Worry Wart

Well we never really knew, how much we needed you,
Before you came into our lives, things were pretty nice . . .
Who knew a baby sister,
Could come along and make you realize,
How much you always missed her?
-Justin Roberts, "Cartwheels and Somersaults"


I've been thinking about Baby Girl these days. Not that she isn't always by my side, but I've been really contemplating her, trying to fix her baby-ness in my mind. She is flying past me, this one, racing from the cradle to pre-school without stopping to let me catch my breath. I still feel like she was born a month ago, but here she is waving her pudgy hands in salutation, calling out to her siblings, and trying words on for size. She is both a delight, and a delightful surprise, because, well . . .

Do you want to hear a secret? Come closer . . . closer, let me whisper it to you: I spent a large part of Baby Girl's pregnancy being afraid. Afraid of losing the baby, which morphed into afraid of something being wrong with the baby, which led to afraid of not being able to "handle" the baby, which in turn became being afraid of making the baby depressed because I was so anxious, or because I was swallowing cartons of coffee ice cream whole, or because I had heavy-duty cold medicine before I knew I was pregnant, and so on, ad infinitum. But what it boiled down to was a fear of being too happy.

Aimee, you say, your freak flag is flyin' high tonight. I know, but I'm all about disclosure these days. If I lived in ancient Greece, I'd be the old woman in the corner spitting on the ground and saying, Don't tempt the gods with being too happy. They'll smite you. And then I would have looked around to see if anyone was giving me the evil eye.
Here I was with two lovely children already, so I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. We were at the point in our family where many people stop: one girl, one boy, both healthy, happy parents, done and done. So I was preparing myself for a difficult pregnancy, or a delivery fraught with complications, or a baby that, even if totally healthy, would be fussy or high-strung. Talk about low expectations.

Instead, I had a normal pregnancy, a quick delivery, and the sweetest baby I've ever known. This is a baby who whispers sweet nothings to me and buries her hands in my hair when I pluck her out of her crib in the morning; a baby who laughs just because everyone else is laughing; a baby that drapes herself so cozily on your chest. She is the kind of baby that makes everyone wish they had one. I am blessed and beyond grateful.

If it sounds like I am bragging, I guess I am, although that's not my intention. Believe it or not, my old friend Worry still creeps in from time to time, and I find myself watching Baby Girl and reminding myself of all the good things she has brought to us.

But, Aimee, you say, if your baby is All That, what the hey-ho do you have to worry about?
Good question, and I've thought about the answer for, lo, these seven months now. I've come up with this: It all has to do with The Boy, and I don't mean that in a bad way. Since beginning therapy with him and filling my brain with all things SPD, I have been able to go all the way back to his babyhood and see the earliest warning signs. Hindsight is 20/20, and it is not pretty. All those things that we chalked up to his laid-back attitude, or quirky personality traits were actually little red flags. I am not saying that he could have gotten therapy any earlier than he did, but I do find myself almost inspecting Baby Girl. I find that I more often have the worries and checklists of a nervous first-time mother, instead of the calm assurance that comes with time and practice. I'll ask Rob 3 0r 4 or 1500 times a week if he thinks that she's meeting her milestones appropriately. To his credit, he never rolls his eyes, he just calmly says, "Yes."

And although I am always asking the question, I can see already that her development is different from her brother's. Her learning is organic, natural, almost seamless; it's a feeling that is still unfamiliar to The Boy. She watches, she imitates, she absorbs, she moves on; whereas The Boy watches, tries to imitate, gets the messages wrong in his brain, tries again, makes his own compensatory, adaptive response, and then moves on, only to have to come back and correct his natural inclinations through therapy. Everything is a process, nothing is just a progression.

When I am watching the baby, and I am smiling at how happily she plays, Worry likes to sneak up behind me and put her arm around me and say, Aww, remember when The Boy was a baby? He was so happy, too. Of course, you didn't know then what you know now, so I'll just hang out here for a little while, ok?

I need to trust my instincts more, pray more, relax with both Baby Girl and The Boy, because they are both where they should be right now. And I need to tell Worry to take a hike.

"Wish You Were Here" Meme

I've been tagged for this by Barb, and I feel honored that she wants to meet me! :)

Who are the five Catholic or Christian bloggers that you would like to meet in person and haven't (yet)?

1. Barb, from SFO Mom

2. 4 and counting (what is your real name? did I know it at one point and then lose my mind? that's a distinct possibility.)

3. Carrie, from Within Me Without Me

4. Janeen, from Our Story

5. Rachel Swenson Balducci, from Testosterhome

And these are the bloggers I have met:

1. Amy, from R.C. Mommy

And that's it, because I am practically a hermit. And I'm sure that if I hadn't already known Amy for 14 years I wouldn't have met her yet either! Gah!

