She's Sick, I'm Tired

I used to always envy people who got to take sick days when their kids were ill. I thought they got to stay home, nap, and just have a nice day. They didn't feel sick, so they could just relax.

I know better now.

Meg is sick for the second time in three weeks. Not little sick. Big sick. Runny nose. Fever. Not eating. Sleepy, but not wanting to sleep because she can't breathe. There is not a part of her that is well. Even her hair looks sick.

Oh, and she is crabby. Not just crabby, but craaaaabbby. Meg is never crabby. She is always in a good mood. Nothing ever seems to bug her. Even when she gets angry, or upset, it is only for a moment, and her good humor is restored quickly. It's like she can't help but smile and giggle. For the past 36 hours, though, smiles and giggles have been replaced by whines, and eye rubbing. I haven't seen her cry this much EVER. Cuddling seems to help, until it doesn't. Then she screams like my arms are made of cactus. She was happy with a popsicle, until she started crying like she was being fed fire. I tried to bribe her, but she wouldn't take a check without two forms of ID.

I feel like I have been running my butt off, even though I really haven't done that much. I haven't washed my hair, or put on real clothes. I haven't cleaned. I haven't really eaten anything. I've only Tweeted three times. Still, my feet hurt, and my mind is mush.

I need a cocktail. A big one. It will help while I write "I'm sorry" notes to all my former co-workers with kids... I just hope I can finish them all before I fall asleep.

Don't Make Me Shop

I am in desperate need of new clothes. It has gotten to the point where every piece of clothing I pull out of closet is either has some sort of baby related stain, looks slightly lacy from the large number of small holes and tears, or was last fashionable in 2002 -- and it was likely only fashionable then because it was retro. Add to all these problems the fact I have lost 17 pounds, so all my fat pants are now falling off, and my skinny pants are still too tight, and I think you can understand why I wish I could wave a magic wand and totally revamp my wardrobe. After all, really, that's the only way it is going to happen.

It isn't that we don't have the money. I mean, we don't; my debit card laughs when I run it though the reader at the store, and our last bank statement didn't have numbers on it, but instead just said "broke as a joke." However, it is not finances that is keeping me from getting new clothes, but rather my abject fear of buying them.

Friends, I have no idea how to shop.

I have no idea what to look for on the rack. I hate trying things on. I don't know how things are supposed to fit. Also, I despise dressing room mirrors, and usually am so upset with the crazy static in my hair that only occurs in clothing stores that I don't even look at the clothes. Oh, and I always think I am spending too much money. I can spend like crazy on Meg, or on Ryan, or on gifts, but when it comes to me I worry 20 bucks is too much for a shirt or a pair of pants. I figure I am too hard on clothes to really spend more.

I've tried online shopping, thinking it would take the whole "store fear" out of the equation, only to wind up with dozens of pieces of clothing that either are not the color I thought, the size I thought, or had some weird applique I couldn't see in the pictures. I should have returned them, but I am not only bad at shopping, but really lazy.

I'm not really good about shopping with other people either. Multiple friends and family members have tried to take me out and make me over. Some of them still talk to me, but none of them will go shopping with me again. In most cases I refused to buy anything, finding varying reasons things weren't right, or refusing to try anything on because of the whole hair static thing. In the few cases where I did buy something I wore it once or twice, and then consigned it to the rack of misfit clothes -- items that lost their shine once the peer pressure was off.

Life would be so much easier if we were all nudists. Wait, no it wouldn't. Where would I put my keys? And, oh, SNAP, I share a chair at work. Yeah, nudism is out.

Well, maybe gypsy skirts with carrot stains will be the next big thing.

I can only hope.

Not Funny Any More

Mother Nature is messing with Utah. I would say it's God doing it, but I know this state, and I really don't want to stir that pot. So, I'll blame it on Mother Nature. Today? It snowed. Oh, and it didn't just snow a little bit. Some places got a foot of snow. Think I'm exaggerating? Check this shit out...

Stolen from ksl.com

Yeah, no one in Utah is growing good tomatoes this year. I think we'll be lucky if any of us grow anything but mold.

I would love to say that this is just a one time "joke" from nature, that she's just pulling a prank because she knows how Utahns enjoy a good laugh -- but she has been messing with the state for almost a year. This winter? We had practically no snow. People would arrive in the state and think the "greatest snow on earth" logo on the license plates was ironic. Resorts were asking kids to bring their Snoopy Sno-cone machines up to help cover the slopes. We had a beige Christmas. Well, at least we did in the north. In the south, where it is supposed to be warm in the winter, they got hammered with snow. Record blizzards. All of the retirees came out of their condos to shake their canes at the sky -- to no avail. Of course, we are all good sports, and used to drought years, so we figured that's what it was.

