My father has a knack for finding every old, black and white movie on t.v. and will INSIST it's a movie he has never seen before. However, when a movie is coming on t.v. for the first time and is being advertised as the "premier" showing, he will become equally adamant that he HAS seen that movie before and then will go on to tell you what it is all about. I have no idea how he has done this throughout my entire life, but he has. Incidentally, when he sleeps on the couch, he can be snoring and you will feel confident that he's completely out, but as soon as you approach the remote to change the t.v., he's now wide awake, will tell you what was just happening in the movie and will lay a guilt trip on if you want to change it, saying something like, "You can change it if you want, but it's a nice movie. I really like this one". If you leave his movie on, he gently drifts back into a peaceful slumber. If you do change it, he remains wide awake and, if you've been lucky enough to pick a movie that is from the 20th Century or later and has any profanity in it, he groans every time someone swears. It's great fun.)
Anyway, as I was saying, I've long been fond of staying up late. At least, I should say, I HAD long been fond of staying up late. I enjoyed watching late night t.v., hanging out with friends, taking spontaneous trips out (e.g. the casino, a local establishment, Florida) and it didn't phase me because I knew I would be able to sleep in. The times when I was not able to sleep in, however, were highly unpleasant. Things like getting up for school or ... well, actually, maybe just getting up for school, were painful, but I functioned on only a few hours of sleep and seemed to do just fine as long as no one actually interacted with me. If I had to get up early for something else, things could go either way. For example, if I had to get up early for an appointment - not pleasant. If I had to get up early to catch a flight somewhere - no problem, baby! Mimosas, Bloody Marys, or my good friends, Stella and Sam Adams, are always ready to help in that regard.
It's not surprising that my fondness for evenings grew as I moved from my teenage years to adulthood and my options for entertaining myself in the wee hours dramatically improved, as did the pool of friends who would be available to play with me. One of my oldest and certainly dearest friends, Cristina, was right there with me as we moved from our teens on to bigger and better things. Strange thing about our friendship was that she was not really one to enjoy playing with Jose, Bud, or Sam, but she did enjoy dancing (As much as I would like to elaborate on that last comment, I feel I need a release from her before I share any other details). Even stranger still, however, was that she played for the other team. She was one of "them" - a morning person. And, when she got up in the mornings, she was actually chipper. Yep. Smiley. Happy. Loving life...at ungodly hours of the morning. Now, I have been told at various time in my life that 4, 5, and 6 o'clock actually happen twice a day and, while I have come to that cold realization now, in my younger years, I thought it was just an urban legend. I didn't think anyone or anything could actually function at those times (except for the time I went to NYC to see the Thanksgiving Day parade...that's a story for another time. And, damn, it is a funny one). Cristina, however, was living proof that some people not only function at those times of the day, but actually thrive! Crazy, right? Not only was she a morning person, but she was really into activities like running (Again, I would like to elaborate more on some of her running experiences, but I still need that release. Without it, she could bury me with what she's got on me. Just saying). It's amazing our friendship has survived, but it has and I love her.
So, wait, where the hell was I going with this? Oh, right, The Change. At some point in my life, I began to go through The Change. No, not that change! I'm not that old! I mean, I began to transform from a person of the night to something else. Work was definitely a culprit because I had to be up in the morning to get there. And be showered. And be dressed. And be ready to work. I swear, some companies want so much from their employees! So work didn't help and when I went from office jobs to working in a school - well, they wanted me there even earlier! WTF?! When that happened and I had to set my alarm clock to go off at 6:15, I honestly cried some mornings. It was not pretty. I just kept telling myself, "It will get easier as you get used to it". Well, I've been at this job for almost 10 years now and I'm not used to it yet. Then, our little Bundle of Love (henceforth referred to as BOL) came along and she really sent the transformation into overdrive. Except there was only one problem with that. She wasn't really a night person or a morning person. She was more of a "I'll be up whenever the hell I damn well please and you'll be ready to feed me!" kind of person. Really put a cramp in my style, I tell you. Now, she's almost 3 and is getting into a groove, but it's a morning groove. And, of course, the school still expects me to be at work on time like everyone else. Overachievers. And, now that I have to get BOL to daycare and make sure she eats in the morning, I'm getting up even earlier. I don't even want to tell you what time I get up because I dare not speak it's name. I will tell you, however, that I have figured out that each time I hit my snooze button, I get an additional 9 minutes. I have also figured out there is a "nap" setting on my snooze button that will give me 1 more minute. I have used them so often, in fact, that the snooze button is starting to fail on my clock. Actually, maybe it's not from using them so often as much as it is the force with which I activate them in the morning. Let's just say, I'm pretty sure I have voided the warranty on the thing at this point. And, sadly, I still do cry in the mornings (or swear so much it would make my father groan and give me a lecture that it was because I didn't watch more black and white movies).
In fact, even after my shower, I'm still not fully functional. One problem is that I don't drink caffeine (when I do, it's not pretty. I kind of look like a middle aged soccer mom on speed for about an hour or so before I crash. It's actually a lot more gruesome than that, but that's enough information for the purpose of the story. All you need to know is that I'm not putting Juan Valdez's children through coffee school). Most people know that they shouldn't tell me anything important or expect much from me before 10 or 11 am. In fact, one of my coworkers (who is one of "them") finds my morning suffering quite entertaining as I flail about like a fish slowly suffocating and dying before being returned to the fishbowl and getting reengergized (I don't really flail about. It's just literary license. If I was truly flailing about, I would hope that my coworker would call the nurse...or a priest...or someone). Another problem is...well, there is no other problem, really. I just don't do mornings. It's genetic, remember? And, say what you will, but you can't fight nature.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Friday, October 5, 2012
It's happening...