If you find yourself mentioned above, you can consider yourself tagged!

New Outlook

Presenting our newest acquisition of extraneous junk: The Foam Dinosaur Glasses! The Boy won these during Family Bingo at Older Girl's school this morning, and he's pleased as punch. He put them on and said, "I look pretty stylish!" Now I just have to convince him to wear the glasses that actually help him see so that he'll stop running into pesky little things, like walls and doors. Beauty at any price, I guess . . .

Teach Your Children Well

During my daily skulking around the internet, I came across a post at Bub and Pie that piqued my interest (and generally made me wish, yet again, that my posts were this coherent). She talks about the nature of protecting your children, and not just from physical threats, but from the insidious nature of things like discrimination and injustice; the slippery and pervasive evils that taint us and refuse to be contained. She talks, in part, about a righteous anger, when a threat is directed toward your child, but how anger may not always be the proper course. It's where you draw the line, and the sands always seem to be shifting for a parent.


My parents' methods of dealing with these things were different. My mother was always the one to Say Something when she felt an injustice toward her children. She didn't coddle, and she didn't advocate self-pity. She told us to work hard and make our own decisions, but we also knew where she stood, and it was on Our Side. I was often embarrassed by her when I was a teenager, but now I find myself being the one to turn to my husband and ask, "Shouldn't we say something about this? I really think we need to say something."
My father was quieter. It's not that he avoided confrontation, but his temper, his sense of injustice was harder to rile. I wouldn't go so far as to call him laid-back, but he was genial, more conciliatory. He let many things go, but he brooked no true trespass upon his children, physical or otherwise.


There is a tale in my family, a true tale, and one that has been repeated many times. Growing up, my family lived in the city of Reading, PA, and, at that time, it was a wonderful place to be. Our row homes were stacked like comfortable Legos, each one overlapping and sharing the same foundations, and packs of neighborhood children called to each other on summer afternoons. Our home was near the corner of 15th and Fairview, and we always counted ourselves lucky to be less than a stone's throw from the neighborhood park. We could cross the street to swings and slides, ball fields, and the mountains beyond. One of the few restrictions on the park was a large No Bicycles sign at the entrance, primarily to protect the toddler and pre-school age children that frequented the play areas. Of course, under the Rules Are Made to be Broken Corollary, there were many adolescent (and some not-so-adolescent) bike riders in the park, enjoying the sweeping hill that occupied one area and the short cut to the ball field that it provided. It was one of those things that everyone knew about, and shook their heads about, and tsk'ed about, but never knew what to really do about.

You could clearly see our back door from the park, you could probably see inside our kitchen from the park, so it was always considered safe. And it was on a beautiful afternoon that my father could see me, my mother, my younger brother, and our neighbor enjoying ourselves. My brother was young, under 2, because I remember him not yet possessing the sturdy, self-assured posture of an older toddler. He stayed close to my mother and Susie, our neighbor, until he wanted a drink from the water fountain. He toddled over, so proud of himself for trying to reach the fountain without assistance, and I saw his blond head just barely meeting the lip of the fountain. My mother and Susie were within three steps of him, and I was the farthest away, so I saw it first, coming into my peripheral vision like a shadow. It was a bike, whizzing by with a teenager hunched over in a posture of speed. In the time it took for my mother to call my brother's name, the bike mowed him down at the water fountain. The three of us watched his little body bounce under the wheels, as the bike kept going, the rider never looking back. My mother and Sue picked him up and tried to get him to stand, but he couldn't. He cried out in pain as his legs buckled beneath him.

What we didn't know was that my father had seen the entire incident from our home, and he was propelled by a fury that we rarely saw in him. He vaulted himself from our backyard, ran into the park, and caught the young biker pedaling up the hill. He was so fast, and he grabbed this boy with such force, that as he plucked him off of the bike it maintained its momentum, unaware that the rider was gone. My mother called out, convinced that my father was about to strangle this boy. Maybe not strangle, but it seemed he certainly intended some kind of bodily harm. Instead, my father just picked up my brother and stalked out of the park.

In the end, it turned out that this boy had broken my brother's leg, but the rest of the story is a blur to me. I remember the police coming to the house; the teenager's family pleading with my parents not to press charges since it would send the young man to juvenile hall; my brother's tiny, casted leg; my mother crying. I don't even remember if my parents did press charges, but I do know that the story got out and it seemed to me that the number of bikes in the park hit a sharp decline. But what I remember most is my father single-mindedly running down this bike that had hurt his child, as if every instance in which he let something go had welled up inside him and burst free at that moment.

