injury report

a crash test dummy
learning lessons from bruises?
should just stop walking

A list of the stupid things that have happened to my poor, tired body over the last week:

1) twisted ankle

2) baseball-sized bruise on leg from careening into cedar chest at the foot of my bed

3) gash in foot from church door

4) smashed finger (got caught between the glider’s armrest and the wee one’s head)

And these are just the injuries I took time out of my busy day to curse over. There have been other, smaller ones that I can’t even remember right now.

Please tell me this is just one of those postpartum things that happens because of lack of sleep and the fact that I’m still walking like a lumberjack while my hips and pelvis find their way to normal again. I don’t like the idea of forever being a clumsy oaf. Not that that is very far from the truth, but usually I get at least a week or two between injuries so that I can properly mend. Sheesh.

I haven’t dropped the baby or gotten in a car accident, yet, though, so that’s good. (I had two minor car accidents between the 6th and 8th week of the wee one’s life.)

This must be why certain cultures keep the mama and baby in bed for the first 30 days. Damn.

effing cursing

cursin’ and churchin’
need a scarlet letter F
for my nursing tank 

When you drop your child off for the last day of vacation bible school, and the heavy school door bites into the side of your foot, leaving a bloody gash, do not holler out "FUCKNUTS!!!" even though you are in pain and working feverishly to not drop your newborn as you hobble down the entryway stairs using only one foot.

The Churchies will not be happy with you.

And neither will Jesus.

takin after mama

fourteen year old boy
hides within wee baby girl
itunes is much pleased

music the wee-er one does NOT like:
Lyle Lovett
anything on NPR

music the wee-er one LOVES:
Green Day
I’d try Rob Zombie and Powerman 3000, but I already have the wee one asking about nicklebags from some other music we experimented with yesterday.

dammit, y’all

nice underclothing
and food should not be mutu-
-ally exclusive

I was laying on the sofa nursing the wee-er one (because side-lying nursing works much better when you are blessed – like I am – with a painful and explosive letdown that threatens to drown your offspring) and while I was nursing her I attempted to eat a sandwich (why do I always first spell that as "SNAD-which?).

Normally this isn’t a difficult feat – I’m getting pretty good at feeding myself one-handedly and in awkward positions. I mean, heck, if someone else is going to make me the food, I’ll scarf it down any way possible.

So my husband made me a wonderful sandwich. Cream cheese, cucumbers, avocado, pickles, mustard… mmm. I politely tried to lean my face away from the wee-er one so I wouldn’t drop chunks of avocado on her hairy little head. Instead, a giant glob of mustard fell onto my new nursing bra. My lightning white, German-made, $58 nursing bra; the only bra I’ve ever had that cost more that $20 and that required a fitting with another lady in the dressing room asking me to "lift [my] nipples and gently place them in the cups."

Glowing yellow mustard.

All over it.


I have some Woolite, and a free bathroom sink, so I will try my best to clean the spot out. The major problem being all bra cleaning instructions I have are in German or are in those washing hieroglyphics that I’ve never understood. I guess that doesn’t really matter, though, because all of the hieroglyphs have giant Xs through them (except for the one that looks like water in a tub and says 40, which I’m guessing means Celsius and which I’m also guessing means warm-ish).

Please wish me luck. I don’t want to ruin or shrink or otherwise damage my fancy German bra. Even though it looks much like a 1950’s over the shoulder boulder holder, it gives me awesome cleavage and doesn’t clog my ducts. Yay!

So I’m off to try and fix my mustard-y mistake. Next time the baby gets avocado on her face. It’s much easier to clean and the instructions are in a language I can read.

From the official announcement…

brain spinning wildly
so much going on right now
will I sleep again?

From the official announcement:

Haiku Mama author Kari Anne Roy’s MIKE’S TERRA BALL ADVENTURE, set in
2240, when Mike’s parents drag him along on a mission to colonize Mars
and he discovers a conspiracy which may land his parents in jail (or
worse, land him in detention), to Schuyler Hooke at Random House
Children’s, by Daniel Lazar at Writers House (NA).

(Children’s: Middle Grade)

I don’t have any release date details yet, and I know the title is probably going to change, but still… the word is out! How cool is that?

hoo boy, it’s bath time

she smells like Combos
a strong and sharp cheesy scent
I retch lovingly

A few days ago we cleaned up the newest haiku of the day family member and she shined up real nice.  She was still pretty new then, though, so she hadn’t had time to really accumulate much filth.

Fast forward a few more days and whew. We have ourselves a rank little baby. At first I didn’t realize she was the stinker. I just kept wondering why that smell of Combos was following me around everywhere. Then I braved a sniff of her neck and, uh, yeah. Apparently projectile spit up does manage to still somehow settle into one’s neck crevices. And we won’t even talk about those wrinkles and folds where the legs attach to the body. Lordy.

So a bath is in store for this evening. I’m sure you’re all enlightened to find this out. But give me a little while to get over my new mommy smitten-ness and we’ll get back to our regularly scheduled rants about stupid things.

And, update! The wee one is doing much better today (unless I just jinxed it). He won’t stop jumping on the couch, and the whole "stay five feet away from the baby" rule that the pediatrician suggested is getting harder and harder to enforce. He’s almost himself again. And, yes, he needs a bath, too.

boo to evil viruses!

why now why now, why?
stupid virus invades house
panics tired mama

So the wee one has a virus. High fever, sore throat, the works. He went to the doc this morning because we thought it was strep, but it’s not – yay! Actually, yay for the wee one, but boo for the wee-er one. She’s too little to get strep according to the doc, but this virus is fair game for all. Sigh. She’s 13 days old – a fever would not be cool (literally and figuratively).

I have, of course, prepared myself for her inevitable spinal tap and meningitis, because I’m tired and panicky. She’s happy and sleeping and feeling fine right now (knock on wood) but I’m so worried I could spit.

And the poor wee one feels so bad – his throat hurts, he can’t kiss on his sister… And, of course I feel bad because I’m not cuddling with him as much as I should be because I don’t want to spread around the funk.

Hopefully breast milk and antibodies and hand sanitizer and Lysol will keep more germies at bay. Ugh. I am normally a very confident mama who is prone to panicking about her own health, but not about her kids.

New territory, this. I don’t like it.

it was like the Bellagio fountain

projectile vomit
a warm geyser aimed at you
and the ceiling too

This morning my husband was projectile vomited on for the first time in four years. My reaction (HAHAHAHAHAHAHA) was not met warmly.

He said, "Now I know what it was like when the wee one puked on you" and I was all, "Honey, warm, non-digested breast milk is a far cry from a bowl of previously eaten Parmesan cheese covered pasta." Silly daddies.

But overall he handled it well. I’m very proud. I’ve even stopped laughing at him.


those click-talking tribes
not the best time to mimic
when mom’s sleep deprived

I have glorious plans of writing down my sweet baby’s birth story, and I will, I just don’t have the time or brain power to do it yet. What I CAN write about is the wee one and how he’s suddenly become enamored with those African (or aborigine?) tribes that use clicks as their language.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m happy he’s broadening his horizons (cough awayfromstarwars cough), but being clicked at all day, with the expectation of understanding said clicks and the frustration that ensues when I don’t follow… well, you can understand how this might drive a sleep-deprived mama a little crazy.

Ah, well, at least this gives him a distraction from constantly smothering his new sister with sloppy kisses.

Until later… click pop clickclickclick click.