Motherhood Uncensored

Okay. So Maybe I'm Not As Grown Up As I Thought.

It's only fair that after I write a mature and all-growed-up post about understanding my truly good fortune in this extremely difficult world we live in my husband received word that he must indeed do 45 days with the Guard unit in Delaware.

Yes. I know it's not 90 days. And I know it's not a year deployment.

But it still sucks.

To be clear, I'm not moving up there. I ordered moving announcements for God sakes. I'M NOT MOVING.

After a few days of going it on my own again, it's not as bad as I thought it would be. The weather has been gorgeous so we've been able to enjoy our deck and our yard and the most genius invention ever made for two children under 3: THE WATER AND SAND TABLE.

And I'm actually getting things done -- scheduling midwife and pediatrician appointments, interviewing doulas, getting preschool applications in, drilling and screwing in a freaking lion proof baby gate. Now I'm most certainly not scrubbing baseboards and my hands have yet to touch the vacuum, but the house is picked up at night. The kids aren't reciting Shakespeare yet, but Drew is waving "hi" and "bye" to all passers by, including stray dogs and the UPS man.

And I'm only staying up to midnight so I can do that thing called "work." Technically, if I can keep my brain in Central Time Zone, that's only 11pm! Not bad at all.

Thankfully, the Messiah has returned -- at least to my home in the form of a lovely older Brazilian woman who is dying to babysit. Alternating visits from Michael Vartan and Aidan Shaw (Sex and the City), in the form of a large pink vibrating cone, are set to begin early next week. And hello, Grey's Anatomy!

Truth be told, it will be nice to have an extra excuse to visit my friends and my mom. And if I'm desperate for blog fodder and need a good reality check, the in-laws. And being pregnant in Philly, ala water ice, cheese steaks, and pizza, isn't so bad.

But I do wish we could all be together again. That he could be with me at the ultrasound when we find out who has been craving salads and fruit. And go shopping for furniture. And choose paint. And pick out porch chairs.

We've got a lot of shit to settle. Not just with this house, but with our relationship. Admittedly, the 15-minute a night phone conversations don't hurt what has been a rocky four months. But every time I see him, it's like we're starting over. We're treading water.

We're not getting anywhere.

But it is what it is. Now off to gaze into the night sky at the beautiful bright stars.

Silver Lining

All good things seem to come with a "but" for me. I'm not sure if it's because I'm always seeing things as they should be or how I want them to be, and not how they actually are.

It's a momentary high followed by a sometimes harsh reality, like a beautiful sunset that leads into the dark, bleak night.

My mother is coming down to Atlanta so I don't have to fly up to Philadelphia on Tuesday for my trip. But she's hassling me about what flight to take. And whether she can leave the night I get back or if not then, at the butt crack of dawn the next morning. And she hopes nothing will happen to the kids and if it does she doesn't want me to get mad or blame her like I did when she let my dogs out on the coldest day of the Philadelphia winter without leashes and *surprise* they ran away.

"Just keep your eye on them. And don't let them off their leashes" I joked. Maybe the in-laws would be easier.

I've been feeling pretty great with this pregnancy going into my 16th week and I'm way off track for another 70lb weight gain. But I haven't really felt the baby move and maybe because I'm not craving sweets that means there's something wrong with the baby and I won't be able to find out because I don't have a babysitter to watch my kids so I can go to the midwife which I don't yet have anyway.

"I'm feeling great. You can't beat a pregnancy where you're craving salad and fruit." It's because I'm carrying a rabbit.

And I'm back in my house, my gorgeous beautiful, amazing house. But my husband is gone all week and I don't have a babysitter yet and I spent three hours putting up a baby gate last night that involved using a drill (eek) and I haven't found a midwife or a doula or a preschool for Quinlan.

"I'm so glad to be home," I tell people. Perhaps the tiny house in Little Rock wasn't so bad after all.

If I didn't know any better, this would just be how things were. But for some reason, I can't keep staring at the green grass on the other side. And as I think about the many many many challenges I've faced even just over the last few years, I wonder if it's just time for me voice my discontent, acknowledge the suckitude, and then cleanse myself acceptance.

Acceptance that my mom is my mom. And she probably won't be changing anytime soon. Acceptance that I will be spending many nights alone in this house. And that probably won't be changing anytime soon.

The truth is I'm lucky to have a mom that is alive and with me. Many would wish to be so fortunate. I'm lucky to have my health. Many have been fighting hard (and winning) for their own.

And I'm lucky to have all my beautiful children, sleeping peacefully within an arm's reach. Many have beautiful children "sleeping" way beyond their grasp.

These amazing women challenge me to search a little harder for the silver lining. They bravely stare into the dark sky and notice the gorgeous stars.

Maybe it's time I started looking a little harder.

What blogs challenge you to see the silver lining?

Hey! I'm Here! In Atlanta! For Good! I Think!

As I drove through however many straight hours of pouring down rain, with one brief stopover at my favorite mall in Tupelo, Mississippi (birthplace of Elvis, in case you're wondering), I had several realizations:

1) Trying to pull out white hairs from the crown of your head while driving is never really a great idea. Especially in the dark.

2) My son was not created for long car rides, although driving until 3am was actually a smart move on our part.

3) It was not a smart move, however, for my bowels, or the bags under my eyes. 

4) I wish had a DVD player. And an iPhone. And a driver. 

Upon arriving home, I then realized the following:

1) Apparently I made it onto some crazed PR person's list because waiting for me were total of 24 dvds while I was gone, half of which are Barney.

2) I think I have dandruff, which isn't so bad except when you notice it at 3am after driving in the car in the pouring rain for 10 hours.

3) I really really really really really missed my house.

Edited to add: AND BRAVO! YAY TOP CHEF OH HOW I'VE MISSED YOU!
It's good to be home.

The Lord Be With You, Little Rock

I'll save you my gruesome yet very poetic ode to of the month long bout with stomach flu and the cold from hell. Or my grab-you-in-the-gut tear jerker about how I'll always remember Little Rock as the place where my 3rd born was conceived. Or the post about how I'm still a little traumatized about the three men "hanging" from the cross on the side of the road.

Rather, I'll just tell you that Little Rock rocks. And so do the bloggers that hold down the fort. Or the rock. Or whatever it is here that you need to hold down.

But I'm ready to get back to my totally unfurnished house with lots of steps for my son to fall down and lots of carpet for me to vacuum, and lots of toilets for me to scrub.

Or the person that I plan on paying to scrub them. (heh)

Click on my ads. It helps to have my toilets cleaned. (Okay not really, but that sounded kind of funny when I said it out loud).

I'm looking forward to decorating and furnishing and running my ass off after those kids all by myself since my husband will be in Little Rock until the end of May. Okay, maybe not that part, but I am hoping this is it. However, a little bird with a cute ass tried to tell me that we might be living in Philly all summer courtesy of our fine US Military.

