The CDC standards have nothing on Sir Smudge

Smudge should not be able to carry on a conversation for a while yet. However, he has already, at 3 months, learned how to. But, he can only do it a 3 am. At 3 pm he can giggle and smile, but in the middle of the night, he can explain the theory of relativity.

Sir Smudge in the Middle of the Night: "Whaa! Hmmmm, shchmmmuuuh?? Blech blah"

Mama: Huh???

Sir Smudge: "The speed of light in a vacuum is the same for all observers, regardless of their relative motion or of the motion of the source of the light."

Mama: Double "Huh???"

Sir Smudge: "Shakespeare's treatment of the female character is misogynistic!"

Mama: "I NEED SLEEP!"

Nudge Smudge: Rapid eye movement sleep, or REM sleep, accounts for 20%–25% of total sleep time in most human adults. The criteria for REM sleep include rapid eye movements as well as a rapid low-voltage EEG. Most memorable dreaming occurs in this stage.

Mama: "If you will leave me alone for long enough for REM to occur, I will buy you a pony."

A Reflection

I have 3 ornaments on our tree that symbolize love lost. For 3 Christmases I've stayed up way too late to look at the tree and think about what life really means.

The first Christmas I'd recently lost a baby and was unaware that I'd already conceived Critter.
The second Christmas I thought about how things happen for a reason.
The third Christmas, this one, I'm thinking again of love and loss.

To Courtney's parents: I still think of her and you. I can't even begin to imagine how hard your lives must be.

To Josh's family: There are no words.

To both families: Your children's friends still think of them daily. We haven't forgotten.

9 Finger Discounts are Cool!

When that Maclaren recall came out a couple of weeks ago, I, like the Good Mommy I am, went online and requested the fix kit. Today, I received a computer generated response from Maclaren in my SPAM box. As the letter is written in Corporate Response (i.e. The Corporate Response To Be Sent To The Idiot Consumer) I decided to translate it into Average American.


Corporate Response

Dear Anne,
Maclaren USA has led the headlines last month due to a safety concern with our strollers. We wanted to reach out to you to apologize for any added anxiety or stress that has resulted from this voluntary recall.
Maclaren had noticed an increase in the number of incidents over the last year where children had trapped their finger in the side hinge of the stroller during the opening or folding of it. This risk is eliminated when children are kept away from the stroller during opening and folding. Similarly, when the stroller is fully opened for use there is no risk involved. The hinge cover kit you requested provides the extra measure of protection to child-proof the stroller during opening and folding. We have a video demonstration of the cover installation on our website at http://recall.maclaren.us/faq.php.
We recognize the initial response to our recall was not adequate and regret any delays you may have encountered. We made the necessary adjustments in resources and bandwidth to resolve our responsiveness to what has been our first recall in over forty years of doing business. As parents ourselves, the events are of deep concern to us. There is simply nothing more important to Maclaren than the safety of a child.
Maclaren is proud of its impeccable safety record of zero incidents of stroller injuries in use. No other stroller manufacturer has a better safety record. During the last 10 years Maclaren has received reports of at least 15 incidences where a stroller was involved in a car accident and the child's life was saved because of the frame integrity of the Maclaren stroller.
As parents, we know firsthand why that commitment is the most important one for a company like ours. We hope that you will reach out to us with questions or comments at feedback@maclarenbaby.com.
Farzad Rastegar
Chief Executive Officer
Maclaren USA INC.

Average American

To the Consumer It May Concern,
The government finally got wind of the conspiracy and the bloodsucking reporters got involved. We are sorry that we got caught with our hands down our pants and our fingers in a hinge.

After receiving more than a dozen complaints that your Blessed Ones were having their fingers severed in our poorly constructed hinges on BOTH sides of our expensive ass strollers, the gub’ment forced us to do something about it. However, if you were decent parents, not the mo-rons you actually are, you would know to keep the tykes away from the stroller during the opening of it, not keeping them out of oncoming traffic. And, just in case you are too stupid to know how to work the zipper on our “fix kits” we’ve created a video for you. But, since all one million of our doting customers seem to be trying to watch it at the same time, the site may have crashed, we take no blame.

At first, we thought the complaint calls were coming from the minute portion of the Maclaren buying population who actually have children, not our average consumer, so we didn’t go public with what may or may not have been our fault, until the government noticed all the nine fingered children swarming the Oval Office. We increased our main websites bandwidth for a few days in response. As parents ourselves we know how important fingertips are. Come on, the tips have the nail. We all know that's the best part. However, in this economy, we can’t believe you are so concerned with having children who qualify for 10 fingered manicures. Don’t you fools know we are in a recession? Wouldn’t your money be better spent on safe childrens products and not beauty supplies? Wait. Maybe that’s not why you are so indignant. Oh, yeah! Fingers! And the lack of them. We digress.

