I know a lot of people who are pregnant right now. I'm okay with that. I mean, certainly I wish I were (still) pregnant too but whatever. I've been miserable in the heat without gestating a human so there's that. I know some of the preggos conceived with no trouble at all, in fact they weren't even trying and thought they were in the clear. I know some of them had issues. I suspect more of them had issues that I don't know about. So it's all good. I'm a little sad but I wish them well and hope for the best and I know that sounds stupid but I really mean it.

HOWEVER. I cannot handle Tori Spelling being pregnant. It eats away at me. Why is SHE pregnant and I'm not? This is totally irrational. For all I know, she's been having issues herself and I should be over the moon for her. Although I doubt she had issues because do you know how many reality shows that woman has? It would have to have come out somewhere.

I know that Tori has (and has had) a lot of reality shows because I have watched them. They were must see TV in our house for a while. You can ask James. Inn Love was the best, but we continued to watch Home Sweet Hollywood. (I haven't watched her new offering, Storibook Weddings? or whatever. I have SOME limits.) And on Inn Love she was pregnant and she was freaking out over little things and I was like, "Oh! She is like me! I heart Tori!" even though we'd never have anything in common in real life.

So, the fact that Tori Spelling is pregnant and I'm not is REALLY AGGRAVATING ME. That's my confession of the day. 

Posted by Molly at 4:47 PM EDT

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This entry will exist solely for the purpose of embarrassing Patrick later on in life.

Last night, he was sitting on the couch, pantsless. As he often is. (He is doing well with the potty training, in general. Doing really well considering I'm not pushing it, ha.) I glanced down and noticed that he ... seemed to be excited about something.

"Patrick, you have a baby boner," I said.

He looked down, tweaked it -- TWEAKED IT, said, "Big one!" and grinned.

I DIDN'T KNOW THEY STARTED THAT BEHAVIOR SO YOUNG.

***

This morning, the cat wanted to go out. The cat is supposed to be an indoor cat, but she's not. She got a taste of freedom and now she is unwilling to give it up. Seeing as how she's sneaky and Patrick can unlock and open doors, there's no point in even trying to keep her in, really. I told Patrick we had to let the kitty out so that she could go poop. A few minutes later, Patrick -- who was naked; he'd slept naked -- informed me that needed to go outside to poop. I said we were doing pretty well with potty training earlier, but I meant #1. So I didn't think he really was going to do anything. But he did. Heh.

***

Incidentally, Patrick is a master manipulator. "Thank you" was one of the first things he said when he started talking, because we always would tell him thank you when he would give us something. But we've only recently started making him say please. He'd say it when prompted but not on his own. Last night, in an effort to stay up later, he broke out the "please" umprompted for the first time. He was asking for milk, and he'd already had water so I said no, it was too late for milk. And he said, "Please, mommy?" Of course he says it like "peeeeas?" and it makes me melt. He got his milk and his extra five minutes of being awake. Ha. Score one for Patrick.

***

In unrelated news, project "be skinny or pregnant by Sarah's wedding in July" is not going well. BUT THERE'S STILL TIME!

Posted by Molly at 9:55 PM EDT

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I'm posting another incomplete entry. Once it's banished to draft status I apparently lose all bloggy motivation. Enjoy!

***

Yesterday, Patrick turned 28 months old. I have never been good with the months vs. years things when it comes to baby/toddler ages. When people ask me how old he is, I usually say, "He turned 2 in December." (Before that, it was "He'll be 2 in December," etc.) It's just that I know the other mothers are judging. He's bigger than my child. He's smaller than my child. He says more than my child. My child is cuter, thank goodness. (Yes, we all think that.) So I want him to get credit where it's due. If he's 2 + 1 month, that's a lot younger than 2 + 11 months. Obviously I overanalyze positively everything. Anyway, he's 2 but I already did a "Two" update so ... twenty eight months.