So, I have long understood and reluctantly accepted that each passing day makes a little bit older and brings me one day closer to death (ok, so I'm being a bit dramatic, but I only state the facts). Something happened this week, though, that made those harsh, cold realities even more...well, harsh and cold. I don't really know how to explain it...oh, who am I kidding? I know exactly how to explain it....we bought a minivan. Yes. That's what I said. A minivan. Yes, yes, I know. You can all have two minutes to make as many wisecracks about it as you want, but make them good because, once the two minutes are up, we are not discussing it anymore. Ready? Go.
One minute left (Seriously, it's one minute. I'm using a timer).
Ok. Time's up. I hope you got that all out of your system and, while I realize it may not be possible to have it completely out of your system after only two minutes, a deal is a deal. No, I don't care that we didn't shake on it. Time is up.
So, as I was saying, we bought a minivan. Now, I don't think it's any big secret that I have been a secret fan of minivans for quite some time. They typically have a pretty powerful engine and have a ton of space. I have touted the virtues of minivans for years and always thought it would be a great vehicle to have. However, now that we have actually made the commitment to purchase one, I am having a horrific case of buyers remorse. I mean, yes, it does have a remote control that opens and closes the sliding doors. It does have a moonroof. It does have a USB cable to plug in my iPod. It does have the bluetooth setting for my phone. And, the piece de resistance, it has a built in cooler. Yeah, boy. A cooler. You know, for water and juice. Oh, and a V6 engine. Vroom vroom. Wonderful features. Still, with all these wonderful little bells and whistles, it's still, at the heart of it, a minivan. An over sized station wagon. A family car. It's...practical and, as I have said in a previous post, the word "practical" for a car is the kiss of death. In other words, it's not sexy. Nicole suggested we decorate the inside with little Christmas lights. I thought we could upload some Bob Marley into the radio's memory (yes, the car stores music). Maybe we can install some hydraulics and get that bad boy jacked to drive down the road. Eh. I think even if I were to paint flames on the side, install some nitrous, and have skulls for headlights, this car would still not strike anyone as fierce. It is, at it's core, practical. And that one characteristic has now out trumped all other features for me.
With that realization that practicality is now king in my house and sexiness has lost out, I came to the understanding that I am now, officially, middle aged. Now, when other people have a mid-life crisis, they go out and get a young trophy wife and a sports car, boob jobs, motorcycles, or some other crap that they don't need and doesn't suit them. Me, however, I do a mid life crisis by purchasing a vehicle that is so the opposite of young, cool, sexy, vibrant. I went for cargo space, comfortable seats, and decent mpg. Holy crap. What the hell has happened to me? Where did my youth go? When did all of these grey hairs show up? When the hell did I decide remote controlled sliding doors and a back up camera were what was important? I don't know when it happened, but it sure as shit did. And now, as I prepare to go pick up a car that will likely be the car my daughter drives to college (it's already got a moonroof, so she won't have to try and self-install one in a drunken stupor - read my previous post about my cars if you don't know what I'm talking about), I have reluctantly embraced my middle aged version of sexy. So, eat your heart out, Justin, because I brought it back.
One minute left (Seriously, it's one minute. I'm using a timer).
Ok. Time's up. I hope you got that all out of your system and, while I realize it may not be possible to have it completely out of your system after only two minutes, a deal is a deal. No, I don't care that we didn't shake on it. Time is up.
So, as I was saying, we bought a minivan. Now, I don't think it's any big secret that I have been a secret fan of minivans for quite some time. They typically have a pretty powerful engine and have a ton of space. I have touted the virtues of minivans for years and always thought it would be a great vehicle to have. However, now that we have actually made the commitment to purchase one, I am having a horrific case of buyers remorse. I mean, yes, it does have a remote control that opens and closes the sliding doors. It does have a moonroof. It does have a USB cable to plug in my iPod. It does have the bluetooth setting for my phone. And, the piece de resistance, it has a built in cooler. Yeah, boy. A cooler. You know, for water and juice. Oh, and a V6 engine. Vroom vroom. Wonderful features. Still, with all these wonderful little bells and whistles, it's still, at the heart of it, a minivan. An over sized station wagon. A family car. It's...practical and, as I have said in a previous post, the word "practical" for a car is the kiss of death. In other words, it's not sexy. Nicole suggested we decorate the inside with little Christmas lights. I thought we could upload some Bob Marley into the radio's memory (yes, the car stores music). Maybe we can install some hydraulics and get that bad boy jacked to drive down the road. Eh. I think even if I were to paint flames on the side, install some nitrous, and have skulls for headlights, this car would still not strike anyone as fierce. It is, at it's core, practical. And that one characteristic has now out trumped all other features for me.
With that realization that practicality is now king in my house and sexiness has lost out, I came to the understanding that I am now, officially, middle aged. Now, when other people have a mid-life crisis, they go out and get a young trophy wife and a sports car, boob jobs, motorcycles, or some other crap that they don't need and doesn't suit them. Me, however, I do a mid life crisis by purchasing a vehicle that is so the opposite of young, cool, sexy, vibrant. I went for cargo space, comfortable seats, and decent mpg. Holy crap. What the hell has happened to me? Where did my youth go? When did all of these grey hairs show up? When the hell did I decide remote controlled sliding doors and a back up camera were what was important? I don't know when it happened, but it sure as shit did. And now, as I prepare to go pick up a car that will likely be the car my daughter drives to college (it's already got a moonroof, so she won't have to try and self-install one in a drunken stupor - read my previous post about my cars if you don't know what I'm talking about), I have reluctantly embraced my middle aged version of sexy. So, eat your heart out, Justin, because I brought it back.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Zombies live in my house
In a previous post, I had quickly alluded to the fact that RM has never picked up the habit of sleeping in bed with us. Ever since she was a super midget (aka infant), we have had her sleep in her own bed. I know that some of you are thinking, "How could you have put that teeny tiny little baby in her own room in her own crib right off the bat? You heartless wench!" (That last comment was just rude and uncalled for, by the way. Please be nice). Well, we did it because I am, as I have mentioned before, a paranoid freak who was completely worried that I was going to roll over in the middle of the night and suffocate my child. While there may come a day in her teenage years where that thought might seem a bit more appealing, I assure you it's not where I have ever been with her yet. There have been times where Nicole has said things like, "But she won't be little forever. Can't she just sleep with us once?" And, as I am not TOTALLY heartless, I have entertained that idea only to have RM relentlessly kick and poke us in her sleep while she tosses and turns resulting in Nicole becoming so completely frustrated (and we know how well Nicole does when she's sleep deprived). When we get to that stage (which you know you're at "that stage" when Nicole is now tossing and turning and making the loudest grunts of disapproval one has heard without actually using anything that approaches a civilized language), then I know it is time to return Baby Toss and Turn to her room, which makes everyone in the house much happier.