I hope that with my children I can hit upon the right combination of speaking up, of letting go, and of doggedly chasing down, because they are always watching me. I hope that they see in me what I see in my mother: a willingness to speak up when the circumstances demand a voice. I hope they see what I see in my father: that sometimes letting go is the better course, but that there are certain situations which will never, ever be okay with me.

And I pray hard for the wisdom to know which remedy to choose.

For Marguerite

Happy Birthday to my dear and lovely sister-in-law, Marguerite. She and I have been friends long before we were in-laws, and I actually met Rob through Marguerite. He came to visit her at college, and I happened to be in her room when he came to take her out to dinner. They invited me to go with them, and the rest is history. When I first met her, I thought she was a nice person, but I would have never imagined that one day we would be related with 6 children between us. So in honor of Marguerite's birthday, I give you:

The Top Ten "Marguerite" College Memories:

10. Almost Roomies: There was a chance that we could have been roommates. Due to the various psychotic personalities on our floor of Conmy Hall, and their need to hold court in one wing of the building, there was a great deal of room shuffling during our freshman year. We each wanted to kill leave our assigned roommates, and we each had new roommates in mind, but the RA still tried to talk us into moving in together, even though we had not yet met. The RA's plan never came to fruition, and we still maintain that living together might not have been the best for our relationship.

9. Scofflaws: We were such rebels. We went to King's Supermarket . . . in our pajamas. Oh, those wild and crazy college days.

8. Coffee House: We made cafe mochas in my room on the cheap . . . very cheap! We used to take coffee and mix it up with hot chocolate . . . and a little extra sugar just to give the old pancreas a run for its money.

7. Fire Drills: We were RA's in a dorm that had a hair trigger fire alarm. Dust particles would activate this system, let alone the microwave popcorn that would get incinerated every time a drunk person wanted a snack and then passed out before they could get to it. And they always happened on the rainiest or coldest nights possible, preferably at 2 am or later.

6. The 'Stang: Marguerite was one of the very few with a car, and what a car it was. A reddish-orange 80's Mustang with T-tops that took us everywhere until it finally gave up for good on the Atlantic City Expressway.

5. Miss Clairol: Marguerite was the Linda Evangelista of college, with a new hair color almost every week. She usually did pretty well, except for the time she wanted to go darker and turned her blond hair sort of green. Of course, it didn't stay that way for long.

4. America's Most Wanted: We spent hours searching for Marguerite's roommate's engagement ring, after she flung it during a phone fight with her fiancee. I can't remember if we ever found it, but, then again, her roommate didn't end up with her fiancee either.

3. Crazy Magnet: Marguerite wins the "crazy roommate" contest, hands down. During our college tenure, she lived with: a chain smoking, leather-clad Madonna (the singer) worshipper, a nymphomaniac, a girl who legally re-named herself after a car and stepped on Marguerite's head while she was drunk and trying to climb onto the top bunk, a druggie ballerina . . . I'm sure I'm missing some, but, really, isn't that enough?

2. Fine and "Dandy": Marguerite is a petite woman (she was a dance major in college), but she can pack away the sweets if she puts her mind to it. To wit: Rob, Marguerite, and I went on a trip to the historic battlefields of Gettysburg, and then stopped for dinner on our way back to school. Marguerite opted for the Jim Dandy Sundae, which includes something like five scoops of ice cream. She ate the whole thing, but Rob had to drive back to college because she promptly lapsed into a sugar coma.

1. I Can't Fight This Feelin' Any Longer: This REO Speedwagon song was the anthem of Marguerite's early relationship with her husband, Jason, who also went to school with us (it was a regular love-in, people). She had it recorded on a mix tape (remember those?) two times in a row, so that we could listen to it again and again with minimal breaks for rewinding. Since the radio in the Mustang was broken, we would play it on a boombox that sat on the backseat - we were Hi Klass all the way!

We love you, Mags, and we hope you have a great day!

Tete Offensive

I came upon this scene of devastation at snack time today -- it was a Teddy Graham Massacre.

Older Girl, who was busy pouring herself some milk, said: "I like to nip off their bodies, leaving only their heads. Then I arrange them in clusters, like grapes, before I eat them."

Hmmmm . . . should I be worried?

All's Well That Ends Well?