But, we do have safe strollers. When the brake locks fail, and your Precious Ones go rolling out into the street, don’t our outstandingly designed stroller frames keep cars from squishing them? Don’t you Boogers-for-Brains know that it’s better to be without a finger than to become Pavement Pancakes? The things we have to explain simply dumbfound us.

We hope that you will reach out to us with any lingering questions or concerns you may have. In the event that our main website is down, our number has been disconnected, and our headquarters have burned down under mysterious circumstances, you will simply need to follow the rainbow to it’s end, pay the leprechaun, cross the bridge over the lava, then sing to the troll. He’ll put you on hold with our Customer Service Department until your toddler comes home with his own babies, and someone should be with you shortly after that.

Farzad Rastegar
Chief Executive Officer of Lucifer Himself

(I took the part about the fingertips being the best part because of the nail from the FRIENDS episode The One with All the Thanksgivings. I translated the rest of the letter out of my own annoyance.)

Sleepless in Seattle

Yes, I do wish I was in Seattle, cause if I was in Seattle, I would be far, far, far out of hearing reach of the newest Smith, who has decided that Night Time is for snuggling, and Day Time is that thing in the background while he sleeps.

Bless his slothy soul, he can go 6 hours during the day dreaming of his "me time" with Mommy at 1 am. But, come 1 in the morning, Mama only wants to be dreaming of having a waist. And believe me, it takes a REM cycle to believe a waist is forthcoming. Unfortunately, my waist and my night time sleep are out of reach of my still-swollen fingers.

At least he naps the same time as Critter. That, and starting at 4 am, he sleeps til 11. Guess I shouldn't complain too much.

Electrical Tape Isn't Just for Wire: Sticking It to Them When They Stick It to You at Target

I admit. Pre-Critter I was one of those superior Mommies-to-be. You know, the one who won't turn on the TV, or feed junk foods, or Heaven forbid, allow their child to pitch a fit.

Fast forward til yesterday found me at the local Target, deeply engrossed in the mind numbing task of deciding whether or not the more expensive baby detergent is really worth the extra 3 bucks and if I don't dish out the dollars, does that indeed make me a Bad Mother. (Answers: no it is not, and maybe)

Then, the phone in my pocket began to ring. Critter's beady little eyes zeroed in on my right hip while I began to furiously run through my mental list of evasive maneuvers. The battle line had been drawn. He wanted the phone because the buttons beep and the screen lights up. I didn't want him to have it because he reprograms my emergency contact from Husband to the To Go phone at my favorite lunch spot. And while the craving for a dill tomato sandwich constitutes an emergency to me, I don't want the gum snapping teenager at the sandwich counter making any snap decisions regarding my vegetative state.

I pulled out the cell just as the call went to voicemail. Dang. Now he'd seen the thing and I didn't even get the chance to talk to the caller.

In my best Superior Mommy voice I told him "No, Critter. This is Mama's phone. Not a toy. You may play with your phone." I handed him his Playskool cell that calls some crazy cartoon duck and he deliberately dropped it to the floor while eyeing my LG.

At my firmest "No!" he reached out and intentionally smacked my phone to the floor. I could read the thought bubble above his demonic head: "If I can't have it, can't no body have it." The bubble even contained the eye cutting that I hadn't penciled into his schedule for another 14 years.

I retrieved the phone and stuck it back into my pocket. Seeing his favorite play thing disappear caused his bottom lip to began to jut out. Crud. I realized I had about .2 seconds until the sounds started. I hastily looked around for witnesses, hoping to find myself alone. No such luck. At Target in suburbia with a fit-pitching-baby, I'm just lucky my in-laws and pastor weren't hanging out by the aisle end cap.

As the wailing began I tried desperately to decide what I could do. My first thought was to book it to the school supply section and get some scotch tape to silence that fat lip and it's partner in crime. I wasted another valuable few seconds trying to decide if the store security guys would turn the surveillance tape into child protective services if I went with this option.

I admit. It wasn't the thought that I would be portrayed on every major news station across America as the nut-job-mouth-taping mommy that stopped me. It was the knowledge that scotch tape loses it's sticky within seconds of coming into contact with spit. Electrical tape holds much better.

Boo On Poo: How I Learned Never To Leave the House Without an Extra Onesie

This morning my mom called to tell me that she was playing hooky from work and wanted to go shopping and out to lunch, would I like to come? Critter and I were in the car before I finished drying my hair. Nothing says Happy Friday like free lunch.

As Madre and I were finishing eating, we noticed Critter was turning a funny purple color. I leaped up and pounded him on the back thinking that he was choking on a cheerio. He returned to a normal shade and I returned to my seat, only to have him do another Barney impression a couple of minutes later. Before I could dial 911 my mother informed me that she thought he was "making number 2." Which she said just like that: making number 2.