Patrick talks a lot. Mostly, I can understand him. Often, other people can understand him. Sometimes you still need context. One of my favorite things that he says is 'pacuter' for computer. He has his little toy one, James has the iPad, and I usually have my laptop on the couch. He will point to each one. "My pacuter. Mommy pacuter. Daddy pacuter." It's cute. He really likes his squirt bottle, which we got him to keep him from playing with the Windex. James told him it was chemicals and he wasn't allowed to play with it (they're in the cabinet above the stove, so he can't reach), so now he stands there pointing upwards and asking for 'chem-kalls.' He is somewhat placated by his very own squirt bottle filled with water but he knows it's a poor substitute and sometimes he makes his feelings on this subject quite clear. The vacuum cleaner is still a source of fascination. He's moved up to the early preschool class at daycare, and that door is across the hall from the employee/storage room. One day this week, when I went to pick him up, he pointed at the door and said, "Get vacuum cleaner. Key up there." (The key is on a hook by the door.) The teacher said, "He is just so smart. He's too smart for his own good." I'm inclined to agree, but I wonder if she says that to all the moms?

Since it's spring, we're outside all the time. Patrick loves getting dirty and loathes coming inside. Tantrums. He adores lawn mowers. He has a push mower but would like a riding mower. We watched a guy down the street mow his lawn with a push mower a few weeks back. Patrick was fascinated with the procedure to start it. He now starts things up randomly by pulling the (nonexistent) starter cord. I am supremely amused by this. The kid across the street brought out a mini John Deere last night, and Patrick was in heaven, despite the fact that the thing was missing one of its front wheels. Patrick has seen this very tractor at Wal-Mart and requests it every time we go (which is not that often, the kid has too good of a memory). James is probably going to cave in and buy it for him but I'm trying to remain strong because he has SO MANY THINGS THAT GO.

The little boy next door, who's 4, wants Patrick to sleep over, but his mom said Patrick has to be potty trained first, so every day, he asks, "Did you train him yet?" Alas, we have not. Patrick knows what to do, however. He pees standing up, like big boys do. He pees in the shower (learned THAT trick from his father) and pees into his garbage truck and his front loader. I have to give him credit but at the same time, clearly he gets it and he's toying with me. He only rarely will actually go on the potty. I'm not ready to push it yet. I imagine at some point they'll push it more at daycare and he has to be trained before he moves up, but that's almost a year away.

Posted by Molly at 1:39 PM EDT

Updated: Fri 05/20/2011 9:28 PM EDT

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This was totally going to be a great blog entry. But then I ran out of time and if I don't post it now, I'll never post anything, and at least this way it qualifies as blodding more. Ha. If only exercising more were that easy. I picked up my bridesmaid dress for Sarah's wedding. It's two sizes bigger than it should be (although she did mention that it was measuring small for everyone). It fits about the same as when I tried it on. I was hoping it would be loose(r). Oh well. I do still have three months. Although then I would have to pay for alterations. Uh, anyway. Here's the start of the blog entry.

***

It is interesting what people say when they’re afflicted with verbal diarrhea. (I include myself in that. Sometimes I find myself shaking my head walking away from a conversation. WHY did I just say that?) This morning at the gas station, there was a woman filling up in front of me who had a Toyota SUV. She came back to ask me if I liked my Jeep. It turns out she’s getting divorced and she still has the same car – a ’96 – that she had before she was married, and her husband kept getting all these trucks. He was a redneck, and he drove a Ford F250. She would like to treat herself to something SHE wants, given the divorce. She used to live at the beach and she always wanted a Jeep, and she’s been talking to people who drive cars she likes. She always wanted a four-door Jeep Wrangler. She needs to haul things, like heavy bales of hay. She has an alpaca. She has an eight-year-old adopted son who’s autistic. He still rides in his car seat. She used to be a paramedic. She thinks mini cars are deathtraps, especially with all the rednecks who live up by us. All that in the five minutes (and it was probably less than that) that it took to fill up my gas tank.