Now we know better. Mother Nature was just setting us up. Wiping off the chair so she could pull it out from under us. Offering us a can of mixed nuts, knowing there is a wire snake inside. Telling us a big celebrity was coming out in People magazine, and then announcing it's Cheley Wright.

We are not amused.

I just wish I knew what she had up her sleeve for summer. I'm guessing either heat beyond belief that makes everything melt quickly and brings the Great Salt Lake back to prehistoric levels, or polar ice caps.

Watch, now it will be temperate and lovely. At least until the locusts come.

That bitch.

George Lucas is Still Alive

I still clearly remember the moment when I realized what death really meant. I was five or six, and we were driving home from my grandmother's house. I was sitting in the backseat of my Mom's green Toyota, and we were passing a place at the mouth of the canyon called "Suicide Rock." I had been thinking about death for a little while, trying to wrap my mind around it, but at that moment it hit me. Dead means no more life. Whether or not there is something after this, it means no more this.

I don't think I have ever really recovered.

Sure, I have had periods of hours, days, weeks, or even months when I haven't actively entertained the thought, but it is always there in the back of my mind, ready to roar forward and put me into a full blown panic attack. It is not something I enjoy, and it is not something I would wish on anyone -- especially Luke. Unfortunately, that is exactly what is happening right now.

Ever since Luke figured out her was a boy he has enjoyed the games boys enjoy. He turns everything into a gun or a weapon, and it is not uncommon to hear him say he "shot" or "killed" something or someone. About a year ago he told he is going to a "warrior" when he grows up. None of this really had any meaning for him though, because dying to him just meant losing, not actually ending. Now I can see the thought evolving in his mind.

He doesn't talk about death at length; I don't think any kid, other than perhaps Kafka, ever does. It just pops up in small ways. For instance, we were driving past the cemetery where my parents' neighbor is buried. It is one of the cemeteries where only flat stones are allowed. From the backseat came Luke's voice -- "Do dead people start out with a flat stone, and then get a big one later" he asked. I told him that no, whatever stone you started out with, that was the one you ended up with. He was quiet for a moment, and then said "I want a huge one. A really big stone. Remember that." I said I would.

Luke is also very concerned about who is alive, and who is dead. He knows that with movies, and television, sometimes people who are really dead can still seem to be alive. Michael Jackson is his favorite example of this, and whenever we hear one of his songs on the radio he reminds us all that Jackson is dead. I think he wants us to know he isn't falling for the trickery, and only wants to enjoy things if he knows the true status of all involved. This is especially true when it comes to all things Star Wars.

For the past two weeks, whenever we are in the car, and there is nothing else to talk about, he will quiz me about every character, and if the actor or actress who played them is still alive.

"Luke Skywalker," he'll say.
"Yes," I'll say.
"Obi Wan."
"Young or Old?"
"Old."
"Dead."
"Young?"
"Alive."

It's like he's planning a reunion or something.

I have to admit I haven't seen all of the movies, so I am not sure when he asks about some of the more obscure characters, but I usually just say they are still alive, and then go home and check IMBD to be sure.

There are days that I get tired of the questions, or his thinking about death triggers my fears, and I start to panic. So I don't have to pull to the side of the road and take a Klonopin, I stop the questions by saying five simple words: George Lucas is still alive. That always calms him down. I don't know why, but it does. It's as if his entire universe is okay, as long as the man who made his favorite part of it is still alive. Lucky kid.

If only I could go back and give my small self a similar totem to hold. Just tell her in the rough times to focus on the fact Olivia Newton John still alive, and know that everything will be okay.

I would even give her a headband to hold.

Put Some Pants on That Kid!

It is getting warmer, which means people are wearing less. In the case of some babies and toddlers, a lot less. After all, we all know that when the weather gets warm there is a certain set of parents who see nothing wrong with dressing their small child in nothing but a diaper and a t-shirt. And this year? Huggies is encouraging them.


Yes, that's right, diapers that look like jeans. Oh, and this isn't just some kitschy "design" like Disney or Muppet characters, meant to be a secret between you and your baby. According to the press release they are meant to make a baby look "fashionable." Yeah, especially if the fashion in questions is "demo derby chic." The only thing that would make these "jeans" more "fashionable" is if they came with a matching disposable bib halter top or wife beater bearing the words "My Mom is a MILF."

Please, Huggies, don't do that. I was only kidding.