When we were done with lunch and Critter had gone through several rounds of color change theory, Madre volunteered to take him out to the car and change him while I cleaned up the table. I threw the trash away, refilled my drink, went to the restroom, and ran into and chatted with a friend before finally making it out to the parking lot. So, I was pretty surprised to see my mom standing by the back door instead of huffily waiting in the passenger seat.

As I rounded the front of the car I could see that she was gingerly holding up a giggling Critter by the feet. "What the....?" I started to ask. I was cut short, however, by the shock of noticing that Critter appeared to have had a run in with the crazy-eyed spray tan lady at our local Ultra Tan. A second later, I figured it out. Critter had poo (POO!!) smeared all over his legs and stomach. I then noticed that his onsie, which had been a cream color at lunch but was now closer to that of mud, in a heap on the pavement.

My mom narrowed her eyes at me. "We need napkins." She growled. "And a cup of water." The travel wipes box lay empty about a foot from the mud onsie. I turned on my heel and scampered back into the restaurant before she could demand that I hold his feet.

As I got back to the parking lot, I could see my mom shaking her head while a group of teenaged girls walked by laughing. When they passed I heard one saying "Eww, that is so gross! I am so never having kids!"

"Girlie," I wanted to say "I'm in total agreement."

The A$$ Hat: This Summer's Must-Have Accessory for Opinionated Strangers

There is little in this world that brings out stupid comments from friend and foe like pregnancy. I'm not sure if it's because the majority of the population is aware that preggos aren't recommended to partake in fist-fights or because the sight of a pregnant person automatically bestows the seer with a medical degree, but there is no other time in a persons life when they will more wish to live on a deserted island than while with child.





It was during my 4th or 5th month of pregnancy with Critter that I ran into a person who has always been a mega-butt and I should expect no good to come from. Butt Head looked me up and down with his critical eyes and said, not "Congratulations" but "Wow, you've gotten really fat." Which was an especially cruddy comment for him to make, considering I had only gained about 10 pounds.





As I blinked in shock, the only comeback I could think of was to tell him that I was right on target with my weight gain and my doctor had congratulated me for being exactly average.



His response? "Huh. Well, she's not concerened that your butt appears to be what's pregnant, not your stomach?" I had nothing to say to this, so I pretended not to have heard him.




However, when I got home I curled up next to Husband and told him the story with tears streaming down my face. Husband looked at me and responded with all the sympathy of his gender. "Well, what can I say? You know he's an ass hat!"



And out of the ashes of my self-esteem arose the A$$ Hat:








See those little slips of paper sticking out of the top? Those are all the crappy comments people have made to me over the course of my pregnancies. When someone says something stupid, mean, or completely inappropriate, I jot it down on whatever is handy and when I get home I put it in the A$$ Hat. Then, when I'm feeling creative and/or mean spirited I pull out the A$$ Hat and try to come up with retorts to all the stupid things people say.



As you can see, the A$$ Hat is pretty full. And so recently, I changed the Hat's rules. Now I play a different game.



Friday's are pretty boring for me, so Fridays became my Game Day. Each morning on My Most Special Day, I close my eyes and pick a saying from the Hat. Then I pack the diaper bag full of Critter essentials and run all my errands that I have been saving up since the previous Game Day. I make a tally on the slip of paper for each time someone makes the same, or a similar comment. And then I picture them in the Hat, a la Jeff Foxworthy's "Here's Your Sign."



So, Strangers, if you are unable to keep your opinions to yourself, and you run into me on a Friday, and I'm laughing maniacally, that's why. It's because you are wearing the A$$ Hat.

Reason #42 Why Pregnant People Shouldn't Grocery Shop While Hungry

Well, I Guess There Isn't Any Doubt About What Color to Paint the Nursery

Introducing Baby Nudger, coming October 9th, 2009

This Just In: Babies Still Don't Like Lemons

But Critter still loves eating 'em anyway.

Being Poor Sure Can Give You a Rich Imagination

Everyone who knows me knows that I'm no Stephen Hawking at math. I'm not much better at logistical thinking. So when I decided to be a Stay-At-Home-Mom my brain didn't process the fact that David and I would be going to a double-income family of two to a one-income family of three.

The closest I came to thinking about our new income tax bracket was one night out at dinner with friends when I was about 6 months preggo with Critter. I was discussing my career move with the guy next to me while he lovingly nursed his scotch and I swirled the ice in my tea. "Boy," he murmured. "This sure will cut into your fluid assets." Since he was clearly beginning to enjoy his buzz, I assumed he was refering to my ability to drink half a bottle of wine a night. "Yeah," I responded, more on point than I knew at the time "it sure will suck for a while."

Fast forward a year and find me sitting on the sofa researching vacation places for this summer. "Look" I squealed one night to Husband, waving the laptop in his face, "we could leave Critter with a sitter and go on this cruise! It leaves right from here, so we wouldn't even have to buy plane tickets!" I'm nothing if not a cutter-of-costs. (Yeah, right.)