HA. HAHAHA. HA. *barf*

So, let's all pretend we didn't hear that and move along to what IS important.

Pick of the Week: Another doozy from our Mother's Day Guide. I just think these are super cool.

Podcast: Tracey Clark and Kate Inglis from Shutter Sisters!

Blog Blast: Oh this is a good one. Gifts Gone Right, Gifts Gone Wrong. C'mon and pull out those nasty old things your husband tried to pass off as a gift. Or better, what your mother-in-law gave you. We want pics, stories -- good or bad. Here's mine.

And you can win a $250 gc to the spa of your choice courtesy of GetInHerHead.com (we're actually writing them up at Cool Mom Picks -- smart site started by two parents!)

Giveaway: $50 Gift Card to Itty Bitty Lady Bug -- just click here and follow the directions. And also, the lovely Dr. Ann Dunnewold is giving away three copies of her book. Just leave me a comment, any comment (preferably a funny one that is flattering). I'll pick three winners at random on April 30.

We're driving all day. Think of me. And be glad you are not in the car. Of course, it's raining cats and dogs right now. Not sure how far we're going to get...

Good [God Where Do I Live Again?] Friday

There is certainly no dearth of religion here in Arkansas. I'm still trying to figure out what terrible things people have done here to incite so many televangelists, Christian radio shows, and "I Am Love" billboards. So, I shouldn't have been surprised when, on the way home from the mall yesterday, I passed by three dirty, bloody white men hanging (by ropes) from crosses.

WHATHFUDJKFDNLDKFTIONDOFNDFDFSNLD?

I saw the traffic slowing down and cars pulling over a few hundred yards up ahead, and considering all the people standing around, a few holding signs, I thought it was a pro-life rally.

But then, after seeing the three "bloody" men, Roman soldiers, and weeping women, I found myself wishing it was a pro-life rally.

I fully understand the importance of the Easter holiday to Christians. Heck, technically speaking I am one, although I was pregnant and "illegally" married through the entire Catholic conversion process. I'm not sure what that makes me (HeatheN with a capital "H," maybe?), but in any case, I get Easter.

I really do.

And I can see the annoyance that said Christians might have when we heathens forget the "reason for the season" and gorge ourselves in Cadbury eggs and try to see how many jelly beans we can fit into our mouths.

But, I'm not quite sure exactly what message these "performance art pieces" (I use that three-word combination very lightly) are trying to send. I can't really say that seeing such a display will make me want to go to church and repent. In fact, it actually makes me angry that they would attempt to burn such a scary and horrible event into peoples' minds.

Like the minds of my little children who would have been asking me to explain this to them over and over. Because that's what Jesus teaches us. To ignite fear in our children in order to bring them closer to Him.

I just don't think that's what He would want.

I'd Post a Picture of the Hathor-Fetus, But Apparently Here in Arkansas They Are Trying to Save Paper

I'm pleased to report that me, my fetus, and my extremely full bladder all emerged from the ghetto downtown Little Rock radiology clinic unscathed, except without one really cool totally unclear "what the fuck is that thing" picture.

At least there was a QuikShop right outside the door (complete with window bars) so I could purchase my celebratory bag of Ruffles "Cheese and Sour Cream" chips and a Twix. They go perfectly with a bladder full of water. Seriously.

Now let me back up just a bit to say that it never fails that every single time I go for one of these ultrasounds, the person who schedules the appointments fails to tell me to drink lots of water. I really should know that in order to see anything worth a snot, I've got to have a full bladder. And really, I'd much prefer to fill my bladder with filtered tap water from my own cup as opposed to water-fountain water out of a large styrofoam one in a questionable clinic where some dude was totally walking around in a prison uniform.

I swear.

But, I forgot, no one reminded me, and even though I swore that my bladder was full to the clearly hopped-up receptionist with scarily shaky, red splotchy hands who couldn't stop stretching her mouth out every 2 seconds like she was trying to pop her ears, it wasn't enough.

So, when I finally got back to the room, I was met with a no more than 24-year-old ultrasound tech who I swear was cracking her gum to the beat of some rap song. She was nice enough, if you think dumping a glob of blue gel on your extremely clean and valuable Old Navy jeans is nice.

Doesn't she know these cost me $5.99 on super sale and they're the only freaking jeans THAT FIT ME?

Anyway, the 9 week 4 day old fetus with a 156 heart rate looks great. In fact, according to her "Look how cayyyyyuttttttte. It's mooooooooving!" Followed by "Awwwwwwwwwww... look at it's leeeeeyeg stumps!"

Phew. The kid has leg stumps. I can rest easier tonight.

But then, when I hoped for a print-out of my little baby bean housed in my one heck of a gorgeous uterus for all the world to see, I got nothing. Apparently only "old skewell" machines print out pictures. The new ones get put on a cd that get sent to you in the mail.

Because that's so much more economical and eco-conscious.

So not only do I have a blank digital pregnancy test. But I have no u/s picture. This kid is definitely #3, huh?

This Would Be Why I've Wanted to Remove My Sinuses With a Pair of Chopsticks for the Last Three Days

One lousy thing that I can't blame on the fetus. 

Foreshadowing Blows

Wouldn't it be my luck that my smart little ode to the commode would foreshadow the exact spot where I would find myself for waaaaaaay too many times to count over the last 24 hours or so?

Except there was no ballet. More like some Martha Graham reject rectial meets a Mosh pit.

Yep. I give my beautiful children the gift of life and my perky breasts, and in return, I get a stomach bug, complete with hugely amplified stomach gurgles, and massive shit fests.

Truth be told, I'm a pooper, not a puker. (I was an occasional smoker and midnight toker too, in case you're singing the song right along with me). In the long scheme of things, I've been very happy as the "pooper," but after pushing two kids through my zamboozle (You like that? I think I made it up.), I'd much prefer being the "puker."

I mean, if you're sporting a party in your backside with guests who sorely [heh] overextend their welcome, like "anal fissure" and "hemorrhoids," pooping once a day is an event, but fourteen times?

Well. I'd rather puke.

I did, however, have a great excuse for extra blog reading. Of course, that means I was probably reading your blog on the shitter.

Sadly, that's not so much different than any other day.

[And the nails were done in OPI -- don't know the name but it's brown with a lovely red undertone. Thank you for asking. And for the compliments. When all else fails, at least I know I still have good toes.]

Happy Pooper, er, SUPER Tuesday!

Don't Be Fooled by the Little Rock That I Got

I admit to whining about this move. So sue me. But leave it to a few punchy readers, and a wise and extremely gorgeous woman who shared with me her Darfur Theory of Moving to put me in my place.

Basically, if you're not moving to Darfur, then you've probably got it pretty damn good. 

That or Mississippi. The stretch of stinky catfish farms they call "landscape" down there is pretty damn close to an African desert. Except I think the desert is actually prettier and doesn't stink as much.