This woman seemed perfectly nice. I didn’t mind talking to her at all. But that’s A LOT of information to tell a random stranger. I tend to acquire verbal diarrhea when talking to acquaintances. It’s like something takes hold of me and I have to fill the silence somehow. For instance, I told virtually no one that I was pregnant last year. People close to me knew, and some folks in Ireland who wanted to know why I wasn’t drinking, and that guy at the Total Wine store who wanted to know why on earth I was buying alcohol free wine. Actually, maybe more people knew than I thought. Anyway, I digress. I didn’t really want to tell anyone I was pregnant, in case something happened. But then, something happened and now I just tell people (who really don’t need to know) that I had a miscarriage.

Posted by Molly at 11:25 PM EDT

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For the first two years of Patrick's life, I thought I would take him to Disney World at some vague point in the future, like when I had gotten over my inherent cheapness (which will be never) or when he would actually remember it. I thought this age might be 5. I wondered, idly, what we would do if we had another child, because that child would not yet be 5. Then I started thinking about it, and I don't really remember much from when I was 5. In fact, I went to Disney World when I was 5, and 8, and then maybe 12 and then again a couple years after that, I think, and I worked there when I was 20. I don't remember much of it until I was 20. So THEN I thought, what the hell, we should take Patrick now; he would have fun in that moment and I would have fun with him.

My mom said, "Of COURSE, it's not about him, it's about you. It's about you enjoying him enjoying it." This seems like a no-brainer but it was a revelation to me.

The Disney thing is off for now because my inherent cheapness is shining through and holy shit but that place is expensive.

This comes up in the aforementioned putting Patrick to bed phase. He asks me to sleep upstairs in his bed. I do it until he falls asleep. He won't remember, and if he does, he'll block it out because it will embarrass him until he's much older and has kids of his own. Sure, I do it for him, in the sense that he's quieter and calmer and will go to sleep quicker (also a bonus for me) but really I do it for me. Because he's still little and soft and cuddly and usually he smells good. And it's just NEAT to watch him sleep all curled up with the blankets kicked off.

Posted by Molly at 9:49 AM EDT

Updated: Thu 05/19/2011 10:41 AM EDT

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When I was younger, say 8 or 9, my brother (six years younger, so 2 or 3) refused to go to sleep at night unless my mom would "sleep" in there with him. Once he was asleep, she would creep out. I used to roll my eyes (I was even better at that then than I am now) and feel superior. I could go to sleep on my own. What a baby Kevin was. Haha. As I was shifting uncomfortably in Patrick's bed with him wiggling beside me for the 12th night in a row (or thereabouts) the other night, I started thinking about this. I have no idea if my mom did this for me. I know she would have, I just don't know if I required it. Hopefully Patrick is at least easier to potty train than Kevin. Yikes. We all have scars from that.

***

My mom has a picture in my baby book. It's the day I came home from the hospital (I think) and I was about a month old. I weighed about 5 pounds. My grandma is holding me in her arms and looking down at me and smiling. That's how I picture my grandma now. Her and my grandpa and the baby who wasn't. Of course they have to leave the baby with a babysitter at night when they go out drinking and bowling, but whatever.

***

In my mind, the baby who wasn't is Ella Rose. I am convinced it was a girl. (I know sometimes they can tell from a D&C. There was something sent to pathology -- I saw it on my lengthy hospital bill -- but nobody told me what they looked for or what they found. I'm still mad about my follow-up visit, but that's a story for another time. I've requested a copy of my medical records but so far haven't heard anything.) If she had been born, her name wouldn't have been Ella; James didn't like it. But I liked it, and I thought it sounded nice with Patrick, and, like Patrick, it's not uncommon but not super popular. One day as I was driving to work, I was thinking about middle names and I thought about Rose, and I got chills. And so that's who she was in my head, named for her great-Grandma Rose who would never get to meet her. Except now she did. :) 

***

I gave up coffee for Lent. (Again.) It's driving me nuts. (Again.)

***

I really hate Dook. Just thought I'd throw that in here.

***

I really like this picture.

Posted by Molly at 4:34 PM EDT

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An oldie but a goodie:

Why I Hate Dook

Go Tar Heels!