Remember those Choose Your Own Ending books? You know, the ones where you flip to page 24 to see what happens to the hero, and then, if that ending isn't up to snuff, you can check out page 31 and see an alternate ending. I was never very "good" at those books, always choosing the worst ending first and then subsequently flipping furiously to find something better, but I sometimes I wish I could plan my day that way. Don't like the result at 2:15? Just skip ahead to 3:35 and everything has been sorted out and neatly, peacefully resolved. I could have used that yesterday.
It was a trying day with The Boy; the kind that, thankfully, has been few and far between these days. I'm not sure what triggered it, but The Boy was running on overdrive, every sensation, noise, and action grating on him until he broke down. Multiple times. His nervous system double-crossed him, left him in the lurch, and I am afraid that I left him there as well.
I try to see things from his perspective, but for someone who senses things normally, I find it almost impossible. I try to imagine burning my lips on a scalding cup of coffee while wearing a hair shirt, riding a roller coaster, and having the person next to me screaming in my ear. But really? It's pretty hard to imagine all of that happening at once. Usually, the best I can do is to remind myself of the problem, pray for strength, and take it from there.
To be honest, it isn't even his sensory-related difficulties that push me over the edge. It is his response to his haywire system that wears me down, because I fear for him. I fear that he will never behave "normally"; that he will always be the child who retreats to a corner to watch a spinning wheel because the room is too loud for him to process. That he will always be the one to repeat a question 25 times in a row, despite being answered, because it is the only way he can make sure of something when even his body doesn't tell him what is certain. I don't want him to be ridiculed, because he tries, oh bless his heart how he tries. I've secretly watched him try to manipulate pieces of train track while telling himself "I can do it," only to have his hands and brain fail him. I don't want to fail him, but I came pretty close yesterday. After carefully testing the temperature of his food, I told him it was safe to eat, only to have him throw down his fork and cry out because the food was too hot -- to him. I told him to try his yogurt while his chicken cooled, but he couldn't modulate the force needed to get a spoonful of yogurt and he ended up flinging it onto his pants and shirt. More crying and more spilling ensued until emotions were at a fever pitch and I just took his plate away. I cringe when I think of it. What's that? Problems with motor planning and fine motor skills? Yeah, I'll just be taking your dinner plate away then, 'mmkay? I mean, would I have done that to anyone else who was in my care? I don't want the answer.
After all was said and done, The Boy got the ending he deserved. Once his plate was removed, he sat there looking at me through the deep green pools of his eyes, with his mouth turned down in a perfect heartbreaking arc, and said quietly, "But Mom, you're in the feeding chair." There it was - the eraser I needed to wipe the slate clean. So I turned in my chair, the one I always sit in to feed the baby, and I slowly fed him his yogurt.

Did I help him with his fine motor skills? No.
Did I help him learn to recognize the strength needed to use a spoon himself? No.
Did I put a balm on his heart by feeding him and helping him to bed? You better believe it.

I'll let you decide which ending was the best.

Ain't it the Truth

While replacing some of the hardware in the kitchen today, I heard The Boy playing with my electric screwdriver. I asked him what he was doing and he said:

Don't worry, Mom, I'm just screwin' around with you.

Requiem for a Fish**UPDATED

*** There is no memorial poem because Older Girl took the news on the chin, cried a little, and promptly asked for a new pet (I won't say I told you so). However, The Boy was bereft. His little mouth turned so far down that I think the corners went past his chin, if that is physically possible. He cried. and cried. and then cried a little more, and then just looked so sad for the rest of the afternoon. Still waters run deep anyone?
Meanwhile, I kept checking the toilet for the watery spectre of Finbar to come back and haunt me, is that weird?



The Home Office is reporting in with sad news today - Finbar, our ancient Siamese Fighting Fish, and title-holder of The Only Pet in the House - has gone to the big fresh water aquarium in the sky. I'm not surprised, given that Rob and I have had a death-watch going for a few days now; it was a matter of time, as they say.
I've been gently dropping hints the size of A-bombs to Older Girl that perhaps Finny would not be around much longer. She was all right as long as it was a concept - Life Without Fish - and not a reality - Your Fish is Dead. When I break the news this afternoon, there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth, most likely followed by a memorial poem and renewed pleas for "that dog we've all been wanting." (The pleas will of course fall on deaf ears, but if there is a memorial poem, I'll be sure to post it.)
Finbar was remarkably long-lived, the Methuselah of betta fish, considering we bought him at the mall almost three years ago. The mall! Who sells glass jars of fish at a rickety kiosk in the mall? More importantly, who buys fish from a kiosk in the mall? I guess that would be me. I fully expected him to pass on about two and a half years ago, but he surprised us all by kicking around his bowl until this morning.
That's not to say that we gave him much help in eluding the icy hand of death. Many's the time I walked by his home and felt him giving me the fish eye, as it were, for letting him languish in a fetid pool of fish waste and uneaten food pellets. I always managed to rescue him in enough time for him to rally; oxygenation does wonders apparently. But this time, there was no amazing comeback, just a quiet slipping away in the night.
And then I came across this post, and I felt the incriminating finger of neglect pointing squarely at my chest. This is what good fish parents do. I was not a good fish parent; I was absentminded at best. Now you see why he was the only pet; I'm too consumed with keeping my actual children alive.
I hope Finny enjoyed his life with us, with the constant gawking of small children and the heavy-handed feeding, because we enjoyed him. And I hope he could see past the dirty, dirty water to know that he was considered a member of the family. Rest in peace, Finbar.