Husband looked at me like I'd suddenly started speaking ancient Greek. His fingers paused over their furious punching of the calculator, and a couple on envelopes slipped from his other hand. "WHAT?! Are you kidding me?!"

I was confused by his incredulous tone. "A cruise." I pronounced each word carefully. "It leaves from the port here. We should go."

He pinched his nose and rolled his eyes. Picking up his dropped paperwork he informed me that we don't have any money. "Oh, but it's only 499.99 per person" I told him. "Really cheap as cruises go."

He looked me full in the face. "Uh, huh. But we don't have 499.99 a person." He explained. He turned the calculator around so that I could see it. "We don't have 4.99 a person. See these pieces of paper? They are bills. We must pay them if we wish to continue living here." He had taken on my patronizing tone, and I must say, I didn't care for it.

"Fine." I grouched, disappointed as my dreams of relaxing on a deck watching the ocean swoosh by swirled into one of me sweating buckets on the neighborhood pool chairs while swatting at mosquitoes. I picked up an interior design magazine I'd been flipping through earlier in the day.

"If we can't go on a relaxing vacation, I'll just re-do the bedroom like this one in this picture." I told him. "If we can't relax in a 5 star resort, at least we can have a beautiful bedroom." I was immediately lost in visions of 3000 thread count sheets and cedar closet hangers.

David's deep breathing broke me from my reprieve. I turned to look at him just in time to see him getting shorter. "Anne." The patronizing I'm-speaking-to-a-kindergardener tone was back. "Redecorating costs money. We. don't. have. any."

I nodded at him, finally comprehending that we, like so many others, are strapped for cash right now. "Ok." I agreed, smiling at him encouragingly. "For my birthday then."

"Holy SH%$!" He yelled, jumping up, and stomping into the kitchen, where he poured himself a big glass of his own favorite liquid asset. He downed half the glass and returned to the couch. "Darling. Sweetheart. Love of my Life." He picked up my hands and held them while looking deep into my eyes. "We are poor. You don't have an income, Critter costs more than a Kennedy, and Nudger will be here in a few months. If you're lucky, I'll get you a pack of gum for your birthday. Do you understand? We can't go on a cruise, redecorate the bedroom, or get you that diamond upgrade for a long, long time. K? Maybe we'll go somewhere next year, but not this one."

"Oh, alright." I sighed, resigned. I returned to surfing the web while he calculated those bill thingys. "You know" I said to him after a few minutes of silence, "my toes really need a pedicure."

When I received no response I looked over at him. Unfortunately I'll never know what he thought about the state of my toenails, as his head had exploded. On the plus side, now that he has no head, he also doesn't have any eyes to see me sneaking in the Gap Baby shopping bags...

Get Your Finger Out of Your Nose and Pay Attention

My friend Christina is having another giveaway! Just head on over to her blog and see how you can save your children from "the biting snail up there"!

Mama's Most Wanted List

Critter Smith, born in September, seemed like the world's best baby. He started sleeping through the night when he was only a few weeks old and he rarely ever cried.



"He was the quietest baby," a neighbor recalls. "Never heard a peep from him."



His Abuela remembers that "He always woke with a smile. Just the sweetest personality ever."



No one knew that something sinister was lurking underneath that rosy cheeked exterior. However, strange occurances began around the time Critter reached the 4 month mark. At first, no one thought any thing of it. But, as coins continuously seemed to disappear from nightstands and scraps of paper seemed to magically fly from the floor, friends and family began to become suspicious.



His mother, ever the supporter of her Crittopotamus, refused to listen to the whispers. "You just misplace things!" she'd snap at Mr. Critter's Daddy when he mentioned the disappearances.



By 6 months, chapsticks and cell phones were missing from purses. Pens were gone from shirt pockets. The Bumpasses even began sniffing around for lost liver snaps. Still, Critter's Mama would hear no ill talk of her sweet baby boy. "Everyone around me's going crazy" she'd muse. "I don't know why they gang up on Critter so."



Last Thursday, Critter's Mama could deny the accusations no longer when she found this shoved deep in his Chipmunk Cheek.



Alas, Critter had graduated from Petty Larceny to Grand Theft Diamond.



He served the maximum allowable sentence of 2 hours in the (play) Pen while his Mama baby proofed the home.

Ya Got Any Weddin' Dresses With Nursin' Flaps?

My sister-in-law is getting married 3 weeks after Nudger's due date, and I am to be a bridesmaid. SIL, faced with the complex task of dressing 7 maids in various stages of reproduction, gave us the option of wearing the dress style of our choice in the color of hers. Bless her.

I went to a local bridal salon to check out different styles and to see if they carried my first style of choice so that I could try it on before I get too rotund. Since bridal salons are never open in the evening, when my sitters are home, I had to take Critter with me.