I am sure there will be a HUGE market for these jeans. In fact, I wouldn't doubt if there was a line out the door at Wal-Mart of Moms wanting to "multi-task" their child's summer wardrobe. Of course, the really ingenious ones would just buy plain diapers and draw pockets on them. After all, who says all jeans have to be blue? White jeans were quite popular in the 80's.

Again, Huggies, I'm kidding, not coming up with marketing strategies.

I guess on the up side Huggies has just set the bar a lot lower for us Moms who feel their kids aren't always dressed as well as they should be. Just getting them in real pants is now a victory. Yeah, I know that isn't an actual upside, but I'm reaching here, trying to convince myself this isn't another step on the path of the downfall of civilization.

Damn you, Huggies.

The Down Side

It's easy to get jaded working in television. After about three years it feels like you have seen all the stories, and nothing surprises you. You can usually narrow down the outcome of any event to three possibles, and bet on the one it will most likely be. There is a lot of cynicism, and a lot of gallows humor. A lot of the time that's enough to get through the day, and not feel like the job is sucking the life out of us. Then there are the times we get punched in the gut, and there is no way to leave work at the office.

One week a go today a couple reported their four year old son was missing. They said it was the fifth time he had wandered away from their apartment, but that they had always found him close by in the past. At first, we assumed the kid that fallen asleep somewhere, and that when morning came he would be found. I was actually kind of annoyed that another "irresponsible parent" story was taking up airtime. By noon though, we knew something wasn't right. I had a feeling the parents were a bit worse than "irresponsible."

Oh, how I wish I hadn't been right.

The mother and step father of 4-year old Ethan Stacy murdered him. Not only that though, they abused him for days beforehand, and then after his death desecrated his body and buried him in the canyon. Every day last week I thought the worst of the story was over. Every day I was wrong. By the time Thursday rolled around I was ready to scream "ENOUGH! I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ANY MORE!" Of course, that's like a doctor saying they are sick of blood, or BP saying they are sick of environmental destruction.

I think I cried more last week than I have in a long time. I was actually dehydrated. And I wasn't alone. Friday morning I went into the office, feeling like I was returning to take one more beating after a week of having the shit kicked out of me. I sat at my desk, started my computer, and looked up to say hello to my co-workers.

My feelings were reflected in every face I saw.

Not one of us was unaffected. Not one of us didn't feel like our hearts had been taken out, stomped on, and put back in. Not one of us wanted to still be reporting on Ethan's story, because not one of us wanted to believe that such a horrible thing could happen.

I struggled all weekend over why we reported the Ethan story at all, and why we went into such detail. After all, it's very easy to write it off as "disaster porn." However, I think it's important for people to know about Ethan. They need to be reminded that monsters really do exist, and that everyone, not just parents, need to be vigilant and protect children from them. Being polite, and turning a blind eye could cost a child his or her life.

At least I hope that's the answer, because it's the only way I can sleep at night. Well, sleep at night and still have a functioning heart.

Meg the Badger Tamer

My little sister, Cate, is a pistol. She works in an industry where she deals with Teamsters all day, and usually leaves them crying. There is no contract she can't negotiate, no problem she can't solve, and no budget she can't cut. Oh, and she does it all while wrapped in a very cute, small, bright red haired package. That is why we call her the badger.

Think about it. Badgers look cute. Cuddly even. There are badger stuffed animals. However, cross them, and they will rip out your throat. Cate can be described the same way. Honestly, I am surprised that badgers haven't started calling themselves "Cates."

Tonight, the badger called to talk to Meg. We put the phone to Meg's ear, and she started with her new greeting of "hiiiii." Cate started talking, telling Meg about her day, and Ryan and I started urging Meg to say "badger."

And then she did.

It wasn't totally clear, more like "badder," but Cate heard it, and it melted her heart. Yes, even the badger has a heart.

Maybe those Teamsters will get a break tomorrow. I doubt it though.

You Told Me So

I am not a fan of doctors.

It isn't that I am scared of them, or that I think they are ineffective. I just think most doctors are douchebags. Yes, there are exceptions. My Ob/Gyn. Our friend Andrew. Doctors Zhivago and Doolittle. Actually, scratch those last two, they both have MAJOR issues.

The douchiest of doctors, I have found, work at "urgent care" clinics, or "Instacare." Really, it's as if in the interviews these doctors are asked if they have any sympathy or respect for patients, and, if they answer yes, they are told to find employment elsewhere. The last time I was forced to go to such a clinic I had contracted a parasite in Mexico. I was having my period at the time of my visit, and yet had to answer numerous questions about whether or not I was pregnant. I almost showed him my tampon. I know, gross, but he pushed me.