Another Turn Around the Sun

I read Wuthering Heights long before I met Rob, but there is one line that I never thoroughly understood until I knew him. Catherine says: ...He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
There could not be a better description of how I feel about Rob. Opposites may attract, but can they hold? Can they go the distance when it is required? I've often wondered if the staying power of a happy marriage comes from the spark of recognition that another's soul is so perfectly suited to your own; a kindred spirit, as Anne would say. I think all love must contain an element of shared vision; a capacity for seeing your life mirrored in another's life. That's what keeps me with Rob more than anything else -- knowing that I am good and capable and loving on my own, but I'm better with him. With him, all my good bits are proudly displayed, and he sweeps the broken, ugly parts under the rug; still there, just not as noticeable.
Rob turns 35 today, and we have known each other for 13 years, and in that time, our spark has never diminished. I still see myself when I look at him.

So Happy Birthday, darling Rob. I love you always, in all ways.

Blurking Ban

No Thursday Thirteen for me this week because yesterday was my birthday (31!), and I was too busy carting The Boy to therapy, taking Baby Girl to her 6 mo. checkup, and then stuffing my face with celebratory onion rings at Red Robin to think of anything else-- and now it just feels like I've missed the boat, even though I have been known to post a Friday edition of the TT. Thanks to all my friends and family who called, emailed, snail mailed, sent flowers and gift cards, or left me a comment here -- I love you all too!
*********
And now to the point of this post: I have noticed little buttons around the blogosphere saying that it is International DeLurking Week (thanks, Canada, for the "inter"national street cred). I realize that I am really late to the whole "week" part, and I don't know how to create (or steal) those cool buttons, so I am just telling you straight up: It's International DeLurking Week, and I'm all in! There is no law in Blogville saying that you must comment on a post, and I know that there have been plenty of posts that I have read and enjoyed anonymously -- I call it blurking. Usually, I leave a comment if the blogger asks for advice about a topic I know (or sometimes about a topic I don't know), or if I thought the post was so hilarious/touching/uncannily like my life that it needed my attention. And it goes without saying (but I'm just sayin') that I LU-HUV me some comments on my blog! I mean, if you knew how many times a day I check for new comments (5, 15, 8700 x's . . .) you might be concerned about my self-esteem. I just like to know that I am not crazy all by my lonesome over here. I know that many of you do comment regularly, and I thank you heartily; and I also suspect that perhaps I don't get more comments because the few people who do read this blog are already commenting, in which case I am down with that as well. But if you are out there, and you are reading this, and you never comment, now is the time! Unless your fingers are broken and you managed to navigate your way here by tapping your nose on the mouse, in which case I say you may have a dispensation, then please leave a comment! And in the spirit of making it interesting, I will shamelessly jack these few questions from Bub and Pie to make commenting worth your while.

1) Which is better – The Lord of the Rings or Harry Potter?

2) Who would you be more likely to be attracted to: the bad boy (think Hugh Grant as Daniel Cleaver) or the nice guy (think Colin Firth in a reindeer sweater)?

3) If you’re a mom, how do you tend to greet your children’s milestones: with a nostalgic "What happened to my baby?" or an exultant "Yeah! Bring it on!"

4) What are the biggest "don'ts" when it comes to helping a first-time mom?

5) What, if anything, would you like to ask me? (I have no boundaries; I’ll almost certainly answer.)

To all those wannabe commenters (and the regular commenters, too), I say: Bring it!
PS: If you really want my answers to these questions, I'll update this later. Right now I have to go get Older Girl from school, because they won't keep her any longer than they have to. I've asked.

For Amy

Happy Birthday to my dear friend, Amy! Not this Amy, but another Amy we all know from college (Apparently, 1975-76 was Name Your Daughter Amy Year and then we all ended up at the same college together!) Amy was my roommate, and we spent many happy hours in those little rooms in Lawless Hall. Today is her birthday, one year (minus one day) before mine, so here's a little birthday top-ten in her honor (and also because her card will be late, as usual!)

