What’s that funky smell oop oop

stink waves in the air
sniff sniff what the hell IS that
they’re dirty all right

Yesterday, in an investigatory effort to figure what the hell THAT SMELL IS in the nursery, I poked around every nook and cranny and came up with nothing. I finally decided it must be the dog. When all else fails, you always blame the dog, right?

Well, a few minutes ago when I went to grab the laundry out of the hamper in the nursery I made an exciting discovery. Seems a sleep deprived mama has been throwing dirty diapers in with the dirty clothes instead of in the trash can.

Mystery solved, my dear Watson. You don’t blame the dog, you blame the mom.


an equation for exhausted smugness

suck, snore, flail, kick, eat
conspiracy against mom
no sleeping for you!

Well, this morning was a whirlwind of productivity. It was so productive, I thought I’d come up with an equation in case anyone else wants to see how to do it. So here you go:

1 tired mama
1 rambunctious 4-year-old
1 growth spurting 4-month-old

1 person mama forgot to call to watch the oldest kiddo for the morning
20 minutes of waiting at mama’s OB/GYN for her appointment
1 vat of toys OB/GYN supplies to entertain kiddo

1 functioning pelvis as I find out I probably acquired a hairline fracture during pregnancy (or childbirth)

anything to do about said pelvis – it just has to get better on its own. Which it is doing. Sloooowly.

2 tubes of blood for standard "you’re getting old" blood test

$30 co-pay

$3 parking (doc doesn’t validate)
1 insane idea to go down to UT campus and get a library card

30 minutes driving around parking garage to find a parking space

15 minutes nursing in car
many happy feelings, as children are behaving quite nicely during all of this

what’s left of pelvis and knees (I fell on my knees this weekend – splat – on the linoleum and they’re all banged up and swollen and buzzy feeling) as we walk to library
optimistic feeling as college students don’t look quite as young as I thought they would
competent library workers who not only find the UTID I had as a student, but get my new card situated in record time

$40 – cost of said card because I haven’t paid to stay a member of the alumni association
more optimistic feelings as students smile at kiddos in library instead of scowling at them

several ounces of milk (in the form of yarf down the front of the sling and my shirt)
1 awesome book I’ve been trying to find

several more ounces of already digested milk, again, all over the sling and my shirt
2 more books

several MORE ounces of already digested milk down my arm
1 nice check-out girl at the circulation desk
1 happy 4-year-old (we got to park on the roof!)

$6 to park for an hour and a half. DAMN.

$10 for lunch at Sonic (bleh)

any ounce of energy I thought I’d have left
a surprisingly happy mama and kids, a sore lower half of my body, a bunch of great books, and the thrilled feeling of being on campus for a morning. It was so great to see that the students didn’t look like babies and that they didn’t look at my babies like they were tiny little noisy trolls leaving flaming wreckage in their wake.

It was a good and weirdly liberating (though prohibitively expensive) morning. Now I need to go ice myself down and take a nap.

voice over supahstah!

be your own VO
entertain passers-by and
possibly yourself

I thought I had a handle on the constant out loud narration of my life, but now that the wee-er one is four months old, I feel like I need to explain things to her so that her spongy little brain doesn’t atrophy.

And yet, even when I’m alone (which, granted, isn’t very often) I still narrate.

"I’m putting on my pants. Zip zip zipper!"

"This steering wheel is kind of sticky. I wonder why? Uh-oh, better drive straight. No crashing the car today. Crashing cars is against the rules. Hey look! A cow!"

"This is a pretty shirt, ooh and soft, too. Did you know some red dye is made of bugs? Gross, huh? But pretty red. Red red. FORTY EIGHT DOLLARS?"

"I’m gonna go potty now. Let’s walk down the hall. Hey, it’s the bathroom! Look at the sinks! Uh-oh, no soap. Good thing I have my handy-dandy rub-rub germ killer."