So when people ask me if I like Little Rock, it's a pretty simple answer.

Now don't get me wrong. There are definitely some downsides to living here, including some pretty treacherous roads and a whole lot of religion. But considering I don't listen to the radio anyway, and obviously don't watch television anymore, it's not such a big deal. And while my particular town (north of the city) is dry, that just means I can't get an Ultimate Mudslide with my TGIF 3-course special.

But since the last time I set foot in a TGIF a waitress dropped a bar glass on my foot which ended with me requiring eight nasty and painful stitches, I'm okay with not having to eat at TGIF.

See. Little Rock has my safety in mind. Plus, with all the people praying on the radio and the television, that's got to provide some type of heightened protection.

And if want to eat anywhere else, I can just load up before I go. Very economical, this city. 

Aside from my safety and my bank account, Little Rock is very concerned with my appearance. They've conveniently placed some type of waterfall, pond, or miniature lake in all their Asian restaurants so instead of stuffing my face with white rice and teriyaki chicken, I'm running after my two children who think that they need to catch their own sushi fish and swim for change to tip the chef.

Plus, thanks to the the base gym, I can drag the two kids along and run on the treadmill while they chase each other in the fenced in "family work out" room. Imagine a Medieval Times type set up, except instead of eating large turkey thighs, you're trying to work yours off all while your fellow mothers are yelling threats like "Don't make me get off this bicycle, little boy" while your kids try to avoid getting rammed by some wild children with large square shaped mats.

And what I can only attribute to nothing short of a miracle, I scored a pedicure and hair cut appointment at the town's best spa on a short notice Saturday morning.

I hear you, Little Rock. Those feet were pretty damn scary. 

So not only am I thinner, a bit scared of some of the base wives, and nicely coiffed and scrubbed, within the three weeks that I have been here I've virtually met some extremely friendly bloggers, one of which sent my blog to the Democrat-Gazette for a feature article in the family section.

Hello, gorgeous and impeccably dressed Democrat-Gazette readers! Not only am I a yeller, but a thief as well! So glad to know you.

I have received cheers and congratulations for my new favorite shirt because apparently Arkansas does not heart Huckabee. Who knew?

And if that's not enough, almost every single person I've met or emailed with here in the city, including well-known sex author Suzi Parker, has told me that my name is terribly familiar. Like they know me.

That's because Little Rock loves me so much, they have a store named in my honor.

I guess the "E" in my name messed up my chances of getting a discount. But if you're in the market for a Lacoste shirt in Little Rock, that is the place to go, my friends. I always knew I had very expensive, preppy taste hidden under my printed tee-shirt, dirty jeans, and free ghetto pedicure flip flops (that aren't really for going out in public except I'm a dork -- hence this photo opp).

So thanks for the welcome, Little Rock. Hell, without the southern accents and Waffle Houses, you could pass for Jersey.

Girl Scout's Honor

The only neighborly visitor we’ve had in the two weeks we’ve lived here was from the resident girl scout.

“Do we need girl scout cookies?,” my husband yells from the door.

Now what kind of messed up rhetorical question is that? I mean who really ever needs girl scout cookies? The fat content in those puppies is enough to simultaneously re-clog the arteries of an entire cardiac unit.

That’s not generally something my heart or my ass needs. Ever.

It’s one thing when they set up shop outside of the local supermarket and before you know it you’re signing your life away for a box of Do-si-dos that you consume on the way home just so you can hide the evidence. Hell, I’ve seen grown men make it through an entire cookie aisle and fully stocked bakery emptyhanded only to be suckered into a case of cookies by a couple of little girls wearing their brown and green uniforms complete with side pony tails and freckles.

But when they knock on your door, they’re a bit harder to escape. I mean what grumpy old miser says “no” to a $5 box of cookies from a little girl and her fully stocked wagon goodness. In fact, I’m pretty sure they carry around a credit card machine and a check swiper since most people don’t have enough cash stashed in their house for two damn boxes of those things.

Meanwhile, there we stood. The new suckers neighbors caught with our extra big cookie-needing pants down around our ankles.

“We shouldn’t have answered the door,” I whispered to my husband as I approached him from the kitchen. He ignored me, entranced by the complicated ordering chart already full of cookie orders that were bound ruin some poor person’s new year’s resolution and inevitably end up left on the work “snack table” or turned into a pie.

“So what do you want?,” he asks me.

“Um, what are those called, tinfoils or something” I ask, sort of jokingly to the eight-year-old standing on my doorstep.

“Trefoils” she said, unamused, pointing to their picture on the box with her very pointy pen.

“No,” I said. Those aren’t it.”

“Well, everyone likes the Thin Mints.”

“Ew. No way.” For me, chocolate and mint together is like some terrible incestuous relationship.

“What’s the one that like a square dance move?”

“Do-si-dos.” She points again, her little Ked-sneakered foot tapping.

“Okay. I got it. You know, the ones that have the coconut and the caramel and are like 12 grams of fat each. Yeah those,” I say, challenging her cookie knowledge.

“Oh. Samoas.” I swear she rolled her eyes.

“Right. Apparently we need two boxes of those.”

Here’s hoping we’ve moved before they actually end up on my ass our doorstep. I suppose there are benefits to moving a lot.

Taps

I spent all morning trying to find something for Quinlan to do while we're here.

And all I came up with is tap.

Tap dancing, that is.

I don't really like tap dancing. I know... Savion Glover, Shirley Temple, hell 42nd Street bla bla bla. How can you hate on Gene Kelly in "Singin' in the Rain" you ask? Sorry. It's like learning to play an instrument without getting the music theory. Tap as an offshoot of dancing is fantastic. But as the thing that starts my daughter on her career as a famous dancer?

Not so much.

I admit that as a young three year old ballet dancer, I envied the tappers. They always had better costumes, complete with swingy fringe and a plastic hat. Plus they got to wear those loud shiny black shoes and slide around the floor. And their music was insanely catchier.

Damn you Good Ship Lollipop! I WISH.

But it always seemed like the girls that were in tap were the ones whose parents just wanted to put them in something to keep them busy and burn off some energy bouncing around in their little clappity clappity shoes doing steps that just looked like they had lost complete control of their feet.

But ballet? That was where the serious three year old dance types were. Hair in a bun, black leotard and pink tights, and pink ballet shoes.

None of those shiny blue leggings, crazy skirts, or ponytails.

Honestly, I still remember my first ballet class. In fact, my daughter is hopping around in my actual first pair of ballet shoes right now. I loved every single thing about my classes -- Miss Charlene, the beautiful overly made up anorexic ballerina turned teacher. My pink polyester leotard that my mom sewed my name in that I later accidentally-on-purpose pooped in.

After years as a semi-professional ballet dancer (didn't you know?), ballet was and still is, the love of my life.