Upon entering the store, a haughty woman in a severe black dress swooped down on us. She gave my clean, stroller-contained, and SLEEPING baby the stink eye. "Can I help you?" she sniffed, glaring down at Critter like a plague carrying sewer rat.

Immediately ticked that she was treating my sweet, SLEEPING baby like a sticky, screaming terror, I decided on the spot to have a little fun to relieve my stress.

Discreetly I slipped off my wedding rings and responded to her inquiry with my most back-woods-redneck voice. "Yeah, I'm a-lookin' for a weddin' dress. Cheap one." I stuck my hand on my hip, poking my expanding belly over the stroller canopy. "I'm thinkin' I should look at the umpire dresses."

The woman paled, no doubt calculating her commission going down the tubes. "Um... Let me get a consultant..." She looked around her in an apparent attempt to find someone else to pawn me off on. Seeing that there was no one near by to save her she turned back to me in defeat. "Right this way." She gave me her sewer-rat look and stalked toward the back of the store. I followed, making carefully sure to whack the stroller wheel against the counter as I passed it.

Reaching the dressing rooms, I noisily plopped myself on one of the cushy waiting benches. I shoved out my tummy as far as it would go and patted it. "Now, I'm due with Cornbread here in November, and we're shootin' to have the weddin' in October, so I'm gonna need a stretchy dress. Hey, do you know how to keep your turkey-timer from poking thru the material?" Mrs. Horrified pretended not to hear me. "Please wait right here," she instructed. As she walked around the store pulling dresses she kept looking over her shoulder at me as though she expected me to be shoving things into the stroller basket or wiping my nose on the veils.

She returned a few minutes later with 200 pounds of tulle and satin over her arms. I raised my eyebrows at her and snapped my cheek in Ultra Redneck fashion. I patted my belly buddy again. "Do ya really think white is the best option? I mean, I don't think it'll fool anyone." Mrs. Open-Minded glared at me. "All of these dresses can be ordered in cream."

"I was really hopin' for red or green. Ya know, Christmassy and all that since it's late October and nearin' to the holidays." I tapped my foot impatiently. "And I need to hurry here. I gotta go meet my friend to borrow some nursin' bras." As Mrs. Helpful turned to put down the white meringue I could see her roll her eyes. "We don't have red wedding dresses." She huffed. "If you want a colored dress, I suggest you order a bridesmaid dress."

Tiring of my game, I decided to let her off the hook. "You got any of them with nursin' flaps?" At her inevitably witchy response of "no" I stood up and started toward the door. Unable to resist one last jibe I called to her over my shoulder. "Ya know, you should really get a play space in here. Like a ball pit or a train table. Somethin' for the young uns to do while their mama's shop."

***********

Now, I understand that there are some places where one should not bring their children. Bars, adult movie stores, antique china shops...I get that some places are simply not child appropriate. And I see that wedding dress stores, filled with expensive white fabric, could definitely be on the No Rugrats list. I don't take Critter to movies with anything other than a G rating, restaurants that don't have crayons at the hostess stand or ball pits in the sound proof room, wedding ceremonies (even if he's invited) or book club, just to name a few.

But he was ASLEEP. In a stroller. He's not old enough to eat jelly sandwiches, so his hands aren't sticky; he's not old enough to walk, so he can't play hide-and-seek in the dress racks; and he's not old enough to talk, so he's not screaming "Mama, Mama, listen to me sing Barney for the 2 billionth time!"

Was the Wedding Witch justified in treating me poorly because I had an infant with me or was I justified in being a pain in her rear for it?

Calling All Preggies Who Think Butt Flashing is Only for the College Demographic

My friend Christina is having a fabulous giveaway! One lucky winner will receive a BINSI product of their choice. Good luck and happy delivery!

The HazMat Team's Coming to Take Me Away

Hello Mamahood, Good Bye "Me" Time





David has been out of town this week, leaving me with one sick, cranky Critter to deal with alone. Normally, when faced with an absent husband, I turn to my mom for support and dinner. But she's out of town, too. Which means I haven't showered since Monday. Today is Friday. It also means that I haven't eaten anything but french fries and Pop Tarts in as many days.



Madre called me yesterday from her educators conference to tell me that the human brain starts to have reduced function when one is hungry, tired, and/or lonely. Which would explain why, this morning, when I got dressed, it took me 5 minutes to realize that the problem with my thong underwear was that I'd put it on backwards.

Well, I Guess We're Not Going To Have To Send

This One to College

I assumed after the coin eating incident Husband had learned his lesson about leaving Critter unattended in our bed. David assumed that if he swaddled Critter tight enough, Critter wouldn't be mobile. A loud THUNK! followed by an even louder wail taught us both what happens when one assumes.

We raced into our bedroom to discover Critter on the floor screaming his dented head off. I scooped my Precious off the hardwood and turned on Husband in fury.