So, we were kind of plodding along pretty well with our bedtime routine until this past summer when we did all of our travelling (please refer to the my earlier post of "If it's Tuesday, this must be..."). We thought we had it all planned out. We brought an aeromattress to put in our rooms and a baby gate to block her in the bedroom as she was still sleeping in a crib at home. So, during our first trip (in Maine), we set up the aero bed, gated her in, and positioned ourselves near enough that she could see us and hear us, but so that she was still in her room. She cried at first to stay in her bed, but she fell asleep pretty well and was surrounded by her 1st string toys, her favorite books, and her turtle night light that projects stars on the ceiling. When we went to bed, she was as snug as a bug (not a bed bug) in a rug. Later in the evening, I got up to use the bathroom and RM was not in her bed. Well, given my freakish paranoid nature, I immediately checked the baby gate and saw it was still up. I woke Nicole up in a half panic and blurted out, "Where's RM?" She sat bolt upright and we turned on the lights to reveal our little baby girl had curled up on the floor in the farthest corner of the room. She was pretty cold, but fast asleep and I picked her up and put her back in bed hoping this was a fluke. Well, the next night it happened again and Nicole and I decided we didn't want to risk her getting hurt as she tried to get in bed with us or find a corner in an unfamiliar, unbabyproofed (yes, that a word now) room, so we decided to have her sleep with us. Now, at this point, she was older and bigger and I wasn't as worried about rolling over and suffocating her. Now I was worried about suffocating her with my pillow as, for some reason, I assumed she would lose all of her strength and muscle control at night and would become inexplicably paralyzed if any part of her were to touch my pillow (I've already told you that I'm a freak and I have asked you on numerous occasions to stop judging me. Seriously, I'm getting a complex now). Once we made this decision to let her sleep with us, we pretty much gave up on any form of restful sleep happening as we all shared a queen size bed. So, that was Maine and the beginning of the end of the Restful Period.
When we travelled to Florida, we still packed the aero bed, but we never actually put her in it or even unpacked it. On the first night, we were too tired from the car trip to unpack it and pack it up again in the morning, so we decided against it. Once we reached our "permanent" hotel destination in Florida, the room in our suite housed a king size bed and there was no more room for the aero bed without it being in the bathroom and there was no way I was going for that. So, we all slept in the Big Bed with the 1st string and the night light off to the side. What was disheartening for me about this was, aside from a California King, we were now sleeping in the biggest bed possible and this STILL was not enough room for the smallest in our brood. She kicked, poked, slapped, and headbutted all while in the midst of a very deep, deep sleep. And, let me be clear. When I say "in the midst of a very deep, deep sleep", I'm referring to her sleep. I would not characterize what was happening for Nicole or myself as "deep, deep sleep". I would more call it a painful, stressful, and endless exercise in sleep deprived frustration or the makings of a self help book entitled "How to Become Psychotic and Homicidal in Less than 3 Days".
And so it went until our trip(s) came to an end and we headed back home. Not only was it great to be back home after having travelled for so long, but it was also great because we were going to reclaim our bed and have the Little One in her own space again....at least, that was the plan. What actually happened, though, was that the crib, which at one point in time had looked so vastly huge that I thought we could actually lose that small, tiny creature in it, was now not big enough to house her and her night time buddies. In fact, she was no longer able to sleep through the night. Each and every night, she took at least 2 hours to fall asleep and then would wake up at random times during the night calling out for one of us and asking to sleep in our bed. Yeah. That's not going to happen. We have separate rooms for everyone's sanity. But, that sanity was now slipping through my fingers like a sardine on a slip and slide covered in vaseline. After about 3 weeks of limited and pathetically poor periods of interrupted sleep, we broke down and bought her a big girl bed. The thought was that the big girl bed would somehow miraculously restore our lives of restful, dreamlike slumber where the only thing waking me up was my own odoriferous flatulence in the middle of the night. Yeah. That was the plan. Again. That was the plan. The reality, however, was that she continued to not sleep through the night. She kept waking up. Crying. Asking for water. Whining. Asking for toys. Whimpering. Asking for books. Bawling. Asking to sleep "in that bed" ( meaning our bed meaning "hell no!"). Weeping. And, for the record, that's what Nicole and I were doing. Not RM. It was us. Why? BECAUSE WE WERE REALLY FREAKING TIRED!!! Have you ever been so sleep deprived that you could no longer put together a coherent thought? So sleep deprived you would try to say something and you would end up sounding like English was your 4th language? So sleep deprived that you couldn't answer any of the questions Elmo was asking you? Yes. Elmo talks to me. We're old personal friends. Don't judge...ok. judge. I don't care. I"m too freaking tired to care. I'm too freaking tired to think. I'm too freaking tired to think (as you can tell from this blog. Wait, I already said that). Ok. I'm going to go nap for a while until Night of the Living Dead rises in my house again.
