Who Doesn’t Want to Marry a Dog?

My little comedian has been inventing stories again, and lately the details have been quite elaborate.  Here are just some of the gems:

David: “Tell Mommy what you ate for lunch.”

Evan: “A bug. It went on my tongue like this, see… It was chocolate and good. Yum!”

Me: “Really, because that looks like a bug bite on your arm.”

Evan: “It bite me first, so I ate it.”

I wasn’t sure if this was true or not, but I figured at least it was extra protein since he needs the iron and it’s good that he’s sticking up for himself.

Evan: “Me marry Sascha.”

Me: “You married Sascha? What did Nola think about that?”

Evan: “Me marry Nola, too. I love Nola and Sascha (our dogs). Marry like you and Daddy.”

Me: “Yes, Daddy and I are married and we do love each other. But why did you marry Sascha and Nola?”

Evan: “Why not?”

This one I heard secondhand, but I guess Evan decided to put crayons in my mother-in-law’s subwoofer because there was a hungry dragon that needed color. While I don’t support the hiding or destruction of property, I do give him kudos for empathizing with the poor, lackluster dragon.

Evan: “Me STRONG!! EERRRR (showing his muscles). Daddy strong, too.”

Me: “What about Mommy? Is Mommy strong, too?”

Evan: “No, you pretty. You gorgeous, Mommy.”

Me: “Why thank you, honey. That’s very sweet. But I can be strong and pretty.”

Evan: “No, just me and Daddy. We strong and help Mommy. You not strong. Just pretty.”

Me: “Okay, but honey, why can’t I be strong like you and Daddy?”

Evan: “’Cuz you girl and you have Baby Mojo in belly. Daddy and me strong for you guys. Okay, Mommy? You just be pretty. Daddy says you gorgeous and I'm strong 'cuz I eat me vedables (vegetables). What you eat to be pretty?”

Lastly, I hear Nola whimpering so I look in and see Evan basically waterboarding her with his milk while holding onto her collar. I quickly rescue her and tell Evan that he can’t do that ever again, because it hurts Nola.

Evan: “No, Nola very thirsty. She told me.”

Me: “ Evan, Nola can’t drink milk and that really hurts her when you just pour it on her face. She can’t breathe.”

Evan: “She fine. She breathe through tail. Nola loves milk.”

Me: “Nola can’t breathe through her tail. She breathes through her nose and mouth, and she can’t breathe if you're pouring milk on her. That is very dangerous and you don’t want to hurt Nola, right?”

Evan: “No, no hurt Nola. Love her. So it goes in her tail, right, Mommy? Doesn’t breathe through tail, so drink like bendy straw. Okay!”

Nola, a pug, does indeed have the perfect curly tail/straw if evolution ever deemed it necessary for a separate drinking apparatus.

The Fear Is Setting In

I thought this one would be different. I wouldn’t be scared of what’s to come with baby no. 2. But it’s there. Peeking its ugly head out like those embarrassing awkward years photos you thought were all burned. I’m scared and unsure again.

It started off fine. I knew what was coming. I knew Braxton Hicks shouldn't induce a panicked phone call to my OB or terrified husband. I knew the baby wouldn’t rip itself out of my stomach a la Aliens or kick my bladder into my legs despite her Mia Hamm impressions.  And I knew no matter what, my hubby and I could handle it.

Now, I’m not so sure. I read my friend’s blog about their third baby and she came out like a human canon ball. Evan was a week early and he took his sweet time despite repeated eviction notices throughout the 24-hour plus labor. (Of course, he made up for it with 9 minutes of pushing.)

Plus, I didn’t know what the contractions were at first and stayed at work finishing up projects. In fact, I would have stayed there longer if my boss and other female co-workers hadn’t realized from my pained face that it was getting bad and forcibly ejected me.

But what if Baby Mojo makes an appearance while I’m Krogering or at the park with Evan? Do I cross my legs, fingers, eyes and hope for the best? Do I rush home or take my time? And this time I seriously want my epidural earlier. There is no blue ribbon for heroics when it comes to labor. Some women choose to do it naturally—and God bless them—but I was just stubborn and stupid. I wanted to prove I could walk the walk while grimacing through contractions. When I did want one, the good juice guy was in high demand and I loudly cursed my way through the waiting. I’m pretty sure I scared and scarred my brother-in-law for life, but at least now he teases me less and recognizes the full power of my Italian-Irish ire.

Part of me wants to just forget about all the chaos and focus on the happy pre-baby moments. But I’ve never been that good with extended self-delusion. Plus, I still haven’t done anything in terms of decorating, a baby book, or figuring out what we still need to buy.

All I know is that I better snap to soon or else she’ll be wearing onesies with stains and uber-boy proclamations, and sitting on the floor because I still don’t have a bouncy seat for her. I may be a delusional mom, but I can’t ignore that I have less than three months to get ready for life-changing child 2.0.

Little Things Make Me Happy

I'm easily amused, which comes in handy for long car trips and dealing with persnickety people. But sometimes I find the most amazing, surprising things that completely jazz me. Like random blogs that feature cool people.

A friend recommended Awesome People Hanging Out Together. This site features the likes of Freddy Mercury and Boy George kicking it 80s style and the meeting of true geniuses like Henry Ford, Thomas Edison, Warren G. Harding, and Harvey Firestone. 

Or, Epbot from Jen the blogger who brought us Cake Wrecks. She makes geeks chic and I totally heart that. Plus, it’s good to know that an average gal can make this whole crazy blogging thing work.

My other favorites are unintentionally funny billboards/signs, made-up inner monologues for strangers, and just about any song my lil man concocts.

It’s this quality that’s kept me sane through some pretty hairy situations in both my personal and professional lives. It’s also the reason I think people classify me as perky and assume I was a cheerleader. (BTW: The only cheer I ever made up was during my single digit childhood years for the Buffalo Bills. And “Red and blue make Buffalo, too” is not the most original, especially when you’re singing it for Browns fans.)

But I think perky lacks definition for the intricacies of my humor and unique state of mind. I prefer to delve much deeper and note the black humor that ekes out randomly, or my ever-present sarcasm, or even my rapier wit and modesty.

I love quirks and how they define a person. I’m seeing them form first-hand being a mom, but I discovered them long ago in my people watching. I can’t wait to see how recent generations will add their own twists to my amusements. I will also do my part to create a world that jazzes others.