Posted by Molly at 11:53 AM EST

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It must be something about this time of year. Spring training, the regular-season-ending Carolina-Dook game. It makes me think about that first year in Houston, the one I thought would never be equaled. 2001. (I was right, although I suppose I would extend it from a year out to about 18 months before it started to go wrong.) That brings us back (always) to WM. He used to say that the best year of my life was the worst year of his. Not because of me. Or maybe it was because of me. Anyway.

Sometime around 2003, when things had changed entirely, I made a mix CD. I used to do this when I was depressed, make cheesy mix CDs. I probably still would, if only I had the time to be depressed properly. I had a dream about WM the other night so I pulled out the CD and listened to it on my way to work this morning. It literally made my heart ache. Well, maybe not literally. It was probably psychosomatic. But there was an ache in the vicinity of my heart.

Track List

1. Born to Fly (Sara Evans)
     February 2001 -- I walked onto the field at Enron Field and it was like all was right with the world. And that just reminded me that the Ruggles Cafe had the best tomato basil soup.

2. That's as Close as I'll Get to Loving You (Aaron Tippin)
     April 2001 -- I think this one is self-explanatory. It's what I thought at the time. And, ultimately, it's not far off.

3. I'm a Survivor (Reba McEntire)
     May 2001 -- WM thought his wife looked like Reba.

4. One More Day (Diamond Rio)
     July/August 2001 -- singing in the intern cube at work

5. Angry All the Time (Tim McGraw & Faith Hill)
     This one, hmm. It's possibly the greatest song of all time. I should probably have put "The Cowboy in Me" here because that's the one that was playing in the car that night at Kay's before we went to Timberwolf, but "Angry All the Time" is just so ... right.

6. I Wanna Talk About Me (Toby Keith)
     Dec 2001/Jan 2002 -- Timberwolf.

7. How You Remind Me (Nickelback)

8. I Don't Want You to Go (Carolyn Dawn Johnson)
     The futon.

9. Maybe it was Memphis (Pam Tillis)
     "Maybe it was you, maybe it was me, but it sure felt right." And this one gets a special bonus for me eventually moving to Memphis, etc. 

10. My Sacrifice (Creed)
     Actually that happened later. HAHA. I crack myself up. Decisions were made.

11. Wasting My Time (Default)
     A WM favorite during this time period. In retrospect I appreciate it for the line: "when did our light turn from green to red."

12. Superman (Five for Fighting)

13. I'm Movin' On (Rascal Flatts)
     Jan 2002 -- That's what he said.

14. Wherever You Will Go (The Calling)

15. Meet in the Middle (Diamond Rio)
     Serendipitous. Is that a word?

16. Not a Day Goes By (Lonestar)
     June 2002 -- This one came on the radio in the driveway in Pearland (...before), and I so fervently wished it had been "I'm Movin' On" instead because WM turned it up and sang along.

17. When You Lie Next to Me (Kellie Coffey)
     June 2002 -- Another self-explanatory one.

18. It Matters to Me (Faith Hill)

19. The Good Stuff (Kenny Chesney)

20. The One (Gary Allan)   
     So, um .... yeah.

Posted by Molly at 1:40 PM EST

Updated: Thu 03/03/2011 2:25 PM EST

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...And now for something completely different.

So Patrick turned two. And then celebrated his third Christmas. We saw Santa but he didn't get his picture taken with the Big Guy in the Red Suit. I am not sure if this makes me a good mom or a bad one. (Heh.) I wanted to get the picture but I wasn't really a fan of braving the mall. And then we did, one snow day, and there were maybe two kids in front of us in line, and Patrick waved at Santa and played peekaboo and smiled and absolutely refused to get anywhere near him. We have pictures of mildly whiny (and mildly ill) Patrick with Santa last year and clearly unhappy Patrick with the Easter Bunny from this year, so I was sort of hoping for Screaming!Patrick with Santa this time around, but alas. For his birthday, Grandma got him a "Night Before Christmas" book and ever since then, we have had to read "the Santa book" Every. Single. Night, so if we had just gotten that a little earlier, perhaps we would have had some more success on that front.