Last week, when this cold started, I assumed it would just run it's course. I would spit gross things in the shower every morning, snore like Darth Vader at night, and in four days it would be over. And it was -- in a way. The snottiness left, as did the sneeziness, but they were replaced by a headache that would not quit, teeth that felt like they were about to come out, achy ears, and dizziness. Tara said I had a sinus infection. My friend Christy concurred. I scoffed at both, as I had never had a sinus infection, and realized it meant I would have to see a doctor. Oh, and I already knew I wasn't pregnant.

This morning, I knew I had no choice. I wished I could take my head off. I couldn't bend over. Sneezing, coughing, and blood running through my body hurt. I couldn't dry my hair. I went to work, but found myself crying at my desk. I knew what I had to do. I had to seek help -- at Instacare.

I could give you a blow by blow, but that would just be more annoying that the actual visit -- and it was very annoying. When the doctor entered I told her I thought I had a sinus infection, and needed antibiotics. I said my head and upper jaw hurt, and they still hurt even when I took cold medicine. I said I was dizzy. She then explained back to me exactly what I had said, only as if she was showing a two year old how finger puppets work. She then asked to listen to my chest. I told her it hadn't gone into my chest. She then told me my chest was clear. Oh, and added "sweetie" on the end. She was my age.

I could have forgiven all of this if, when I came out of the exam room to get my prescription, she had either looked my way, or said something to me. However, she was too busy dishing about a previous patient (hello, HIPAA) to another doctor, and basically threw my prescription at me over her shoulder.

I wish I had licked all of her pens.

At least she gave me antibiotics. They would be better with Vicodin mixed in, but who am I to complain... No one in her eyes.

Next time I am just calling Andrew.

The Bright Side

I am totally sick. I am coughing, sneezy, and stuffed up. My ears are so plugged that I really wouldn't be surprised if spiders crawled out of them, and gave me the finger. My teeth hurt. I am very tired, and very whiny. I kind of worry that Ryan is going to smother me with a pillow so he doesn't have to listen to my bitching and hocking any more. Only kind of worry because the other part of me thinks at least then I could sleep.

I have tried EVERYTHING. Sudafed. The Sudafed you can only get behind the counter after being strip searched. Mucinex. DayQuil. None of them really touched my symptoms, but some made me tingly enough that I didn't care. I have even tried irrigating my sinuses, something I said I would never, ever do. I didn't care how people swear by it, or if it makes them see unicorns and fairies, I thought it was gross. When I finally did it? It was gross. And it didn't work.

This afternoon, when Ryan got home, I was just about at the end of my rope. Meg hadn't napped, the cats were fighting, and it was raining. I was just about to give up when I noticed the sun was coming out. It was still pouring, but the sun was out. I yelled to Ryan, he scooped up Meg, and we went outside.Yep, Meg's first rainbow. And, you can't really see it, but it was a double rainbow. There was a double rainbow on the day that Ryan and I were married. Perfect.

I guess life isn't so bad. Of course, that could be the pharmaceuticals in my system talking.

Ten Months

From this:
To this:
Yeah, I know. I doesn't look like the same kid. If I hadn't seen her every day for the past ten months I would think baby switching gnomes had some role in this. She has gone from potato to person, with very specific likes, dislikes, and talents. She has an ever expanding vocabulary, which includes her favorite saying "hey kitty." She eats almost everything, but she has to feed it to herself. If we put food into her mouth she spits it out, picks it up, and then eats it.

Ten months means Meg is now always in motion. There is no more time to "cuddle." Any attempt to do so will result in her twisting, throwing her head back, and pushing away with arms and legs. When we put her down she is off like a shot, crawling and investigating everything in her path. If I have missed something with the vacuum Meg will find it, and most likely put it in her mouth. If only dog hair was nutritious.

One thing that doesn't change as Meg gets older is her sweet spirit. She has such a sunny disposition, and finds delight in everything. She wakes up happy. She goes to sleep happy. Even when she is hungry, or tired, or mad because we are touching her nose, she is pleasant. Oh, and you should hear her laugh. There is no end of the things she finds funny. Sometimes she cracks herself up, and I will hear her just giggling in the backseat of the car, or in her high chair as we get her food ready. It is the best sound in the world.

Ten months ago today I became a Mom. I can't imagine anything better.

Oh, how I love our girl.