That’s right. Getting dressed, driving, at the store, in the bathroom… I never stop talking. Not only that, but I’m usually swaying while I narrate the mundane. Back and forth I rock, as if I’m quietly dancing to some hairband ballad only I can hear. I sway because it calms the wee-er one when I’m holding her, or when she’s in the pouch. Swaying is like walking for me now. I just do it, I don’t think about it. Even when I’m alone.

I also talk about myself in the third person.

"Mommy’s going to grab this can of beans from the shelf so she and daddy can have burritos for dinner!"

"No, no, mommy doesn’t like it when the car door shocks her."

"Where is Mommy’s wallet? She had it at home, she surely did."

I tell you what, the swaying combined with the annoying, simple chatter, and the third person references must make me quite a sight when I take five minutes to run up to the HEB for some maxi pads.

My glamorous life gives you chills, doesn’t it?

Purple finger

chat with poll workers
enjoy your civic duty
get that cool sticker

I voted early, a couple of days ago, and it was so much fun.

Fun? You ask, your skeptical voice reverberating in my head.

It really was! Not the actual voting, per se (that part entailed much bubbling with a pencil and reminded me of taking the SAT, except when I vote I know NONE of my answers will be counted correctly. Kidding, kidding… sort of).

The fun part was talking with all of the old people who were running the polls. They were much impressed that the whole family came to vote and were even more impressed with the pouch the wee-er one rode in.

"It’s like a papoose!" they exclaimed, and after much exalted chatting about what a marvelous idea it is to be able to hold your baby close and yet still have both hands to vote, they yelled at me for a minute when I got in the wrong line, and then they let me choose my ballot.

A nice old lady entertained the wee one while the wee-er one and I disappeared behind a cardboard box to do our bubbling, and another nice old lady chastised my husband when his cell phone rang. We were praised when we remembered to fold our extra long ballots before stuffing (I mean sticking! Putting? Placing.) them in the ballot box, and then we were wished a happy afternoon.

It was very pleasant and friendly, and though I guess my political views vary greatly from most of the folks in the room, it didn’t matter. We were a brief, bi-partisan, many-aged, friendly neighborhood gathering of folks happy to be doing our best to exercise our basic rights. It was nice. And kind of heart-warming. I didn’t want to yell "Bill O’Reilly can suck it!" and run from the room, which is what I usually want to do when I find myself in a gathering of people from my county.

Yay voting. Go do it. The old people will be proud of you (and you’ll feel good, too.).

Finally, a place to stick it

so much construction
my house vibrates constantly
not in a good way

The thing about living in an up and coming suburb is that the construction never ceases. The weird thing is that only three things are being built: houses, storage unit facilities, and banks. Me, I’d like a nice local restaurant I can get breakfast at on a Sunday. But unless Wells Fargo starts serving up grits and breakfast tacos I’m out of luck.

What is the deal with all of the banks and storage units? Suburbia is now home to hoarders? The houses being built are definitely big enough to hold reasonable amounts of furniture and crap. So what gives? Everyone needs an empty house for performing back-flips and somersaults? Couches have to be put in storage to make room for the ginormous television sets (that are bought with loans from the myriad banks)?

It’s strange.

Perhaps everyone who lives in the burbs is in on the crystal meth bandwagon that seems to be all the rage in rural areas. As our cities encroach on the countryside, we not only displace deer and other wildlife, we – like the blob – gobble up everything else, too. This invites the once rural crystal meth kitchens into our now thriving communties of people who need to be bonkers just to make it through the day. I mean, I kind of get that. The commute into town is a friggin bitchapalooza of idiot drivers and roads that are too small for the exponential growth of the community. Why not rent out a storage facility to hide your drug making gear (and protect your leather set from The Roomstore), empty out your house of anything flammable, cook up some drugs, sell them, put your cash in several banks all within walking distance (so the giant cash deposits don’t raise any suspicions), and live large in your new non-commuting, work-from-home, illegal, but satisfying life?

Seriously – that’s the only reason I can think of for so many storage facilities and banks (and lunatic neighbors who use buzz saws at midnight). All of my neighbors are cooking up crystal meth and buying TVs that are bigger than mine, and doing back-flips to celebrate.

Suburbia rocks.