Anyway, I digress. Two. There are tantrums, I suppose -- but not too many yet and we mostly ignore Little Man and let him flail about on the floor and he calms down before too long -- but two is rather delightful so far. Patrick gives "big hugs" and if you ask for a kiss, he will present you with his cheek. Very regal. Lately he has started saying "I do it" for most things, including, say, pouring his own sweet tea. He doesn't get to do that, but he does get to try to put the top on his sippy cup. Then it becomes "Mommy do it." It's cute.

Patrick has been enthralled with vacuum cleaners for a while now. He insists upon emptying the dirt and vacuuming at Grandma's house and always wants to vacuum at home and regales us with stories of how Maddy vacuumed at daycare. He got a vacuum cleaner for his birthday, and for a week did not let it out of his sight. Those batteries went quicker than any other toy we've had. Since then he likes it but not quite as much. Patrick is also being groomed to be a total boy. His father (ahem) keeps buying him trucks and other things that go. We have no more room.

Patrick likes candy and cookies and sweet tea (sigh), hairdryers (heh), plugs/cords, and dancing. He has recently figured out that our alarm clock has a radio, and he likes to carry it from room to room, plug it in (he can pull out the plug-protectors, something which sometimes even I cannot do), turn on the radio and dance. He knows he's not supposed to mess with the plugs but he also knows I think it's cute when he dances so the little manipulator uses it to his advantage.

We've successfully transitioned to the big boy bed, with the help of Magic Bumpers. Patrick, who likes getting under the covers when it's not bedtime, or in any other bed, REFUSES to get under his own covers. He insists upon sleeping with his blanket (we have several; he's not picky about which one in particular), which he takes downstairs every morning when he wakes up. Like his mother, Patrick is not a morning person. He goes to bed around 9, usually without too much fuss, and wakes up just in time for Curious George ("monkey on TV!") at 8. He likes to make cinnamon toast "pop up!" and doesn't like to get dressed and go to daycare. I sympathize with this, which is why my arrival times at work seem to be getting progessively later.

After daycare, we have to take a left turn to go home. Every day, Patrick asks to turn right to get hash browns from Bojangles. I haven't given in yet, but his father (and grandma, on the rare occasions that she picks him up) often do. 

We haven't really started potty training yet, but we do have a potty, and we do ask if he wants to use it. He has expressed some interest and successfully peed in the potty twice. I am sure this will embarrass him later in life, but what the hell, he can do it to his own kids in turn. He wants to go sometimes when the mood strikes him, and he stands there and sticks his belly ... and other things ... out and tries so hard to make something happen. It doesn't, and then he goes on the floor five minutes later. We're working on it. I suppose I might make more of an effort next month, when it starts to get warmer. Although we already let him run around naked half the time. Hm. 

		MOMMY'S INFLUENCE
DADDY'S INFLUENCE

Posted by Molly at 3:22 PM EST

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I was over at my parents' house last weekend, complaining about hospital bills and car repair bills and tax bills (suck it, government) and how I was worried about my future fertility and my dad interrupted me to say, "Well at least you're ALIVE."

And, hey, thanks, Dad, way to ruin my pity party. I might point out that I get my bitching ability FROM HIM. Anyway, he's right, of course, and I know that I/we am/are lucky and blessed and we have Patrick and our health (er, mostly) and a roof over our heads, etc., etc. But complaining is more fun than talking about everything that's going well. It's why power couples don't last on soap operas. (Not that I, you know, watch those.) Talking about all the great things in your life is just not that compelling.

However, I will bore you with my tales of Ireland in the interest of keeping it happy (and, um, remembering my trip for posterity). You can blame my dad. That will start with the next entry.

Until then, I just want to say that there are two reasons I keep complaining:
1. I'm sad.
2. I'm scared.

This is not abnormal, or uncommon, I don't think. Many people go through many things worse than this, and many of them probably handle it better but oh well. I'm sad and I'm scared.

Posted by Molly at 3:48 PM EST

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