Top Ten College Memories

10. The Eagles (the band): Amy loves The Eagles. I mean LOVES The Eagles. I am a fan of '70's rock, but I never knew such devotion until we listened to all of The Eagles albums in chronological order while she was studying during finals week. She is the reason why, to this day, I can identify any Eagles song within three notes.

9. Hearts Marathons: I am not a fan of playing cards, so Amy would have to import people into our room to play Hearts with her. I once left her mid-marathon, went to class, went to dinner, hit the library, and then came home and found her still kickin' A and takin' names.

8. Her famous caf creations: Amy, who once said she didn't eat anything green except green M&Ms, got creative in our cafeteria. She used to make a BLT with Bac-Os, people! Her imagination knew no bounds.

7. Tuna noodle salad: When the options at the caf just couldn't be borne (more often than we care to remember), Amy would boil elbow macaroni in our room and then mix it with a can of tuna. Rudimentary, but probably better than the "Grade D but edible" meat they served at school (no kidding, we actually saw that stamped on one of the boxes in the caf kitchen)

6. The boots: Amy had brown cowboy boots that she loved, and the first time I ever saw her (from afar in McShea Center) she was wearing those boots. She may still have them, I'm not sure . . .

5. The Coop: This was the beloved college diner, where the waitress knew the names of all the college regulars, where they had two seating areas: Smoky and Less Smoky, and where you could get some really delicious fries and a chocolate shake at 11 pm.

4. Laneco: The original supermarket/cheap crap store. Where else could you buy mac and cheese, ramen noodles, a floor lamp, and 40 thread count sheets in the same trip?

3. Mario's: This was the pizza place run by a Chinese family. They made a tasty pie with a bargain basement price, so they dominated the market in our area. The woman who came to deliver the pizza always said the same thing on the phone from the front door: "Dis Mario's. You pizza ready!" Loved that!

2. The binder: Amy is as big an office supplies addict as me, if that can be imagined or even possible. She kept things organized in a binder that was color-coded, with tabs and special colored pens for each section. It was a thing of beauty.

And the #1 memory from college:
Amy loves Rob, and she knew that I loved Rob before I knew that I loved Rob. She knew it when I would read Rob's letters 3 or 4 or 7500 times a day, and the way I would smile when anyone said his name. She wrote him a letter once to thank him for making me so happy, because she's cool like that.

Happy Birthday, Ame!!!!

The Meme-ing of Life

I've been tagged for a few memes recently. Well, maybe not so much recently, since I was tagged about thirty seven years ago. The meme search parties have been called off, and I'm sure the taggers are no longer expecting to ever see my answers.

But I have a feeling that these memes will come in handy during this time of high uterine/low brain function. Lo, I believe they will become my very bread and butter, so I am doling them out carefully, keeping a few tucked away in the old drafts folder.

I will start with two that are similar in nature: the ubiquitous "random things" meme. Karen at The Rocking Pony has tagged me for 7 Random Things about myself, and Mama Mia has tagged me for 8 Random Things. Actually, her youngest Baby tagged my Sally for 8 things about herself, which is probably a good thing. No one needs that much random Aimee, but we could all use a little random Sally.

And with that introduction, I think that I've passed my yearly quota for usage of the word "random" in a single paragraph. And 2008 has only just begun.

Random Things: Sally Edition

1. I have sucked my thumb since the day I was born. My parents have a jar labeled "Sally's Orthodontia Fund" and they have been throwing all the spare change they have in there.
2. I have two favorite baby dolls that I carry around everywhere. One is named Baby Sally (which inspired my Nom-de-blog) and one is named Baby Sophie, although my family calls her Rattle Head Baby. I like to rattle her while I am going to sleep.
3. I love to brush my teeth. I mean, I really love to brush my teeth. I run in and out of the bathroom yelling TEETH! at the top of my lungs so that Mom won't forget to put toothpaste on my toothbrush. Sometimes I even like to brush my hair with my toothbrush, but Mom is not too fond of that.
4. I know how to work the text message feature of Mom's cell phone. She does not. I have also called people in her phone's address book, and then hung up on them.
5. I like to sing, preferably at the top of my voice in a quiet place. Whenever I start up, Dad always says "Nature hates a vacuum."
6. I love to clean. My favorite thing to do is to follow Mom around with a baby wipe and wipe down everything she misses. That's a lot these days, since she can't bend at the waist anymore.
7. I like to load my babies up in the toy stroller, sling my little purse over my arm, and eat a cracker while I push the stroller around the house. Mom says she doesn't know where I get my ideas, but I think she really does.
8. I love my older sister and brother, and I hate it when they won't let me play with them. That's usually when I bite them.