So, we were kind of plodding along pretty well with our bedtime routine until this past summer when we did all of our travelling (please refer to the my earlier post of "If it's Tuesday, this must be..."). We thought we had it all planned out. We brought an aeromattress to put in our rooms and a baby gate to block her in the bedroom as she was still sleeping in a crib at home. So, during our first trip (in Maine), we set up the aero bed, gated her in, and positioned ourselves near enough that she could see us and hear us, but so that she was still in her room. She cried at first to stay in her bed, but she fell asleep pretty well and was surrounded by her 1st string toys, her favorite books, and her turtle night light that projects stars on the ceiling. When we went to bed, she was as snug as a bug (not a bed bug) in a rug. Later in the evening, I got up to use the bathroom and RM was not in her bed. Well, given my freakish paranoid nature, I immediately checked the baby gate and saw it was still up. I woke Nicole up in a half panic and blurted out, "Where's RM?" She sat bolt upright and we turned on the lights to reveal our little baby girl had curled up on the floor in the farthest corner of the room. She was pretty cold, but fast asleep and I picked her up and put her back in bed hoping this was a fluke. Well, the next night it happened again and Nicole and I decided we didn't want to risk her getting hurt as she tried to get in bed with us or find a corner in an unfamiliar, unbabyproofed (yes, that a word now) room, so we decided to have her sleep with us. Now, at this point, she was older and bigger and I wasn't as worried about rolling over and suffocating her. Now I was worried about suffocating her with my pillow as, for some reason, I assumed she would lose all of her strength and muscle control at night and would become inexplicably paralyzed if any part of her were to touch my pillow (I've already told you that I'm a freak and I have asked you on numerous occasions to stop judging me. Seriously, I'm getting a complex now). Once we made this decision to let her sleep with us, we pretty much gave up on any form of restful sleep happening as we all shared a queen size bed. So, that was Maine and the beginning of the end of the Restful Period.
When we travelled to Florida, we still packed the aero bed, but we never actually put her in it or even unpacked it. On the first night, we were too tired from the car trip to unpack it and pack it up again in the morning, so we decided against it. Once we reached our "permanent" hotel destination in Florida, the room in our suite housed a king size bed and there was no more room for the aero bed without it being in the bathroom and there was no way I was going for that. So, we all slept in the Big Bed with the 1st string and the night light off to the side. What was disheartening for me about this was, aside from a California King, we were now sleeping in the biggest bed possible and this STILL was not enough room for the smallest in our brood. She kicked, poked, slapped, and headbutted all while in the midst of a very deep, deep sleep. And, let me be clear. When I say "in the midst of a very deep, deep sleep", I'm referring to her sleep. I would not characterize what was happening for Nicole or myself as "deep, deep sleep". I would more call it a painful, stressful, and endless exercise in sleep deprived frustration or the makings of a self help book entitled "How to Become Psychotic and Homicidal in Less than 3 Days".
And so it went until our trip(s) came to an end and we headed back home. Not only was it great to be back home after having travelled for so long, but it was also great because we were going to reclaim our bed and have the Little One in her own space again....at least, that was the plan. What actually happened, though, was that the crib, which at one point in time had looked so vastly huge that I thought we could actually lose that small, tiny creature in it, was now not big enough to house her and her night time buddies. In fact, she was no longer able to sleep through the night. Each and every night, she took at least 2 hours to fall asleep and then would wake up at random times during the night calling out for one of us and asking to sleep in our bed. Yeah. That's not going to happen. We have separate rooms for everyone's sanity. But, that sanity was now slipping through my fingers like a sardine on a slip and slide covered in vaseline. After about 3 weeks of limited and pathetically poor periods of interrupted sleep, we broke down and bought her a big girl bed. The thought was that the big girl bed would somehow miraculously restore our lives of restful, dreamlike slumber where the only thing waking me up was my own odoriferous flatulence in the middle of the night. Yeah. That was the plan. Again. That was the plan. The reality, however, was that she continued to not sleep through the night. She kept waking up. Crying. Asking for water. Whining. Asking for toys. Whimpering. Asking for books. Bawling. Asking to sleep "in that bed" ( meaning our bed meaning "hell no!"). Weeping. And, for the record, that's what Nicole and I were doing. Not RM. It was us. Why? BECAUSE WE WERE REALLY FREAKING TIRED!!! Have you ever been so sleep deprived that you could no longer put together a coherent thought? So sleep deprived you would try to say something and you would end up sounding like English was your 4th language? So sleep deprived that you couldn't answer any of the questions Elmo was asking you? Yes. Elmo talks to me. We're old personal friends. Don't judge...ok. judge. I don't care. I"m too freaking tired to care. I'm too freaking tired to think. I'm too freaking tired to think (as you can tell from this blog. Wait, I already said that). Ok. I'm going to go nap for a while until Night of the Living Dead rises in my house again.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Chucky? Is that you?
For those of you who have children, you know that only people who either hate you or don't have the sense of hearing will give your child gifts that are obnoxiously and relentlessly noisy (or they are giving you back the gifts you have given to their children at some other point in time). With that being said, our little girlie is no exception as she has musical instruments, radios, riding toys, dolls, stuffed animals, and countless other pieces of crap that all contribute to the noise level in our little hamlet. She even has a little horse thing you ride on that makes galluping noises (which is where we ended up with the Facebook post of "You may NOT ride that horse naked!").
Being a 2 year old, she enjoys playing with her toys as much and as often as possible. This means that her toys take over every possible space in our house (e.g. living room, bedrooms, bathroom, dog crate) as we desperately try to carve out a safe space for us that is toy free. Her room, however, is her space and she can have as many noisy toys in there as she likes. And she likes. Because she has noisy toys in there. A lot of them. They sing, dance, talk, play music, and I think one of them may actually be a speech writer for ___________ (insert favorite despised politician's name here). She loves her toys so much that, when we put her to bed at night, there is barely room for her in there as she is surrounded by her favorites, while the second string sits in baskets, on benches, or in chairs scattered about her room.