"What if he's cracked his skull?!? What if his brain is bleeding?!? What if he has brain damage and doesn't get accepted into the NASA program and never makes millions of dollars and can't buy me a beach house?!?"

David looked at me with an expression of equal guilt and fear. Suddenly his expression brightened. "Well, at least he's learned a lesson in gravity!" he chirped.

Men.

The Exorcism of A Teething Critter

I swear, if there isn't a tooth visible by tonight I'm calling an exorcism performing priest. There are only 2 possible causes of bad behavior like this, and they are teeth and demons.

Or maybe Critter is just a demon with teeth...

Just Give Me My Puke Pills!: Part Deux

After returning home and washing out the barf bucket, I got out my trusty (read: useless) insurance card and dialed their phone number.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.

I should have taken the fact that the phone rang 7 times with no answer as a sign of what was to come.

Halfway through the 8th ring the line connected. "You've reached Screw You Blue Insurance. This is Lucifer." I should've taken the fact that Ole Luc didn't ask how he could help me as sign number 2.

"Yes, this is Mrs. Smith. I'm insured with y'all, and I'm having a problem getting a prescription filled." The desperation in my voice was palpable

This elicited an "Uh huh" from the Super Helpful Insurance Minion.

"So..." I hedged, wanting him to tell me what my next step should be.

"So?" He clearly didn't understand why I had a problem.

My mood swung and my inner witch came zooming out on her broomstick. "So!" I barked at him, all traces of pleading gone from my voice. I was a woman on A Mission. "So! I want to know what the problem is! The pharmacy said I need prior authorization from you, and I want you to give it to me!" I thought that the unspoken threat in my voice was perfectly clear. Lucifer, however, did not.

"Yeah," he drawled casually. I could hear the clicking of his solitare game in the background. "What's the medication?"

"Zofran." Good, we must be getting somewhere.

"Huh. Hold on." Before I could answer, I was listening to Muzak. Which I hate.

7 minutes and 51 seconds later, Lucifer was back. "Our policy is not to fill a prescription of more than 5 pills of Zofran without authorization from the prescribing doctor."

It was my turn to use his choice word. "Huh?"

"Ma'am, we don't fill prescriptions of that particular drug for more than 5 pills without authorization from the prescribing doctor" Click, click, click went the solitare game.

"Yes, I heard you, I don't understand what that means, though" I explained to the ghoul.

He let out a huge sigh. "Ma'am. Without your doctor's authorization, we will not pay for a prescription of more than 5 pills."

Clearly, he and I were great communicators. "What do I need to do then? Should I have my doctor call your office? Should I have her call the pharmacy?" I thought that by giving him more than one option I had a better chance at an agreeable outcome.

He sighed again and the clicking resumed. "Ma'am, you need your doctor to fax us a document stating that he or she has written you a prescription for Zofran and that he or she wants you to receive more than 5 pills." It was plain he thought my elevator wasn't running to the top floors. What my elevator wanted to do was floor him.

"Um, doesn't the fact that my doctor wrote the prescription for more than 5 pills show you that she wants me to have more than 5 pills?" I could not have sounded more irritated.

Neither could Lucifer. "Ma'am. Our policy is not to fill a prescription of more than 5 pills of Zofran without authorization from the prescribing doctor."

"Oh, good grief! I heard you the first THREE TIMES YOU SAID THAT!!" I was near the end of my rope and I wanted to tie what was left of it around this guy's neck. "Is there a particular form I need to have her send you or will her scribble on a piece of paper work?"

"Ummmmmm. Hold on." It took me about 5 minutes to realize that this time there was no Muzak. It took me another minute to realize that this was because he had hung up on me.

I burst into tears and threw the phone to the floor, scaring Critter, who also burst into tears. As I sat on the sofa rocking both of us I vowed to go out and buy an Insurance Demon voodoo doll and stab it with as many pins as I could get my swollen hands on.

It's Not Like I'm Trying to Buy Medicinal

Marijuana. Just Give Me the Dang Pills!

After spending the night curled in a ball on the bathroom floor while sniffing lemon slices, I dragged my barfy bum off the floor this morning and headed to my nearest CVS to refill my Zofran prescription. Zofran, for those lucky enough not to know what it is, is a highly potent anti-nausea pill.

I waddled up to the pharmacy and slid my prescription across the counter. Noticing my green gills, the chirpy pharmacist guy promised to have the meds ready in less than 10 minutes. I crawled over to the set of plastic chairs and dropped into one. A couple of minutes later a timid little voice called to me.

"Ma'am?" The pharmacist guy was looking at me with sympathy.

His sugary sweet demeanor immediately set off my alarm bells. "Yes?" I responded warily.

"Um, your insurance requires prior authorization for this prescription." He let this announcement hang in the air for a second. "And without insurance, it will cost $427.00"

"What?!" My shriek was no doubt heard all the way up in the film development corner.