So, it can't be tap. It just can't. My child will not shuffle off to buffalo before she learns first position. And she won't time step before she jete's. 

But considering it's the ONLY thing I've found (no Music Together, no art classes, no nothing), I might have to suck it up. Because in these parts, I hear it's either that or Tae Kwan Do.

And since I'm already getting my ass kicked by my preschooler AND my near-one-year-old (can you believe it?) on a daily basis, I don't want to give them any more opportunities to hone their skills.

You Can Take Away My His and Hers Vanities, My New Bedroom Set, and My Shiny Hardwood Floors

But my Bravo? Did you have to take away my Bravo?

Woe is me, people.

The Not-so-Midnight Train From Georgia

All is well, particularly after two straight viewings of Cinderella.

But then, the twilight zone.

All hell breaks loose.

A good straight hour of screaming makes for one hell of a mall walk.

Except then you have to chase after him. Hmmmm... screaming isn't so bad.

So it's a little smaller than our other house, but I hear ones this size go for at least half a mil in NYC.

Thankfully princesses don't care how big their castles are.

At least that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

When They Say "Little," They Are Not Kidding

Heh. Get it?

Okay. So I'm Sort of Freaking Out. You Know. Just a Little Bit.

You have to know things are bad for me when I start to get weepy while scrubbing my stove top. But it's my stove top, people. And I reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally don't want to leave it for another stove top.

I'm about two seconds from searching for "most depressing songs that will make me cry so I can rationalize feeling sorry for myself when really there are waaaaaaaay worse things in life" on YouTube. Hell. Where's that damn breastfeeding montage? That's enough to send me right over the edge.

Honestly, I've been pretty gung-ho about the whole thing.

Woo! Little Rock! Yeah baby! *she says with incredibly forced excitement that makes her look like she either needs to take shit or just took a really bad one (in her pants)*

Thank goodness my kids haven't figured out what that look really says (other than the poop part) because then the cat would be out of the bag. And then I wouldn't have to just be mildly sad that we're leaving when really it's more like the gnashing of teeth as their father drags me out of the house, my nails leaving indentations in our thrice-vacuumed carpet kind of sad.

Dramatic much? Nah. Me? Never.

But damnit I will not cry. Who cries for Atlanta? Not me. Nope. No way.

I'm not cryin'.

(Thanks for the link to cheer me up, Deb).

All Quiet On This Southern Front

I can now sit back on my couch and listen to the sounds of parental silence -- my son's anti-nap yelping and daughter's coughs --  thanks to my in-laws' departure. I've moved all my glasses and plasticware back to their rightful cabinets. And I'm trying to figure out a way to get rid of the very loud talking Dora book without somehow tipping them off all the way from Philadelphia.

I "accidentally" (ahem) threw out this weird gnome-flower-fakerock garden clock that they sent us for our yard and I heard about that all weekend. I'm pretty sure they'll notice if one 99 cent Dora book goes missing.

They did love our house, so much so that my mother-in-law couldn't stop talking about it. She envied my large "great" room and pined for my kitchen cabinets. But when someone says "If I had cabinets like that I'd spread all my stuff out neatly and not pile it up" (and then proceeds to "accidentally" move your shit around) it's hard not to wonder if she's being complimentary or passive aggressive.

Eh. They're my cabinets and I can organize them how I want. Nya nya nya.

I suppose I would have been more interested in talking about which color I wanted to paint my bedroom and what kind of window treatments I wanted in the guest room if I wasn't moving Saturday.

SATURDAY! ACK!

Thankfully, my FIL ran defense for me when the firing squad got a little out of control.

"She's thinking about MOVING!" he said to my MIL after she asked me if I had thought about what kind of kitchen table I wanted.

"Oh three months is nothing" she replied.

Right. For you. Since you don't have to move.

But it's true. Three months is really a small inconvenience in the long scheme of things. And oh how I've always wanted to live in Arkansas!

Ha. Okay. That's a little too optimistic and peachy for me. But with this small inconvenience comes many conveniences -- a dad home every night, an air force base full of kids and things to do, an already friendly SINK (single-income-no-kids aka military spouse) who loves to babysit, and a plethora of new adventures and blog fodder.

Besides, you can't beat the irony of me living on a street named for one of my most favorite Southern states.

(If anyone has major connections and can get me a cheap one-way mini or passenger van rental from Atlanta to Little Rock, please email me).

Santa Got Runover By a Southerner Driving a Pick-Up While Talking on His Cellphone

It has become very clear to me that people should not drive while talking on their cell phones. Except me, of course. And moms of the same persuasion. Because moms can process two screaming kids, driving a car, and shoving some sort of weird flattened sandwich and carrot sticks in their mouth all while chatting with a friend about their day.

Okay, so maybe that's not the safest thing to do. But at least I realize it, unlike at least four drivers we passed today who were driving in the left lane at least 10 miles under the speed limit all yapping away on their phones.

Are people not familiar with "hands-free?" Maybe they think a blue tooth is sign that you have some kind of disease down here.

"Wut. You got a balew tooth? Aw shiyit man. That's bayad."

Honestly, I have no problem with people talking to their 6,000 friends on their cell phones in their cars. And I love a good opportunity to use my horn. Plus, I get that people move a little slower down here. There's no reason to rush, right? Enjoy your deep conversation on a busy 12 lane highway in heavy traffic.

But just do us all a favor and do it in the RIGHT FUCKING LANE. 

Be Careful What You Wish For

*I interrupt this post to send you here. The Environmental Working Group just released a study that notes high levels of BPA in almost all formulas. Forget worrying about plastic bottles. This is the real issue at hand!*

I reluctantly stopped to get gas before jumping on the freeway yesterday. I've learned quickly thanks to one long afternoon with two small children and only one teething cracker and a juice box in the Atlanta traffic that you must gas up prior to going anywhere, even if it's two miles home.

Screw snow storms. I need a survival kit for my ride home from the grocery store.

My only option to gas up between home to the highway is the "questionable persons" gas station, conveniently situated by two "Hot Sexy Naked Girlz" strip joints, meaning that on each occasion that I've stopped (I'm not kidding), I've seen some shady dudes pull up to a screeching halt while a scarily skinny and scantily clad dressed woman hops out, and runs across the street (or really, 6 lane road). That's pretty damn hard in a pair of clear plastic fuck-me platforms.

Clarification: It LOOKS pretty damn hard. I mean, I never ran across the street in my clear plastic fuck-me platforms, thank you very much.

Anyway, so I'm pumping gas, tapping my foot because as you know, that generally makes the gas come out quicker, and up pulls a truck behind my car with two thirty-something dudes, one shouting to me as he hopped out of his car pointing at my Mississippi tags.

"Hey baby! Are you from Mississippi? I never meet anyone from Mississippi around here. Because I'm from Mississippi! God I miss it? Don't you miss it? Hey, you here alone? Cause you know..."