So, one night, several weeks back, we had put her to bed at her usual bedtime and she fell asleep at HER usual bedtime (about 2 hours after we put her down), which is our signal that it is safe for the rest of us to go to bed. I curl up, watch a little t.v. in my room and off to dreamland I go. So, we're all sleeping soundly until I hear a voice that says, "Peek a boo! I see you!" in a really creepy and demented way. Let me tell you, at 3 a.m., when I hear ANY voice saying "peek a boo! I see you!" you can bet your ass I'm coming out of bed swinging my baseball bat (which is really just a wiffle ball bat I keep under my bed, but it makes me feel better). I am pretty sure I had to change my shorts after that awakening until I realized it was this little Playskool dog that someone had given to RM as a gift. This thing names colors and shapes and plays all kinds of songs. And, yes, it has some sayings too. What I want to know, though, is who came up with the mechanism that will make this thing say the creepiest thing it can possibly say at 3 am? Would I have freaked out as bad if it started singing, "Heads, shoulders, knees and toes"? Probably not. But, it didn't say that. It said, "Peek a boo! I see you!" And, the creepiest part of that whole thing is that this toy wasn't even in bed with her. It was clear across the room. All by itself. And now I know, it was secretly plotting to give me a heart attack in the middle of the night. Needless to say, I went in to her room, grabbed the toy, open the battery compartment and...YOU WON"T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED NEXT!!!! I took the batteries out. What?!?! Did you actually think I was going to say there were no batteries in there. This isn't a movie. It's just a story about a smart ass dog trying to scare me to death. Geez. Get a grip.
Being a 2 year old, she enjoys playing with her toys as much and as often as possible. This means that her toys take over every possible space in our house (e.g. living room, bedrooms, bathroom, dog crate) as we desperately try to carve out a safe space for us that is toy free. Her room, however, is her space and she can have as many noisy toys in there as she likes. And she likes. Because she has noisy toys in there. A lot of them. They sing, dance, talk, play music, and I think one of them may actually be a speech writer for ___________ (insert favorite despised politician's name here). She loves her toys so much that, when we put her to bed at night, there is barely room for her in there as she is surrounded by her favorites, while the second string sits in baskets, on benches, or in chairs scattered about her room.
So, one night, several weeks back, we had put her to bed at her usual bedtime and she fell asleep at HER usual bedtime (about 2 hours after we put her down), which is our signal that it is safe for the rest of us to go to bed. I curl up, watch a little t.v. in my room and off to dreamland I go. So, we're all sleeping soundly until I hear a voice that says, "Peek a boo! I see you!" in a really creepy and demented way. Let me tell you, at 3 a.m., when I hear ANY voice saying "peek a boo! I see you!" you can bet your ass I'm coming out of bed swinging my baseball bat (which is really just a wiffle ball bat I keep under my bed, but it makes me feel better). I am pretty sure I had to change my shorts after that awakening until I realized it was this little Playskool dog that someone had given to RM as a gift. This thing names colors and shapes and plays all kinds of songs. And, yes, it has some sayings too. What I want to know, though, is who came up with the mechanism that will make this thing say the creepiest thing it can possibly say at 3 am? Would I have freaked out as bad if it started singing, "Heads, shoulders, knees and toes"? Probably not. But, it didn't say that. It said, "Peek a boo! I see you!" And, the creepiest part of that whole thing is that this toy wasn't even in bed with her. It was clear across the room. All by itself. And now I know, it was secretly plotting to give me a heart attack in the middle of the night. Needless to say, I went in to her room, grabbed the toy, open the battery compartment and...YOU WON"T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED NEXT!!!! I took the batteries out. What?!?! Did you actually think I was going to say there were no batteries in there. This isn't a movie. It's just a story about a smart ass dog trying to scare me to death. Geez. Get a grip.
If it's Tuesday, this must be...
So, those of you who know me know that I am what can be referred to as...cheap. Frugal. A penny pincher. Pick your poison, the end result is the same - I'm always going to look for the cheapest way to get stuff done. My favorite saying is, "If it's free, it's for me". To give you an idea, when our kitchen sink was leaking last year, I climbed under the cabinet and started taking things apart. Nicole was none too happy about that approach since I have no clue how to fix a leaky pipe, but my thought was if I'm going to pay the plumber $90 just to come to my house, I may as well have one crazy mess for him to deal with (And, for the record, I was able to fix the kitchen sink for only $10 in parts. Yeah me!). (Did you see where I put that period? Is that where it is supposed to go? No clue. Maybe I should ask the plumber.).
Ok, back to my story. I'm cheap. So, when it was time for summer to begin and we began talking about vacations, my inner Ebenezer started working overtime (and Ebenezer doesn't like overtime for obvious reasons) trying to figure out how to pay for the vacations without having to sell my one functioning kidney (Ok, I exaggerated. Both kidneys work. However, since college, they maybe would be found on the clearance rack at your local black market organ dealer. Just saying). Here were the vacations that were "must dos" for the summer - Old Orchard Beach, Maine with Nicole's family; Gainesville, FL to meet our new niece; Philly to hang out with some friends from grad school. Now, geography was not one of my strong suits growing up, but I can sure as shit tell you that Maine and Florida are pretty damn far apart. "How far apart?" you ask. I'd say that was a good question if I hadn't just told you. I'll say it again, the answer is they are pretty damn far apart. If you're going to read the blog, at least pay attention to what you just read. Geez. With that being said, I began plotting to make our vacations affordable and enjoyable. That's possible, right? Well, I guess we'll find out.