Five Years Later

Five years ago we didn't have Sally.
We had our old couch, our old ratty dining room table, and our old bed.
Five years ago we hadn't ever been to Vietnam, or Costa Rica, or Mexico.
Jane was still alive. Tara hadn't moved to California. Stan and Lana hadn't moved to Florida.
Five years ago I didn't like the President.I had no idea we would have a problem having a baby.
Five years ago we didn't have Meg.

A lot has changed in five years, but one thing has not; I am still head over heels with the man I married on May 7th 2005. I will be for the next five years, and the five years after that, and all the years to come.Happy Anniversary Ryan. I love you, and I want the whole world to know it -- or at least the 137 people who read my blog.

It's Not What You Think

We have started letting Meg feed herself. Not all the time, and not with food like soup, or fondue, but at least once a day. Every meal starts with us laying out little tidbits like Cheerios, peas, carrots, pasta, and meat chunks; and ends with us picking up many of the same tidbits off the floor, the high chair, and out of her hair. We then give said tidbits to the dog, who paces hungrily once she sees Meg sit in the high chair, and who eats every bit of food that falls anywhere close to her mouth.

At first, cleaning up Meg was kind of a chore. Some food would be left behind and found later; sometimes in her diaper at changing, sometimes in the padding of the high chair the next time we fed her. Of course, that was when we though cleaning up the baby was a one person job. Now we know it's about teamwork. Now we know about the stand and shake.

It's simple, really. One person takes off the tray, and holds it at waist level. The other person undoes the straps, and holds the baby up over the tray, shaking slightly, and brushing, to get the food off. It's a good system. Sometimes we even try to make it fun for Meg by dancing her around and making up songs. Like tonight, we were singing "shake, shake, shake; shake your baby." She thought it was so funny!

What? It was funny... Hey, at least we don't use clean her up with the "no wire hanger" technique.

College Students Are Idiots

Every year the paper at the University of Utah allows the senior staff to write good-bye columns. Or at least, they did. They may want to rethink the practice after seeing this year's collection...
Oh, wait, they didn't stop there... I mean, just in case anyone thought it was an accident, or didn't get the joke.

Wow. I really hope that none of these writers were hoping to be remembered for their writing. I also hope none of them are hoping to work professionally as a journalist. I mean, yeah, we like to have fun -- behind the scenes. However, if there is one thing everyone in the business knows, it's that advertising pays the bills. And advertisers don't give money to papers and stations that employ douchebags who look to "South Park" for their standards.

Yeah, I know, I sound old and stodgy. I am sure that all of these kids think that potential employers (Gizmodo! Huffington Post! Icanhazcheeseburger!) will find their antics "edgy" and "fun." Yeah, they might. However, they still won't hire them, because they can't trust them.

Okay, rant over. Now I can laugh at it. I mean, did you see what it says?

Dress for the Weather

Ah, spring in Utah.

This morning as I left for work it was a brisk 42 degrees. By noon it was in the 50's, and, as I sit here now, it feels like it is in the high 60's, low 70's. Really, it's hot enough that neither Meg or I are wearing pants. The dog is though, which is kind of suspicious.

Tomorrow, it is supposed to snow.

I think you an now understand why there is no such thing as a "set spring wardrobe" in this state. In the past 24 hours I have seen people wearing sweaters and jackets, and people wearing shorts and t-shirts. All were dressed perfectly appropriately for at least 15 minutes of the day, and for the rest of the time they were likely bemoaning their fashion choices. That's the real spring fashion choice in Utah: deciding if you would rather complain about being too hot, or being too cold.

Ryan prefers to be too hot, stripping off layers when it gets to unbearably warm. I prefer to be cold, taking his layers as he sheds them or surrenders them because I have gotten unbearably whiny. That's how it has worked for five years, and we have perfected the system. It's how we dress Meg though, that is the bone of contention.

Outfit one of seven for the day.

I dress her in a cute outfit, with a onesie underneath, and think she's ready to go.

Ryan changes out her cute sandals (that go with the outfit) and puts her in shoes and socks. Oh, and he adds a cardigan or hoodie.

I replace the cardigan with a rain jacket that I stash in her bag "just in case." I also grab the sandals.

Ryan stashes her parka in the bag as well, along with a warmer outfit, usually part of which is a sweater that could only be described as "apres ski."

We finally leave the house with a diaper bag that could be mistaken as a weekend getaway suitcase.

Well, at least we only have to worry about spring for another two weeks at most. Then the scorching summer will begin and none of will care about what we are wearing, because our brains will be melted.

It will almost make us miss the May weather schizophrenia.

Almost.