Just Release One Hostage

I once heard a comedian describe parenting children is like constantly negotiating a hostage situation.  Oh, there was never a truer statement.  My child doesn't talk, doesn't walk, and yet, I find myself saying things like, "Please, please put your head down and slowly go to bed...no one will get hurt, just slowly put the head down and go to sleep." And then, after an hour, I start saying, "Alright, what terms will you agree to in order to go to sleep?  A helicopter?  A one way ticket to a county that will not extradite you?  Just tell me."

And now after a month of trying solid foods, my child has decided that Fort Knox her mouth will never, ever open to anything, but the sweet nectar I can provide.  When this was conveyed to me this morning, through her literally slapping the spoon to the ground, which, to be honest, sort of made me strangely proud of her coordination, I might or might not have been heard saying, "Listen, you weigh less than 14 pounds, you depend on me for everything, I wiped your butt completely clean just ten minutes ago...you have to eat this food, and you have to do it now."

You know what happens when you try to get tough with a terrorist?  Let's just say, I hope the FBI has never had to experience a terrorist, who they were negotiating with, crap its pants and rub snot into its hair.  Trust me there's no way you can negotiate out of that.

Go With The Life Support

Anyone out there ever seen the show House Hunters?  If not, here's what it's all about according to Wikipedia: The program follows individuals, couples, or families searching for a new home with the assistance of a realtor.  Each broadcast features three properties, one of which is selected by the prospective buyer, whose offer generally is accepted by the seller. In the final moments of the show, the new owner provides a tour of the house, revealing what changes and/or improvements if any were made after moving in.

Sounds like a fun show huh?  Well, if you've been renting since you were 18, you will hate this show. No, you will want to find these "prospective buyers," hunt them down and then force them to live in a 4x4 box with only a three inch hole they can use for either air, sunlight, food or removing certain fluids.  (Did that option sound planned out?  Well, after watching three episodes of this show, let's just say, the 4x4 box just "came to me.")

Why the hate?  Well, one because I'm jealous. Let's just get that out now.  I'm jealous people are allowed to get a home of their own and not have to deal with gaudy light fixtures, ants and Iranian landlords writing broken English text messages about finding their son, who lives in the basement, a job at your "...husband work office."  (Water those forsaken dead lemon trees that have caused an infestation of ants in my home and maybe I'll think about telling husband of "son job needed.")

Second of all, I don't know if they tell the people ahead of time to be as annoying as possible, but geezzzz.  These idiots will walk in with a budget of $23,000 and say, "Well, the kitchen seemed small, and we were really hoping for hardwood floors and a master sauna."  Really for $23,000? Do you have a basic concept of money?  Or they'll openly berate the realtor for having the audacity of bringing them to such a "dump" when they initially said they wanted a freaking FIXER-UPPER!  Okay, I sort of love when they get sassy with the realtor, but in reality who really does that?  I don't remember taking my realtor by the hair and shoving his face in a spot in the carpet all the while saying, "Do you think I'm an idiot and wouldn't notice this spot?  Do you think I'm an idiot? Say it!  AM I an IDIOT!?"

And lastly, I hate, hate the big reveal at the end.  By the end of the show, I'm only hoping one of them have accidentally slipped into a coma and no longer have the $23,000 to buy the backwoods home in Alabama.

Now, that would be a good show.  Will John buy the house or keep his wife on life support?

Magnets and Legos...Awesome

Recently the husband and I have been given the assignment to teach Sunday school to the 13-14 year-olds in our church.  At first, I thought this was going to be a great opportunity to mold minds and change lives, butttt then we had our first class and now I'm not so sure.  First of all, and I say this with love, and absolute fear that my child might become this one day, but our kids, well, our kids are sort of nerds.  Take for example my little ice breaker of, "What are you interested in?" that turned into an all out struggle for me to not cock my head to the side and say, "Oh, I'm sorry to hear about that...."  What are they interested in?  Well, all four of them could agree they like to draw, and then it was revealed magnets and Legos are the coolest things.  Yep, you just did it...you cocked your head to the side, scrunched up your face and sighed, "Oh...my..."  Honestly, I don't know what to do.  First of all, at 14, I would have most likely beaten these kids up in school, or at church...at 14 I would not have discriminated.  Second of all, how do I mold these minds when every story I go to tell changes from, "One time when I was at a party, my friends..." to "One time when I was drawing an unicorn made out of magnets I said to my imaginary friend..."