Ok, vacation one: Maine - 1 week. First, let's deal with getting there. That one's easy - we'll drive. It's only about 3 hours or so from where we live and it should be a breeze. We can fit all of our stuff in the car and we'll only need one take of gas. Lodging - check. The In-Laws rent a condo every year that sleeps a lot of people, so we can stay there. And, since it's a condo, we can cook there! Yeehaa! Vacation one: On the Cheap! Mission Accomplished. (Thank you, Haeselers!)
Vacation Two: Gainesville - 10 days. Ok, so flights to Gainesville are costly and RM now needs her own seat, so there's three of us that need seats. $$$$$$. Then, we'll need a place to stay while we're there since my brother-in-law and his family are not only adjusting to a new born, but are doing it in a home that they just bought in December and are in the process of renovating (and when I say renovating, I mean they are gutting it down to the rafters and starting fresh). Needless to say, our own place to stay is an absolute must. Ok, so let's get a place that will be big enough to hang out in, cook our meals in, and play at if we need to. $$$$$. And, of course, we can't go to Florida and not go visit Disney for at least a day. $$$$.
Vacation Three: Philly area - 3 days. Again, close enough to drive (about 4 hours) and we'll be seeing friends who are visiting from out of town and others who live there, so some meals out and some meals in. Lodging - yes, please. And, one day is going to consist of Sesame Place. Hmmm. My wallet is hyperventilating and MasterCard is already sending me flowers and thank you notes.
Holy crap. That's a lot of vacation. Translation - how in the hell am I going to pay for this without selling both of my bargain basement kidneys? Let's back track. Maine, easy. Not going to cost much at all. Florida...uh...uuummm....yeah. Ok, flying is not going to happen. Let's talk about driving. We've done it before and it wasn't so bad. Right? Nicole's sister and nephew are going to come with us which will help with driving and entertaining RM on the road. We can split the drive into two days and then we can share the costs for the trip. That won't be so bad. I know. I know. Those of you who are reading (and actually paying attention this time) are saying to yourselves, "Are you NUTS?" A two year old, an eleven year old and 3 adults in the car for two days?!?!?! And, believe it or not, I had that thought for a brief moment, but then Ebenezer (henceforth referred to "Ebby") began chirping in my head, "Flights. Parking at the airport. Renting a car. Blah. Blah. Blah." "FINE!" I yelled back in my head. "We'll drive!" And I noticed that as I yelled back at him in my head, everyone around me was looking at me, so it wasn't really so much in my head after all. (That's really bad when your shrink is yelling at her own voices.) Whatever. We're driving. And, actually, the drive down wasn't horrible. We stopped every few hours to pee and stretch. We packed food, snacks, and drinks for the car. We made up goody bags to give to the kids as we crossed each state line (which was fine until we got to Virginia. What a long state!) and we loaded up the iPad with every freaking movie I could think to let my kid watch. So, long story short, the drive down there wasn't so bad. We got to the hotel on the first night, had dinner, I checked the room for bed bugs (hell yes I did. Don't judge me. Ebby was telling me I had to because we didn't want a costly exterminator bill when we got home. Again, don't judge me), and we went to bed. We managed to stay at hotels that all included hot breakfast with the room (again, Ebby made sure of that) and we made it to Florida before dinner the next day. Spending time with family down there was great and we did manage to take the kids to Hollywood Studios for a day (thank you to the fine people at 2nd Street Organs for taking my bad kidney and making that day possible).
On the way back, we stopped over in Philly for a few days to spend time with friends. Now, here is where the trip got a little hairy. Not because of the drive (although that put people on edge). Not because of the company (although afer the car trip, I think everyone needed some time apart). Not because of the money piece (Ebby and I had reached an agreement and were doing ok together). No. What was doing us in was that we had been travelling for far too long and our little munchkin was done with not sleeping at home. (She had been sleeping with us for the trip which was an adjustment for all as we had never done that in her entire life. And let me tell you, for someone so little, she takes up an inordinate amount of room in a king bed.) So, at this point, we were a little homesick and sleep deprived. I was tired of checking for bed bugs as my paranoia was kicking into high gear (again, bad news when your shrink is also struggling with paranoid thinking) and, even though Ebby and I had come to an agreement, I was pretty much done with the whole hemorrhaging of money thing.