Thanks for making me feel relevant, Mississippi, if only for one brief and very skeevy moment.

--

Free shit alert.

INOGOTOLILRO

*New twisted updates to this situation below.

I have officially talked myself out of moving to Little Rock. It certainly helped that the living options were "deplorable" as my husband put it. Granted, my husband thinks an empty cup sitting on my nightstand for longer than one day is "deplorable," but still, I trust him on this one.

Plus, I don't really want to go.

Our options included furnished off-base housing which, with two large dogs, it's pretty rough. The on-base furnished housing available to us is just as small and about the same amount of money.

So, for now, I'm staying here and he'll come home on the weekends.

We survived "Week One: Project Let's Hope Kristen Doesn't Go Nuts Alone With Two Kids." Heck, I got out of the house twice! Sure, it wasn't until Thursday, but at least I got out.

Oh, and the cute guy at the Post Office smiled at me. Which was soooo great until I realized it was because I had a HUGE piece of food in my teeth.

And my daughter doesn't have all the Noggin theme songs memorized, although that's mainly because "Lazytown" really freaks me the fuck out, so I refuse to let her watch that one.

Amidst what was a crazy (but extremely productive, no?) work week, I played "Princess Hula-Girl Babysitter" and "Princess Strawberry Shortcake Cooking Show."

Yes, we watched our fair share of "Max and Boobies" (as I like to call it). But my daughter is slowly learning the words to the Beastie Boys' "Intergalactic" which she fondly calls "The Robot Song" with words like "Intergalactic Ambatary, Ambatary Intergalactic."

Pretty damn good parenting, if I do say so myself. I mean what three-year-old knows how to say "Intergalactic" huh?

And I am in search of a nanny. The money we'll save with me not moving there can be spent on some much needed help. Nothing major, just a few hours a few times a week might just allow me to get dressed before 4pm and get a shower more than twice a week.

Of course, since Atlanta is running out of water, I may be forced to shower less anyway. How cool would that be?? -- "Mom Singlehandedly Saves Atlanta Water Supply By Just Doing What She Does Everyday Which is Not Showering."

But honestly, my only real concern is what this is going to do to my marriage. It's already been like of those roller coaster rides that's really fun for about the first thirty seconds and then when all the crazy twists and turns come you just want to get the fuck off or vomit or both until you actually get off and realize that it wasn't really that bad and by holding on to each other, you survived and might actually like to do it again.

The truth is, however, that he calls to talk to the kids. And then I don't hear from him again for the rest of the night. And then when he comes home, he lays in bed, or vacuums the steps, or plays "The Best Daddy in the Whole Wide World Mommy You Suck Go Away Because Daddy Rocks."

I want to tell him about all the things that were going on with me. Not with the kids. Just with me.

But we will manage. I will manage. And considering my no-guilt policy (which includes not thinking about the fact that I took Q out of her potential preschool), I'm feeling pretty damn good.

Or maybe it's that I have officially returned to almost all my pre-pregnancy clothes.

And, thanks to a slowly dwindling milk supply, my pre-pubescent bras.

Eh. You can't win them all.

*Okay. So... apparently after the huz's disgust, the housing office came up with a 3br 1.5 bathroom stand alone furnished house on base this morning. We're taking it. So I am going. But not until after Christmas through April. Can this get ANYMORE ANNOYING?! UGH!

Oh Those Ingenious Southerners!

Even though I've lived in the South for almost five years on and off, it still holds many mysteries that I have yet to solve. For one, who decided it was okay to deep fry a pickle? Also, what exactly does "might could" mean? And what is with this obsession with bows?

Yes. Hair bows.

Now I know that it's not just the South that has a penchant for larger than the child's actual head hair bows. Sort of like Midwestern hair, there is certainly a large conglomerate of bow lovers out where the sun don't shine for but a few months out of the year. Maybe that's why they are wearing bows -- to celebrate not having to wear a skull cap and boots.

But in my own personal experience, having lived in both the Midwest and the South, the Southern folks don't fuck around when it comes to bows (yes, that's a compliment South. Take it while you can) because Dag-nabbit, the instant that baby comes out, they slap a bow right on her head.

Or technially, glue. 

Or some weird adhesive that is "long lasting" but then comes right off. Or, better, Karo Syrup. No wait. Toothpaste.

And KY Jelly. (I swear I'm not just making that one up, JULIE).

Why I ask? Why the baldy bow?

Is it not clear from the miles of taffetta and chiffon on the one month old baby that she is not a girl? Do her triple lacy socks not indicate to anyone with eyeballs that she is indeed of the female persuasion? Isn't the customary one-day old ear piercing enough? (Thanks TNG). Have you no better use for your KY Jelly people of the South? I beseech you!

But alas, as the good Yankee who is trying to embrace my new surroundings (hellooo, new blog duds people), I will embrace this "tradition" whole heartedly. 

My baldie *ahem* needed a little sprucing up anyway. 

For Halloween I Decided to Dress Up Like a Vaginally Challenged Mother in Denial About Moving to Little Rock for Five Months. You?

Apparently I'm still suppressing all my emotions regarding this very closely impending temporary move (t-move? temp-ove?) to Little Rock. I realized this the other day when I found myself bawling on the couch, about halfway through a bag of 100 Grands.

[Note to self: Do not think you're being extra smart by purchasing large bags of halloween candy that you looooove because then you won't mind having "leftovers" because duh you'll just eat them all before the actual Halloween night because with your luck you'll get your period back and have to move again]

Oh and so much for that pants size thing.

The longer I'm in my wonderful house, the more I reaaaaaaally don't want to leave for an old transitional furnished house on a base in Little Rock.

Plus it doesn't help that all two of my very friendly and well meaning Arkansas readers have emailed me to say "the area near the base, is um, well, interesting so if you need a place to go..."

Um. Thanks, guys.

Actually, they've been cool. I just reaaaaaaaaalllllly like it here.

And so, when the huz broke the news that he will indeed go on orders November 12 to Little Rock, not Dobbins, that nice base up the street from us, I thought, for an extremely lengthy moment, that perhaps I could really just stay here.

But then that preschool already took all my money. And we'd be alone.

A lot.

And that just doesn't bode will for my bowels, amongst other things.

So I'm going. We're all going.

After Thanksgiving is over, I will pack up our suitcases, toys, and anything else I can fit into my truck and we will drive due West for eight hours to our next destination on this seemingly long ass journey.

You will come with me, right?

Don't cry for meeeeeee Atlanta! I do enough for all of us, particularly at 3am when Mommy is fast asleep.

You Do Know How I Was Dying to Respond, Don't You?

[D-CountyFreecycle] WANTED; LOOKING FOR ALLTYPES OF FLUTES.

IM AIMING TO START A COLLECTION OF THEM. THANK YOU IF YOU COULD HELP OUT.