Random Things: Aimee Edition

1. I am irrationally annoyed by seagulls. I don't know why -hence the irrational part - they just bug me.
2. I'm intimidated by my hair salon. My stylist used to own her own little shop, but decided to sell to her partner so she could spend more time with her family. She moved to a swanky mega-salon/spa/gym, where the women are all wearing couture and the men wear more makeup than me. I'm always afraid that someone is going to jump out and try to pluck something off of me.
3. I was once hit in the forehead by a dinner roll. A roll that was purposely thrown by the waitstaff of the restaurant. It was delicious.
4. I enjoy vacuuming, especially if I have a good vacuum and a substantially dirty floor. There is something very therapeutic for me in the instant gratification of a clean floor. It's one of the few places in life where I get pleasing results for so little effort in such a short time.
5. Tomorrow is my birthday. That's not random to me, but if you don't know me, then it might seem random to you.
6. Today is my good friend (and former college roommate's) birthday. And we have the same name. And she is also expecting another little bundle in February. And no, I am not schizophrenic -- she is a real person. Happy Birthday, Ame!
7. I really want to like lobster more, but when I get the chance to eat it, I never enjoy it as much as I think I will.

There you have it - all our random glory. I am not going to tag anyone for these because I am a rebel.

Stop laughing now, you caught me. I am not tagging anyone because I am too tired to type out all the links. I know it's laziness, but my bladder has also reached critical mass for the sixteenth time in a half hour, so I'm cutting this short. Feel free to take these home and love them as your own, but I've got to move along.

The bladder does not suffer fools lightly, my friends.

Buyer's Remorse

Sometimes there really is truth in advertising. When you go to pick up a box of Kashi Good Friends Cereal, in an attempt to keep on your whole "healthy eating so I can not feel like a total loser and die early from something preventable" kick, and it says - it actually says this - on the box: "A High Fiber Trio of Flakes, TWIGS, and Granola," well, you need to believe them.
There are twigs in in this cereal! Real, honest-to-goodness, tree-bark resembling, tooth-breaking, throat-chafing pieces of wood! (OK, it's not wood per se, it's supposedly bran, but what's the difference, really?) And as you sit there, trying not to choke on a twig that has gotten hung up on your uvula because your body is doing everything in it's power to not eat a tree, you can look at the picture of the "Good Friends" on the front of the box and you might imagine that they are raising their coffee mugs to say, "Good Morning, Sucker!," because they've known about the twigs the whole time!
Of course, that's not to say that Kashi does not make some pretty delicious cereals, as well. I am a big fan of the Kashi Go Lean Crunch, mostly because it is devoid of twigs, but also because it closely resembles granola, which I love, and it still packs 8 grams of fiber into one bowl. Without twigs, did I mention that?
But you know the whole time I'm eating Kashi, I'm dreaming of Dunkin' Donuts.

The Catholic Alphabet

I was tagged by Barb for this Catholic Alphabet meme, and I have to admit that it has taken me some serious contemplation!


[A is for apparitions - your favorite]: I don't know that I've ever studied them enough to have a "favorite", but I've always been interested in Fatima.
[B is for Bible - the one you read most often]: Saint Joseph edition of The New American Bible
[C is for Charism - the one you would most like to have]: courage
[D is for Doctor of the Church - your favorite]: St. Francis de Sales; St. Bede, the Venerable
[E is for Essential Prayer - What's yours?]: Hail Mary
[F is for Favorite Hymn]: too many to list! Let's see: Tantum Ergo; O Sacrament Most Holy; Sing of Mary; I Sing A Maid; Eye Has Not Seen; Gentle Woman . . . just to name a few
[G is for Gospel - your favorite author?]: Luke
[H is for Holy Communion - How would you describe it, using one word?]: real
[I is for Inspiration - When do you feel most inspired by God?]: when I can really concentrate on the Mass, and also right after confession
[J is for Jesus - When did you first meet Him?]: in baptism
[K is for Kindness - Which saint or person has most inspired you by their kindness?] Blessed Mother Theresa; St. Francis de Sales
[L is for liturgical year - your favorite time in the liturgical cycle?]: Lent (used to hate it, now it's very special to me)
[M is for Mary, the Mother of God - Your favorite term of endearment for her]: I most often use Blessed Mother, but I love the old-school titles for Mary, especially Regina Coeli (Queen of Heaven); Mother Most Amiable; Morning Star; Star of the Sea; and Queen of Peace.
[N is for New Testament - Your favorite passage]: The Visitation (Luke 1: 39-46), ever since I heard it explained this way in a homily - Two women living in tumultuous times, in a country torn with strife, both pregnant with their first children, having everything to fear and worry about, meet and are joyful because they trust in the Lord. And then a good friend added to that by remarking on how Elizabeth greets Mary: And how does this happen to me, that the mother of my Lord should come to me? Even though Mary is still pregnant, Elizabeth calls her the mother of my Lord. Not the "mother-to-be" of my Lord. The mother of my Lord - because pregnant women are already mothers, even if the baby is still in the womb. Makes me love that passage even more . . .
[O is for Old Testament - Your favorite Book here]: Psalms and Proverbs
[P is for Psalms - your favorite]: Psalms 100 & 121
[Q is for quote - saint quote]: Have patience with all things, but chiefly have patience with yourself. Do not lose courage in considering your own imperfections but instantly set about remedying them - every day begin the task anew. St. Francis de Sales
[R is for rosary - your favorite mysteries]: Joyful, although I am a big fan of the spiritual fruits of the Luminous mysteries as well
[S is for Saint - the one you turn to in time of need - not including the Blessed Virgin Mary]: St. Anne; St. Anthony
[T is for Tradition - your favorite Catholic tradition]: Patron saints
[U is for university - Which Catholic University have you attended or are currently attending?] DeSales University
[V is for Virtue - the one you wish you had]: patience (very closely followed by kindness and humility!)
[W is for Way of the Cross - Which station can you most relate to?]: 8th - Jesus Consoles the Women
[X is for Xaverian Brothers - Do you know who they are?]: No.
[Y is for your favorite Catholic musician]: Hmm . . . I don't really know
[Z is for Zeal for the faith]: You definitely have a lot of zeal for the faith if you have made it this far.