I know as I write this I'm semi-cursing myself for the future of my child.  Currently, she's wearing skinny jeans, has never listened to anything but real music and is totally caught up on Grey's Anatomy...hopefully these building blocks will sustain her through life.

What Goes Around Comes Around

Um, this picture is more than I ever wanted to find.

Have you ever heard the saying, "What goes around comes around?"  Well, in my lifetime I've seen this saying in action.  For example, I used to mercifully make fun of women who wore their maternity clothes years after having their children...now, I'm becoming more sympathetic...and impressed with their frugality and resourcefulness to fully utilize the clothes, that were intended for a short period of time, but have now become a staple in their current and future wardrobe.  See, my mockery has come back in 8 pounds, that won't go away...(cue, dropping the Girl Scout Thin Mint I have in my hand.) 

However, as humbling as these 8 pounds have been, there has been another force in my life that has truly, truly convinced me that what you dish out will someday come rushing back to you. What is that force?  None other than the Postal Service.  Yes, you heard me.  The Postal Service.  Take these examples:

1. When my sister was 16 she was backing our green Volvo station wagon out of my friend's driveway when she by accident struck and knocked over their mailbox.  A week later the mailbox was fixed and our wagon sported a dent for the next three years. 

Two years later, while living in Utah, an embarrassed mailman rang the door of my Aunt's house, and informed my sister that he had ran directly into her new Honda Civic, that was parked on the street.

What goes around comes around....

2. When I was 16, my field hockey team decided one night to participate in a team building exercise and toilet paper our coach's house.  I, the ever consummate documenter, decided we should video tape the act of vandalism and then show it at our team awards ceremony at the end of the season.  (Because what 40 something old woman doesn't want to relive the day a bunch of high school students destroyed her home?)  Anyway, my team decided to meet at my house, and while we left my neighborhood, my teammates decided to warm up their vandalism skills by knocking over and uprooting every mailbox along the way.  (That would probably be about 15-20 mailboxes.)  Did I participate in this deplorable debauchery against my neighbors?  Um, I definitely didn't against the ones I liked...

Two weeks ago I was out riding my bike, when I saw a mail truck start to come down the street from a neighborhood.  I assumed the truck saw me so I continued biking down the street.  However, on purpose or not, (We'll never know, will we?) he looked right, then in my direction, and then accelerated forward just as I was crossing his path.  Immediately, I did the customary bike holler of, "Heeyyyy, Whooaaaa!!!"  (Because stopping cars is like stopping horses...) and he slammed on his brakes just as he was about to hit me.  Now, did he look embarrassed?  No, not really.  Did he look apologetic?  If you call him miming mailboxes being hit and then laughing and pointing at the imaginary fallen mailbox as sorry, then yes, I guess you could say he WASN'T a future assassin sent from the past to collect retribution for my incredible slight to the postal service almost 17 years ago!

What goes around comes around....

Do not, I repeat, do not mess with the Postal Service.  They might not deliver on Saturday anymore, but they are always watching.

Water Boarding For Babies

Nope this is not going to be a St. Patrick's entry because one, I'm not Irish, two, I didn't even wear green yesterday (cue gasps), three, I'm not Catholic, four, I don't go seeking after rainbows and pots of gold, and five, I'm not an alcoholic.  Yep, that's right - that's my break down of St. Patrick's Day: Irish, stupid wardrobe conditions, religion, kids' cereal and copious amounts of green ale.  I do however, have one complaint about these "holidays that aren't really holidays" - why, why, why must people (friends of mine who are now mothers) insist on dressing their children in outfits celebrating every freaking holiday?  Seriously, the next time I see a kid dressed in a colonial outfit, telling Indians to take a hike (Columbus Day) I'm going to scream.  I get it, today is some sort of holiday for some sort of people - I don't need a baby picture posted on Facebook to remind me.