That's Probably Why They Call it SOUTH Jersey

It takes only a quick visit home to realize that my slanderous opinion of the South started way back when I was a young high-banged lass growing up in South Jersey.

If Mississippi is the state that time forgot, then South Jersey is not far behind. All it takes is a quick visit to a local mall or a WaWa to figure out that South Jersey is living up to its name.

The South.

Now, there's certainly not a southern drawl to be found around these parts, but many folks would probably agree that a Jersey accent can be almost as annoying and fairly difficult to understand. There is, of course, the famous "adding of the s" to everything, including "yous" and my favorite bookstore "Barnes and Nobles." And I'm always a fan of dropping prepositions -- "Down to the shore" is "Down the shore;" clearly four words takes way to much time and energy to say.

If Southern women are schooled in the art of Southern Hospitality, I'd say South Jersian woman are famous for the opposite. Granted, they'd probably give you a pair of stirrup pants, a betassled leather jacket, and acid wash stretch jeans right off their tanning bed bodies. But aside from that, there is no filter; most of what they say sounds like something that in most places would start a fight. Of course, New Yorkers get accused of that, however, they're usually dressed in $400 pumps and a Prada coat, not uggs and a Members only jacket. And nobody wants to mess with a 20-something with large wooly boots and a plether coat.

In July.

If the Southern vernacular of "might-coulds," the "y'alls" and the "fixins" might lend themselves to lower intelligence (you know, for those judgmental types), I'm pretty sure that telling your son he won't get "jack" if he doesn't get into his stroller and then proceeding to tell him that means "jackshit" when he asks is almost just as bad.

And while Mississippians are clearly contributing to the deterioration of the Ozone with their massive amounts of barbeque and black-eye-pea powered farts, South Jersians are single-handedly contributing to the green house effect with the number two per capita use of Aquanet (second only to nursing homes and assisted living facilities).

But regardless of how many black-lined eyes and lips I encounter, it's still nice to come home and see that nothing has changed.

Besides, it makes my oversized shirt and saggy bottom jeans look somewhat fashionable. These days, that's worth its weight in gold.

Or a better, a WaWa coffee and a Yeungling beer.

The Best Things in Life Are Free[cycled]

I figured that a good way to make up for all the thousands of diapers I've donated to landfills over the last few years was to join Freecycle. Just saying I'm a member seems to absolve my past Styrofoam and plastic tampon applicator sins.

Plus, I missed getting the 140 emails from Facebook so I figured this was a better option.

Now my limited knowledge of Freecycle prior to joining was that it was a give and take sort of place where if people had leftover pipecleaners, an old pair of sneakers, or a broken fan, they could list them on the site and some pipecleaner collector or weirdo with an old sneaker fetish could pick them up from you, thus saving them from eventually becoming the nasty smog-filled air that we breathe.

You've got to figure that anything worth any major value would be sold on eBay or Craigslist. And anything not worth selling but clearly not garbage material would be donated to a local charity of some kind.

Right?

So that would leave gobs of wire hangers, some popsicle sticks, and baby food jars. Things that I would definitely throw away, but people might want. For some crazy wire hanger party or popsicle stick festival.

Hey. I don't judge.

But then I realized that not only were people giving away decent things, like bags of clothes and a record player, but people were asking for things. Apparently you can send out "Wanted" emails, you know, in case YOU are the one having a wire hanger party or popsicle stick festival.

However, that's not the case, at least here in my humble but still very busy Atlanta suburb Freecycle group. People seem to think that Freecycle is their Christmas list. That's right, their proverbial letter to Santa. Take this request:

"Wanted: Working washer and dryer. Electric hook-up preferred"

or this one

"Wanted: A working lawnmower please. In very good condition only."

Um. Okay. I'm pretty sure if someone had a working washer and dryer, or a very good lawnmower, they would be using it. Or, perhaps selling it for some money before giving it to you.

Would it be wrong to say "Why not go and buy it?" or "I have one. But I'm USING IT"?

That's me, the Freecycle troll.

Anyway, just last week the mother of all "Wanted" emails came across my email box and I just couldn't help myself.

"Wanted: I am looking for a mobile home that is free for moving thanks."

Now that is ballsy. A freaking MOBILE HOME?

So here was my response:

"Wanted: One million dollars. Large bills are fine thanks."

Okay, so it was my response in my head because you just never know when you're going to need a bag of pipecleaners or hell, a new temporary home in Little Rock, Arkansas for the next 5 months.

And you thought my moving adventures were over.

-------

So, the Breast Fest Montage is LIVE. Go view, vote, and send out to the world!

Georgia Mystery of the Week

Teenage boy walking his BMX bike on the side of a country road in 95 degree heat wearing a black hoodie carrying a french bread loaf in a bag (ala baguette).

Any Southern folks, Georgians, or Experts in the art of carrying a baguette on a bike care to enlighten me?

The Sisterhood of the Saggy Pants

It seems that it's not Ted Turner and Coca Cola that run this town.

It's belts. The big bad belt companies.

At least that's the only logical explanation for the amendment that Atlanta city councilman C.T. Martin is trying to pass that bans saggy pants.

Apparently he's worried that with kids being "half-dressed," they're not thinking about their future.

And I sort of agree. I mean, as a suffering prego, I knew all about saggy pants and I was clearly not thinking about my future.

I was thinking about suspenders.

And really, there's no resolution once you have the baby. If you're like me, your round ass turned into a roly belly, thus forcing you into belt wearing.

I'm clearly not the tucked-in-shirt-belt-wearing kind of girl. But the pants half off my ass with one hand holding them up at my crotch isn't really my style either.

Plus, it's really hard to breastfeed when you're holding up your pants with one hand.

And so, if your underpants are showing here in the ATL, you'll get fined.

So much for Britney ever coming to Atlanta.

DAMN.

But really, I'm sort of in the camp that it's not such a bad thing to see underpants, because at least that means they're being worn. It's like my rationale for deoderant stains. Sure they suck, but then at least people know you're wearing it.

But now I fear there will be way too many Atlantians walk around commando. And that makes this not an issue of racial profiling, but more an issue of public health.

I can see the sign now: "Welcome to Atlanta: Where It's Too Hot and Expensive to Wear Underpants."

I fear the stench already.

And if that's not enough, he's banning bra straps and sports bras too. Because apparently if you're a woman and you work out, you're to keep it a secret. But if you're a man, feel free to walk around with your big nasty nipples, man boobs, and sparse chest hair flapping about. 

And honestly, I could think of way worse things than wearing a shirt with a bra strap showing. In fact, I've worn them -- hypercolor shirts, peg-leg jeans, and those studded belts that wrap around twice.

I'm afraid to think how much those would have cost me.

But I suppose those are considered harmless and not perpetuating the "gangster" lifestyle. When really, the low pants originated in prison as a sign that the men were "available." I'm pretty sure most of the kids dragging their pants along the street didn't know that.