The pharmacy guy began to look alarmed and took a step back. "I can't fill this prescription the way it's written without authorization from your insurance company. The only way I can give you the 30 pills is if you pay full price for them. Otherwise, your insurance will only pay for 5." The words came tumbling out of him so fast it was hard for me to decipher each one individually. The poor guy was obviously new to the profession and hadn't had much experience with dealing with people who were livid with their insurance company.

Well, who better than a barfy pregnant woman to break him in?

"That's horse hockey!!" I snapped at him. I lunged out of my chair and snatched my prescription back off the counter. "It's not like I'm trying to get Percocet or Pot or something! It's barf pills!! What the heck is their problem?" I demanded of him.

"I don't know" he stammered nervously. His eyes darted from side to side, obviously looking for someone to rescue him.

"You know, you really should have that answer!" I sneered at him and stomped away.

Once in the car I wrenched my cell phone out of my purse to call the insurance company. As I did, a wave of nausea hit me and I was wiped clean of my anger. All I wanted now was a bucket and my mommy.

Credit Where Credit is Due

A few minutes ago I got an email from my mom, who just discovered that we have a blog, and wants y'all to know that while she "Love(s) the bumpass site, there was NO mention that Madre helped with the cookies, krispies, made the ham and potatoes! I want credit!"

Notice she does not want credit for helping with the eggs. But, we all must take bad with the good, so I'm letting you know that she, in fact, did help with the eggs, and even painted the Van Gogh inspired "Starry Night" egg.

When Husband gets home, I'll mention it to him, too.

Our Bunny Should've Brought Pepto:

How Rotten Eggs Spoiled the "Hoppiest" Day of Spring

In a fit of holiday delusions I decided to make this Easter an Easter To Remember. Nevermind the fact that Critter is 7 months old and can't remember morning by afternoon. A couple of days prior to the holiday I went out and bought all the ingredients needed for pastel sugar cookies, sprinkle dipped rice krispy treats, and at least five pounds of Hershey eggs and various colored Peeps. On the way to the checkout, my path crossed with a display of egg decorating kits. I spied with my little eye an Egg Painting Kit with Glitter Glue. Cool! The picture on the box was of beautifully hand painted and then glitter sprinkled egg masterpieces. I tossed the kit in the cart and skipped my way to gestational diabetes.

The day before Easter I decided to cook my treats and paint my eggs. The sugar cookies came out just the way I like them: golden on the outside, still kinda squishy on the inside. I rolled out the rice krispy treats and painstakenly used egg and tulip shaped cookie cutters to make take them from regular squares to festive Easter goodies. Then I waddled to the fridge (those cookies and treats needed tasting for goodness, ya know) to pull out the eggs. It was then I realized that in my excitement over the painting kit, I had bypassed the dairy section, and therefore had forgotten to buy eggs. Whoops. I shoved various foodstuffs aside and in the darkest corner of the bottom shelf I found an egg carton containing 10 eggs, stamped with the expiration date April 2. "That's fine," I thought. I'm gonna paint 'em, not eat 'em. And they turned out just like you would expect painted eggs to turn out. That is, nothing like the picture on the box.

But, I had made them for my precious Critter, so I lovingly placed them into his basket. I arranged his other Easter presents around them, grabbed David's basket, and loaded them into the car to take to my mom's house, where we would be celebrating Easter the next day. At my mom's I hid both baskets in the back of the linen closet and then returned home.

The next afternoon, filled with ham, potatoes, and salad, we exchanged baskets. I took a billion pictures of Critter in the yard surrounded by the painted eggs, and then put eggs and basket on the table and promptly forgot about them.

Later that evening, David began complaining of stomach pains, and soon after began spending a lot of time in the bathroom. He made several potty visits through the course of the night, but as he had a big project at work, he had to leave for the office the next morning.

When he left, I went out to the car to bring in the baskets that we'd left there. As I put away Critter's new things, I realized that the basket seemed emptier than it had the previous day. I realized it was because there were only 7 eggs, not 10. I called him. "How are you feeling, honey?" I asked in my sweetest I'm-not-trying-to-kill-you-via-salmonella voice. "Bad," he groaned back at me. "Um, Sweets, I'm missing a couple of those painted eggs from Critter's basket..." I hinted.

"Oh, I ate a couple. That's ok, right? You weren't saving them, were you?"

"No, no, I wasn't saving them, seeing as how they were expired and then spent the night in a linen closet before Easter," I told him pointedly.

"Cool. After I ate them I realized I should've asked you first, so I'm glad you're not mad." He sounded so relived and grateful that I wasn't mad, I didn't have the heart to point out to him that had he asked, maybe he'd still have his insides.

And the Slack Mama Award Goes To...

...ME!!!

This afternoon I put Critter down for a nap in our bed. I know, I know, never leave a baby alone anywhere but his crib. DSS is on their way over here as I type. But, once Critter falls asleep, he doesn't move. At all. You have to check to make sure he's still breathing by holding a mirror to his nose, so it's never been a problem for him to nap there before.