Alright - glad I got that off my chest. 

So, for the past week my child has been suffering from her first cold, which basically consists of snot, coughing and more snot.  Because the kid is completely pathetic and hasn't learned the basic concept of blowing her nose....kiddddinggg...we have been forced to use a bulb syringe to suck the snot out of her nose.  For those of you unfamiliar with this fun apparatus, picture someone shoving a giant suction hose up your nose and then sucking all the snot and brain matter you have up there.  I know, the husband and I agree, it sounds pretty awesome, but to a baby this is utter torture.  Honestly, I have never seen our baby exhibit such strength. I literally reach for the bulb syringe and she starts to kick me across the room.  So, in order to stop our little Hulk from beating the crap out of us, the husband and I together have to wrestle her down and perform the suction - which is absolutely unbelievable.  Seriously, her face is the size of my hand and yet, the amount of snot that comes out...sorry, it's a sight to behold. 

Anyway, the other night as I was holding her arms down and taking swift kicks to my child's milk supply, I watched as my husband was holding her head down and trying to shove the syringe into her nose, I thought we are basically water boarding our child.  So, like any good mom, I saw this as an opportunity to see what I could find out.  So, I said, "Avery this will all stop if you tell me then next time you are going to have a blow out.  Just tell me.  And this can all go away."  Nothing.  So, I upped the game.  I then asked, "Avery you feeling that pain?  Alright...tell me what Heaven was like. Come on.  Is it wonderful?  Did you pick us?  Were you forced to come down here to us.  Tell me and Dad stops!"  Again, she held her ground. 

It's alright, I hear some more congestion today...and Momma gots some more questions.

That's Pretend That Didn't Happen

The other day I had a weird encounter with the last guy to give me a massage...no, it wasn't the husband.  It was strange because, as we were both looking over produce at the grocery store, I sat there thinking, "I paid you to touch me...and you don't even remember it.  Didn't it mean anything? I mean, I shaved.  I don't shave except on Sunday for church.  That was a big deal.  And nothing?  Nothing?"

Then again, it would have been weird if he had looked at me and said, "Hey Kate, how is that lower back, that I massaged with warm oils, feeling now?" 

Yep, after a second thought, I'm glad we both acted like professionals.

I Have A Baby

Ladies and gentleman...the band: Ten Feet.

This might come as a surprise to some of you, but I sort of hate lazy people.  Yep, I said it.  Slow driving people in the left lane and lazy people...oh, and people who pay with checks at Costco.  Come on!  I am holding a six month old, a box of yogurt, a box of cereal, a chicken, chips, bread and gum...(Yes, that's my usual Costco list.  And yes, I don't use carts at Costco.  If you have ever visited the Costco in Marina Del Rey you'll know why.  Right now if you listen carefully enough someone just got trampled there.)  Okay, where was I - oh yes, I hate lazy people.  And you know who are the laziest people in the whole planet?  My neighbors.  Not the people, who live to my left, right and behind...I mean, my Asian neighbors, but the people, who live directly in front of us...not my Asian neighbors.  And why are they the laziest people on the planet...and no, it's not because they aren't Asian, it is because ten feet from our houses are two lanes of parking.  Ten feet.  A little more than 3 yards.  The height of a basketball hoop.  And according to this very informative website: (You got to click on the link to get the joke.)

However, as accessible as this free parking is, they refuse to park there.  Instead, they insist on parking directly in front of our garage.  When we have asked them why they can't just park 10 feet away they always tell us, "My daughter, my sister, I (depending on who we ask) has a baby."  A baby, huh?  They can't walk 10 feet because they have a baby?  Tell me you don't have legs.  Tell me you are afraid of walking.  Tell me you suffer from sunlight exposure, which will melt the skin right off your face.  Something.  A baby?  That, my lazy neighbors, is NOT going to cut it because you know what I'm going to do next time?  I'm going to back into your "Baby On Board" sign, and when you ask why I did it, I'm going to say, "Because I have a baby."