So what's next? Clearly the sagging pants and sports bras are not the best fashion choice, but I'd like to think there's a way better way to focus energy.

How about the fucking Atlanta traffic for starters?

Until then I guess instead of burning bras in protest, we'll have to wear them.

Loose Bandits. And No, Not My Children. *Now with updates

I leisurely went out my unlocked front door in glasses, day-after pool hair, nursing bra, and pajama pants this morning to check my mail when my neighborhood representative called to me from across the street.

"Mrs. Chase," he called, coming towards me. "There's a manhunt going on right now."

I looked up from my mail.

"There are four fugitives that headed towards this subdivision on foot. Just stay in your house and lock the doors."

Um. Okay. Thanks for that. I suppose I should have been less concerned with my dryer not working and more so with purchasing a hand gun.

Even though I live in the sticks, I'm still pretty paranoid. But I double checked all the locks, brought the dogs upstairs, and stared out the window at the screaming sirens and helicopters circling overhead.

We made a quick run to the neighbor's house for a little bit of company. Apparently, they were driving down the road behind my house, jumped out of their vehicle, and started running -- over the siderail, through the woods, and probably past my house. Perhaps my large sun-drying underpants scared them off.

They're still loose. I'm bunkered up.

And honestly. I know I just got to Georgia and I do need to focus on the unpacking, but what about a nice party, balloons, or hell, a stripper?

Some fucking welcome, Atlanta.

*The word on the street is that they're still loose, so they've got unmarked and marked cars everywhere in the neighborhood. I'm trying not to obsessively look out the windows but rather occupy myself with other things. Oh. Like my children.

The good thing is that no one will recognize me because I just got my hair cut. By my 3-year-old. Not on purpose. Apparently we were playing beauty salon. With real scissors.

Mommy. I'm too smart to cut my own hair. So I'll just do yours.

Oh well. I guess I was due for a change.

My New House

My mom says that's a closet. I call it "Favorite Hiding Place #45."

That's the potty. Enough said.

Every day is a picnic. Except with air conditioning. And less bugs, unless you count my brother.

My mom tries to tell me to clean up my room. Please mom. Your secret is out.

That's the big gigantic television that doesn't play Noggin. I'm still trying to figure out how to fix that.

I call this "Highchair with a View." I'm still planning what kind of artwork to do on the wall there.

Hey. There's our bathtub. Ha. Just kidding.

Ugh. That's my little brother.

He's always cramping my style.

That's my mom. Come to think of it, she's always cramping my style too.

And this is me, Quinlan. I want to paint my room pink and purple. And I love my new house. I hope you do too.

A Family

My husband does not have a way with words. This is less of a character flaw and more of poor genetics.

It's almost disease-like in that you almost can't blame him.

Almost.

"We'll need to organize around here," he said upon returning home from a four-day trip, standing in the middle of the kitchen I had just spent countless hours, um, organizing.

I scoured our disgusting moldy fridge for an entire day, only for him to tell me how great it looked after he "finished it up." This was after I heard him moving all my carefully lined up glasses to another cabinet when he thought I wasn't in listening distance "just to make it easier for me to find."

It's hard not to lash out and remind him that he won't be here to find the glasses, or that while he only got two hours of sleep the night before, his head flops down on a fancy hotel pillow -- the only sounds being the passing traffic or his trusty alarm.

Doesn't he know that I'm the one who will need to find the glasses, the pots, the pans, and the dishes that I so obsessively put in my brand new kitchen cabinets? Doesn't he remember that I'm the one awoken every few hours by a hungry, teething baby?

My daughter is no longer smitten with him upon his return every few days. She has become angry and vengeful, choosing me for stories, bedtime, and anything else he might typically do with her. His departures combined with the new house are hard on her.

"I like when we're all together," she whispered to me last night after her bedtime story. "A family."

"So do I, sweet girl." I replied.

So do I. 

Southern Hospitality

The large truck pulled up to my house at exactly 9:27 yesterday morning. I know this because I looked at the clock after getting my son to sleep for his morning nap.

Perfect timing.

Apparently we had 183 boxes of household goods.

183?

I thought we'd have around 50. Of course, the dryer counted as two.

Don't ask. I spent the whole day trying to figure it out and I have a headache.

Or maybe that's from my moldy fridge.

I nearly fell over dead after opening it. It was like a bad chemistry lab. Or Erin Brockovitch's house.

Regardless, our house is now full of shit. Ha. Full of our shit. The shit that my daughter has no memory of, so every box of toys is like a whole new world. And thank goodness they packed that empty bottle of baby food. And the two nasty kitchen rugs that reek of dog. And the 14,932 toys I could have sworn I threw out.

Note to self: Never leave your husband with the packers.

And it's so great that the movers clearly mark all the boxes -- like the one that said "hats." Try "helmets." Or the one that said "toys." Try "chairs." (not even close there).

I was really hoping the one marked "Boos" was accurate.

Yeah. No such luck on that one.

So just when I couldn't scrub another spot of mold, a friendly neighbor drove by.

"Can I bring you dinner?" she asked.

"Absolutely," I said, not even thinking twice about being demure and waving her off with a kind word of thanks. I've been eating Hormel meals for the last four days and I'm tired of everything tasting like soup. It still scares me that they require no refrigeration. How is that possible?

I digress.

And so she arrived later this evening with scrumptious pesto pasta, a salad, homemade cookies, and beer.

I nearly cried.

We talked about our kids, the weather, the neighborhood, and our work. She's a writer. So am I. She's a culture and arts writer. So am I. Well, if you call dildos culture and arts.

We hit it off, and vowed to meet again for a playdate. "Come over and have some wine," she said.

Indeed I will, I thought.

Maybe Southern hospitality isn't a myth afterall.

Except they're from Philly.

Frat House Livin' in the ATL

You know things are bad when you ask your three-year-old how she likes the house and she tells you that "we need some chairs and couches."

Heck kid. I'd like a pan. Or pot.

A pot, I meant. Seriously.

It's Family Living, fraternity style here in Atlanta except with way less free blow jobs, toga parties, or beer pong. Try breast pumps, tantrums, and nipple biting.

God I'm old and boring.

Until the folks in Mississippi who have been kahndlay holding our worldly possessions for the last year can figure out when our stuff will arrive, we're enjoying the floor, which is great when you're a kid, but not so great when you're taller than three feet and it takes you way to long to get up off the floor.

It is a nice floor, though. And all mine, I might add.

Apparently our stuff is packed, but they don't have a truck available. And so, it has to arrive by the 20th (military orders), but other than that, we're just shit out of luck.

And refrigerator. Bed. Washer. Sanity.

We're cutting with plastic forks, not-sleeping on blow-up mattresses, and watching way too many Dora dvds. And my husband just left for a trip that won't bring him back here until Friday afternoon.