We get to Philly and our hotel has been overrun with a soccer tournament for young teenage boys with minimal supervision. (Do I really need to say anymore about this? No, I didn't think so either). Ok, whatever. Big place, I can deal. We meet up with our friends and make a plan for Sesame Place. Great. We get up the next morning, have a hot breakfast and head out. "Oh boy! Monkey is going to LOVE this!" That was the naive thought that ran through my head as we drove there. Once we arrived, however, I quickly came to the realization that a theme park geared toward pre-school children probably had some flaws. First, the rides were a little small in terms of the number of people each attraction could accomodate at once. At first, this gives you the impression of a cozy little ride. However, when you get in line and realize you're going to be there until your child enters middle school, your perspective begins to shift. Then, since it is a park geared toward young children, you also are quickly reminded of the fact that two year olds don't wait well. Translation: we were surrounded by a bunch of miserable, screaming children and their equally frustrated and miserable parents and we had actually chosen this as the way to spend our day. I think my frustration hit the absolute boiling point when, while waiting in line for a while, we finally got close to the attraction and my bundle of joy said she didn't want to go on "that one". Needless to say, her little butt got to ride on a ride she didn't want to go on and she was going to be happy about it, damn it! (Sidebar: This situation was reminiscent of a situation at Hollywood Studios where we waited in line for about an hour to see Buzz and Woody from Toy Story. We were literally the next people in line when they turn to us and say, "We're going to take a short break". I can't really describe what happened next, but my face must have said it all as their handler looked at me and said, "I promise we'll just be 2 minutes" and they were. Of course, just as they took their places and the lady turned to us to call us over, our little angel turns to me and says, "I need to go potty". For any of you who have a child potty training or who remember hearing stories of this time, when the kid says, "I need to go potty" you now have a 3 second window to find a bathroom. Luckily for us, the lady mercifully let us go use the potty and sneak back in through the back entrance so we didn't have to wait again. I think I may have to send her a Christmas card this year). Ok, back to Sesame Place. When we last left our heroines, they were battling the grumpy, napless throngs of pre-schoolers who were pinching and snotting all over the characters while being supervised (or not) by equally grumpy, napless, snot covered adults. We get off the ride and, after RM had cried and whined for the first two hours of the day, we decided let's stop and have some lunch to give everyone a break. (Our friends had bravely packed a picnic lunch and left the park to go enjoy that. We had also packed a picnic lunch, but I was ready to kill someone, so I took my frustrations out on my wallet and waistline. Truly coping mechanisms I have come to embrace over the years (ok, so maybe I'm not the shrink for you. Stop judging me.)) We got to the food court and Nicole found us a table while I got in line for food. Princess Cries A Lot came with me to pick out her meal and it was here that I came to realize the diabolic marketing genius of Sesame Place. When we got to the front of the cafeteria style line, the desserts were the very first things to pick out. Of course a kids place is going to have dessert out first! And, the very first thing out is a super sized cupcake with enough frosting on it to paint my house and it looks like Elmo. So, of course, Princess picks out the cupcake and I, of course, agree to give it to her to make her stop crying for any length of time. Well, my friends, I don't know what they put in those cupcakes there, but I'm fairly certain there was a pint sized dose of kiddie crack because my kid's total mood shifted before we even got to the register to pay for our meal. She had sucked the face right off the cupcake and was literally singing and dancing her way back to the table. She ate some of her lunch and was in a rip roaring good time mood the rest of the afternoon. What holy hell was in that cupcake, I can not say, but I would also like to send a Christmas card to that baker. God bless you, who ever you are!
Oh, and to end the day, we went on some water rides and RM didn't even bother asking for the potty, she just decided to pee on me. And, she didn't even give me fair warning, I just felt the warm flow gently travel down my body as I held her in my arms while waiting for one of the water rides. What fun.
All in all, the summer travels were fun, but Ebby and I will need to have a long talk before we do anything like that again.
Ok, back to my story. I'm cheap. So, when it was time for summer to begin and we began talking about vacations, my inner Ebenezer started working overtime (and Ebenezer doesn't like overtime for obvious reasons) trying to figure out how to pay for the vacations without having to sell my one functioning kidney (Ok, I exaggerated. Both kidneys work. However, since college, they maybe would be found on the clearance rack at your local black market organ dealer. Just saying). Here were the vacations that were "must dos" for the summer - Old Orchard Beach, Maine with Nicole's family; Gainesville, FL to meet our new niece; Philly to hang out with some friends from grad school. Now, geography was not one of my strong suits growing up, but I can sure as shit tell you that Maine and Florida are pretty damn far apart. "How far apart?" you ask. I'd say that was a good question if I hadn't just told you. I'll say it again, the answer is they are pretty damn far apart. If you're going to read the blog, at least pay attention to what you just read. Geez. With that being said, I began plotting to make our vacations affordable and enjoyable. That's possible, right? Well, I guess we'll find out.
Ok, vacation one: Maine - 1 week. First, let's deal with getting there. That one's easy - we'll drive. It's only about 3 hours or so from where we live and it should be a breeze. We can fit all of our stuff in the car and we'll only need one take of gas. Lodging - check. The In-Laws rent a condo every year that sleeps a lot of people, so we can stay there. And, since it's a condo, we can cook there! Yeehaa! Vacation one: On the Cheap! Mission Accomplished. (Thank you, Haeselers!)
Vacation Two: Gainesville - 10 days. Ok, so flights to Gainesville are costly and RM now needs her own seat, so there's three of us that need seats. $$$$$$. Then, we'll need a place to stay while we're there since my brother-in-law and his family are not only adjusting to a new born, but are doing it in a home that they just bought in December and are in the process of renovating (and when I say renovating, I mean they are gutting it down to the rafters and starting fresh). Needless to say, our own place to stay is an absolute must. Ok, so let's get a place that will be big enough to hang out in, cook our meals in, and play at if we need to. $$$$$. And, of course, we can't go to Florida and not go visit Disney for at least a day. $$$$.
Vacation Three: Philly area - 3 days. Again, close enough to drive (about 4 hours) and we'll be seeing friends who are visiting from out of town and others who live there, so some meals out and some meals in. Lodging - yes, please. And, one day is going to consist of Sesame Place. Hmmm. My wallet is hyperventilating and MasterCard is already sending me flowers and thank you notes.