Anyhoo, after putting him down I returned to the livingroom to try to organize the Fisher Price explosion. I realized, after a while, that I kept hearing a tinkling, clacking sound. Now, at first, I thought nothing of it. After living with a husband, a baby, and two dogs, I'm fairly used to tuning out background noise. However, after several more minutes, it occured to my fog-riddled brain that the sound was coming from the master bedroom. After another slow-gear-grinding minute or two, my brain clicked.

"The baby's alone in there!! The BABY must be making that sound!" my brain screamed to me.

I ran in there to discover this scene:



Yep, that's my Precious with a fistful of change that Darling Husband left on his nightstand.

Ironically, that's the video monitor receiver in the charging station. Maybe I should've used it today...

10 Things I Learned...

...While Not Able to Sleep in the Middle of the Night

1. Rio snores
2. Siesta snores
3. Critter snores
4. David snores and talks in his sleep. Apparently someone wired the control panel wrong...
5. The ice maker makes ice every 57 minutes
6. Infomercials have the worst actors ever
7. The TV guide channel must have some sort of deal with American Idol
8. If you stare into the fridge long enough, you will become obsessed with trying to remember the last time you cleaned it out
9. Germ-o-phobes should never try to remember the date of the last fridge cleaning
10. It's not worth the $2.99, so just throw the fuzzy tupperware bowl away

Your kid may be smarter than mine...

...but what can a 7 month old do with quantum physics anyway?

I went on a playdate with a new mom acquaintance the other day.

I was expecting it to be like this:



It felt a lot more like this:



Type A Mom: "Can your baby crawl? Mine can!!! My Charles Havensbottom VII crawled at 3 months. Your baby looks like he just started crawling a few days ago. You should have done more tummy time."

Type A Mom: "Darling Charles Havensbottom the Articulate can say Mama, bottle, and Harvard. It sounds like your baby has a speech impediment. He should really be making more consonant sounds."

Type A Mom: "See how well Charles Havensbottom the Connoisseur feeds himself his caviar? Your baby just smushed bananas into his ear. If you sang Head, Shoulders Knees and Toes to him in the womb, he'd know where his mouth is by now."

Me: "Wow! Where did Charlie learn to roll his eyes like that?"

Nothing says "I love you" like the gift of poop

This weekend Husband and I took Critter and the two neighbor girls to a birds of prey demonstration. After the demonstration, we all trooped into the gift shop so the girls could spend their 10 bucks on eagle paraphernalia. While looking at the different ecologically friendly wares, I spied a cute little blue notebook. Upon closer inspection, I realized the notebook was created entirely from recycled elephant poop.

"Oh, my goodness!" I squealed, grabbing up a handful of the journals. "It's POOP!" I waved the books in my husband's direction, while the woman beside me began to back away nonchalantly.

"Awesome!" A boy about 7 or 8 years old materialized beside me. He reached out and took one of the notebooks, which bore the emblem of an elephant, along with the tagline "We're number one at number two."

"Wow" he breathed, staring up at me in wonder. "I didn't know elephants pooped notebooks!"

******************************

(For those who know me, or have simply seen me across a crowded room, and therefore are privy to my love of all things elephant, it should not surprise you that I stocked up on my new favorite form of elephant items.)

An Ode to Twilight

Husband and I exchanged Valentine's Day presents the other day. (It's custom at our house to exchange presents days before a holiday, due mostly- well, entirely- to the fact that when it comes to presents, I have the patience of a hungry newborn.) Husband bought me an iPod touch, which I immediately named Jasper. Thus, bringing me one member closer to creating my own Cullen family of inanimate objects.

In honor of the holiday, and my love for Twilight, I decided to write a poem:

Rosalie is RED
Emmett is BLUE

Alice is PURPLE

And Jasper is NEW

Happy Valentine's Day!!!

Babies Don't Like Lemons

'Nough said.

A.B.C means All Bad Children (welcome!)

I met my mom at Atlanta Bread Company today, where I witnessed the single most scary vision of what could be the future...
A kindergarten-aged little girl- dressed in a Lilly Pulitzer skirt and Lacoste polo (here you know her mama has more money than sense)- actually threw herself on the floor, in front of the bakery, customers, God, and everyone, and pitched a fit-to-be-tied (and she should have been!) fit over a chocolate chip muffin top.
Are you freaking kidding me? Who is this child's mother?!? Oh, yeah, she's the woman who ignored Suzy Super Brat for 5 minutes before finally buying the cookie, thus teaching SSB that tantrums = results.
I may be a crazy-delusional new mommy, but if my kid ever tries to pull that crap I'm taking him to the parking lot. And, in the words of Bill Cosby "the parking lot is BAD. There are no witnesses out there..."