But thank goodness we have every single toy known to man because what would a child do without every lego set, wooden block configuration, and 6002 coloring books?

Damn in-laws.

We've been working feverishly to get as much of our initial items unpacked and somewhat organized before the shitload of what could possibly be a large pile of "Melted Plastic on Stinky Couch" arrives, most certainly when my husband is away.

Meanwhile I'm trying to figure out how to get across town in a timely manner (don't laugh), meet-up with some bloggers, readers, and all around cool people who take amazing pics of my son and let me wash my dirty underpants. And I'm trying to find a preschool where no one has southern accents or germs.

Is strep worse than a drawl? I can't decide.

Yep. It's just great to be bay-yack, y'all.

--

Postscript: Other than the fact that all my wordly possessions are strewn about my empty home and/or on a truck driven by a man with three first names, I am trying to read your blogs. However, a little bird told me that I'm one of the last women on earth who uses IE and apparently IE and Blogger don't like each other very much. And so, instead of wait 14 minutes for your blog to load, I've been skipping over a few of my blogger pals as of late. I'm not sure how to remedy this situation.

Might I suggest you use typepad? Heh.

Hotel Bathroom Lights Should Be Outlawed & Other Tales From The Road *Now with Shorter Nose Hairs*

*Edited below*

I made two disconcerting discoveries so far on this trip.

1. I don't like driving in a car with two children and a dog.

2. I have long nose hairs.

And honestly, I think the long nose hair revelation is worse. I mean, how shitty of a deal can women get? Push the kid out of the vagina, breastfeed until the boobs look like demented pancakces, and then long nose hairs.

I'm blaming the damn bathroom mirror with those bright flourescent lights that are the bane of every mom's existence. I thought I had done a fabulous job plucking and tweezing but low and behold, I'm a fucking hairy beast according to the LaQuinta Inn. And I have long nose hairs.

But really, what do they know? They serve microwaveable sausage sandwiches in a bag, for crissakes.

I ate 4.

So me, my long nose hairs, and two kids have made it about half way. It doesn't help that it's 4503 degrees outside. And apparently my baby doesn't like to nurse in a sling in hell-like temperatures. Thus led me to hand express milk into a sippy cup at several rest stops in Virginia.

Hellooooo Virginia. Me and my milky boob salute you.

I even tried the evil formula.

He spit it out.

(Smart kid)

(heh)

Amidst our long ass drive, we had the pleasure of meeting this lovely blogger for ice cream and this lovely blogger and his family for dinner.

Who knew Cynical Dad was a black market dealer in princess crowns.

Of course we travel with princess costumes! Don't you?

Needless to say, we're off to our final destination. Here's hoping to a speedy arrival, a son who will eat something, and nose hair trimmers.

Sunuvabitch.

--

There's nothing like Atlanta rush hour to put the cherry on top of a heinously long trip. But we're here. With no soap. And no window treatments.

Hello neighbors. My ass is happy to meet you.

Cripes. I didn't know how much I missed seeing the big yellow Waffle House signs.

Not.

The house that I had yet to have seen in person is fantastic. But let's be honest. When you live with your in-laws for almost a year, there's no room to be picky.

So I had an orgasm on the bathroom floor when I saw the his and her vanities.

We live next to a bi-racial couple with three children including one wee baby (hooray for diversity, extra hooray for diverse people who nurse!). I enjoyed a 24 oz can of Coors Light (hey, it's the South people) on my huge living room floor and enjoyed the quiet.

Ah. Quiet.

But then my kid kept waking up every four seconds to eat since he didn't like to eat in South Carolina.

So much for quiet.

So now we have to move all our shit into it. Perfect time to call "parenting duty" and head to the pool, don't you think?

A Pilot's Life For Me

We never sat down to divide the parenting responsibilities when my daughter decided to show her glorious face. I decided to continue working part time even though I thought I had wanted to stay home. The Air Force decided that he needed to work 14 hours a day plus weekend trips.

"She doesn't like me" he'd say, handing this screaming little being off to me as I sat alone in the rocking chair in the dark nursery.

We scrambled to do what we thought was best. I worked and parented a lot. He worked and parented a little.

And it didn't work. For me.

Since then we've struggled with the notion of co-parenting. I became a stay/work-at-home-mother where the line between on and off duty as a mother is blurred.

Comparisons are drawn.

"Is it harder to hold our daughter for two naps every single day and bounce her non-stop so she stops screaming or fly a plane?" I'd ask him, begging him to just come home and skip the gym so I could get a break.

Now he's gone for all but a week a month. A few days here, a few more there. She cries for him any time she gets upset. "I want my daddy," she screams.

Then she cries for him when he leaves. And I'm left to pick up the pieces.

Co-parenting is a myth that I'm not sure will ever exist in my home. I parent my children singularly almost every day. We have a routine and a schedule. On most days, it's not pretty. The naps are minimal, but so are the tantrums.

I work during naps and long into the night. Sometimes I think I work in my sleep.

But then my husband comes home. My daughter hangs on him like a deranged Christmas ornament. He kisses me, plays with her, holds the baby, and changes a diaper.

"She doesn't need a nap," he tells me, as she rubs her eyes, later throwing tired tantrum fits. What do you know? You haven't been here in a week.

"I think he needs to eat," he says, plopping him down on my lap. Then feed him. I'm pretty sure you can mix cereal can't you?

I feel as though his presence is fleeting. We are the constant while he comes and goes like a strong breeze blowing us over and leaving us to pull ourselves up on our own.

We are disconnected as people and as parents.

We're no longer four.

We're 3 + 1.

I Just Couldn't Stay Away

I must have been a southern belle in another life, because there's nothing else that explains my penchant for shots of tequila, being called "maam" in bed, and getting my ass smacked with a Bible.

Jesus, Mary, and John 3:16!

Oh, and my inability to get the fuck out of the South for any longer than 8 months.

Gal-dangit.

Clearly living with my in-laws has created what I'm calling "Real-Estate Desperation" or better "I don't care where the fuck I live so long as I'm not living here any more."

But really, we decided that as far as quality of life and bang for the buck go, Atlanta was probably our better choice. Of course, this was after my husband called me on Tuesday to tell me he had put a house under contract and I nearly freaked the fuck out with what can only be described as "Mom's Gone Wild."

I guess my pleas for deliverance fell upon attentive ears and we now own a house in Atlanta.

A house that I have yet to see in person.

See what living with the in-laws does to you?

But really, in this particular case, I'm not so concerned about the specifics. It's new, it's big, and it's ALL OURS. And considering my father-in-law apparently felt that enough time had passed that it was okay to make a funny sex joke -- "I bet you guys will stop at the motel on the way home - ha ha ha" (after picking up my husband from the airport tonight) -- clearly there is no need for me to be picky.

So amidst my quiet (and sometimes loud) inner whinings about leaving my dear