Holy crap. That's a lot of vacation. Translation - how in the hell am I going to pay for this without selling both of my bargain basement kidneys? Let's back track. Maine, easy. Not going to cost much at all. Florida...uh...uuummm....yeah. Ok, flying is not going to happen. Let's talk about driving. We've done it before and it wasn't so bad. Right? Nicole's sister and nephew are going to come with us which will help with driving and entertaining RM on the road. We can split the drive into two days and then we can share the costs for the trip. That won't be so bad. I know. I know. Those of you who are reading (and actually paying attention this time) are saying to yourselves, "Are you NUTS?" A two year old, an eleven year old and 3 adults in the car for two days?!?!?! And, believe it or not, I had that thought for a brief moment, but then Ebenezer (henceforth referred to "Ebby") began chirping in my head, "Flights. Parking at the airport. Renting a car. Blah. Blah. Blah." "FINE!" I yelled back in my head. "We'll drive!" And I noticed that as I yelled back at him in my head, everyone around me was looking at me, so it wasn't really so much in my head after all. (That's really bad when your shrink is yelling at her own voices.) Whatever. We're driving. And, actually, the drive down wasn't horrible. We stopped every few hours to pee and stretch. We packed food, snacks, and drinks for the car. We made up goody bags to give to the kids as we crossed each state line (which was fine until we got to Virginia. What a long state!) and we loaded up the iPad with every freaking movie I could think to let my kid watch. So, long story short, the drive down there wasn't so bad. We got to the hotel on the first night, had dinner, I checked the room for bed bugs (hell yes I did. Don't judge me. Ebby was telling me I had to because we didn't want a costly exterminator bill when we got home. Again, don't judge me), and we went to bed. We managed to stay at hotels that all included hot breakfast with the room (again, Ebby made sure of that) and we made it to Florida before dinner the next day. Spending time with family down there was great and we did manage to take the kids to Hollywood Studios for a day (thank you to the fine people at 2nd Street Organs for taking my bad kidney and making that day possible).
On the way back, we stopped over in Philly for a few days to spend time with friends. Now, here is where the trip got a little hairy. Not because of the drive (although that put people on edge). Not because of the company (although afer the car trip, I think everyone needed some time apart). Not because of the money piece (Ebby and I had reached an agreement and were doing ok together). No. What was doing us in was that we had been travelling for far too long and our little munchkin was done with not sleeping at home. (She had been sleeping with us for the trip which was an adjustment for all as we had never done that in her entire life. And let me tell you, for someone so little, she takes up an inordinate amount of room in a king bed.) So, at this point, we were a little homesick and sleep deprived. I was tired of checking for bed bugs as my paranoia was kicking into high gear (again, bad news when your shrink is also struggling with paranoid thinking) and, even though Ebby and I had come to an agreement, I was pretty much done with the whole hemorrhaging of money thing.
We get to Philly and our hotel has been overrun with a soccer tournament for young teenage boys with minimal supervision. (Do I really need to say anymore about this? No, I didn't think so either). Ok, whatever. Big place, I can deal. We meet up with our friends and make a plan for Sesame Place. Great. We get up the next morning, have a hot breakfast and head out. "Oh boy! Monkey is going to LOVE this!" That was the naive thought that ran through my head as we drove there. Once we arrived, however, I quickly came to the realization that a theme park geared toward pre-school children probably had some flaws. First, the rides were a little small in terms of the number of people each attraction could accomodate at once. At first, this gives you the impression of a cozy little ride. However, when you get in line and realize you're going to be there until your child enters middle school, your perspective begins to shift. Then, since it is a park geared toward young children, you also are quickly reminded of the fact that two year olds don't wait well. Translation: we were surrounded by a bunch of miserable, screaming children and their equally frustrated and miserable parents and we had actually chosen this as the way to spend our day. I think my frustration hit the absolute boiling point when, while waiting in line for a while, we finally got close to the attraction and my bundle of joy said she didn't want to go on "that one". Needless to say, her little butt got to ride on a ride she didn't want to go on and she was going to be happy about it, damn it! (Sidebar: This situation was reminiscent of a situation at Hollywood Studios where we waited in line for about an hour to see Buzz and Woody from Toy Story. We were literally the next people in line when they turn to us and say, "We're going to take a short break". I can't really describe what happened next, but my face must have said it all as their handler looked at me and said, "I promise we'll just be 2 minutes" and they were. Of course, just as they took their places and the lady turned to us to call us over, our little angel turns to me and says, "I need to go potty". For any of you who have a child potty training or who remember hearing stories of this time, when the kid says, "I need to go potty" you now have a 3 second window to find a bathroom. Luckily for us, the lady mercifully let us go use the potty and sneak back in through the back entrance so we didn't have to wait again. I think I may have to send her a Christmas card this year). Ok, back to Sesame Place. When we last left our heroines, they were battling the grumpy, napless throngs of pre-schoolers who were pinching and snotting all over the characters while being supervised (or not) by equally grumpy, napless, snot covered adults. We get off the ride and, after RM had cried and whined for the first two hours of the day, we decided let's stop and have some lunch to give everyone a break. (Our friends had bravely packed a picnic lunch and left the park to go enjoy that. We had also packed a picnic lunch, but I was ready to kill someone, so I took my frustrations out on my wallet and waistline. Truly coping mechanisms I have come to embrace over the years (ok, so maybe I'm not the shrink for you. Stop judging me.)) We got to the food court and Nicole found us a table while I got in line for food. Princess Cries A Lot came with me to pick out her meal and it was here that I came to realize the diabolic marketing genius of Sesame Place. When we got to the front of the cafeteria style line, the desserts were the very first things to pick out. Of course a kids place is going to have dessert out first! And, the very first thing out is a super sized cupcake with enough frosting on it to paint my house and it looks like Elmo. So, of course, Princess picks out the cupcake and I, of course, agree to give it to her to make her stop crying for any length of time. Well, my friends, I don't know what they put in those cupcakes there, but I'm fairly certain there was a pint sized dose of kiddie crack because my kid's total mood shifted before we even got to the register to pay for our meal. She had sucked the face right off the cupcake and was literally singing and dancing her way back to the table. She ate some of her lunch and was in a rip roaring good time mood the rest of the afternoon. What holy hell was in that cupcake, I can not say, but I would also like to send a Christmas card to that baker. God bless you, who ever you are!
Oh, and to end the day, we went on some water rides and RM didn't even bother asking for the potty, she just decided to pee on me. And, she didn't even give me fair warning, I just felt the warm flow gently travel down my body as I held her in my arms while waiting for one of the water rides. What fun.
All in all, the summer travels were fun, but Ebby and I will need to have a long talk before we do anything like that again.
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