TAG! I tag Carrie and 4andcounting and anyone else who feels so inclined!

The Royal Family

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Her Royal Highness Aimee the Clement of Walk upon Water Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

I always knew I was royalty! I think I'll start having things monogrammed with HRH . . .
Thanks to Barb for this fun new title -- and following her lead, I decided to publish the names of the rest of us:

ROB:

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: His Most Serene Highness Lord Rob the Chimerical of Lower Slaughter Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

OLDER GIRL:

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Her Grace Lady Older Girl the Unusual of Porton Down Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

THE BOY:

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Very Sir Lord The Boy the Paragon of Fritterton on the Marshes Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

BABY GIRL:

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Milady the Right Reverend Baby Girl the Fortunate of Wallop upon Deane Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

Thursday Thirteen # 8

I told my sister that I would write a Thursday Thirteen about her, but I am a big, fat liar. No, actually there is so much to rat on such a wealth of information about her that I need more time to consider which Julia highlights will make it to the TT. So for this week, I am doing the thirteen things will try to do (or try not to do) for 2007. Right here is where Rob would quote Yoda, and say Do or do not. There is no try. To which I might say, "The only real losers are the people who never try." Either that or "Go suck an egg."

**And yes, it is not lost on me how *ahem* someone, who has been so snarky about resolutions, has been making an awful lot of declarations of change for the New Year. But I'm still not calling them resolutions.

Thirteen Things I will Try To Do (or Try NOT to do) in 2007 1. Floss. Every. Single. Night. I take fairly good care of my teeth, if only because I've had so many years of dental appliances, but flossing, well, that's another story. I actually get kind of panicky when I show up for my 6 month cleaning, because I wonder if the dentist will notice that I haven't been as diligent about flossing as I should have been. News flash: There is no way to fool a dentist into believing that you floss every night when you don't. They go to school for that. 2. Exercise and try to eat better. If you've read my blog recently, you already know about all my big plans, so I won't beat a dead horse. Unless, of course, that counts as exercise. 3. Date my husband. Yep, I want to date Rob all over again. You know, restaurants (with no chicken nuggets on the menu), movies (with little or no animation), plays (live theater!). My brother's girlfriend gave us babysitting vouchers for Christmas, and she insists that we use them only for fun outings, not work functions. So get your fancy pants ready, Rob, we're goin' courtin' (and a great, big, sloppy mmmmwah! to Johanna for the gift) 4. Watch my spending habits. And I don't mean like "hey, watch me go nuts in The Children's Place." I'm not a big spender by any means, but I have noticed that, in the past couple of months, I've been a little looser with the purse strings than I need to be. I'll see something so cute (on sale, of course) for Baby Girl and I'll buy it, even though I know that a) she has more clothes than all the people in this house put together, or b) it might be too snug to get good use out of it. All of the clothes she outgrows go to good homes, but I could save myself the money and the time spent sorting if I don't buy it at all. 5. Get back into the menu-planning saddle. Not only will this help me with #2 and #4, I won't have to deal with the cold sweats that go along with the three upturned, hungry faces that start crowding me at 5 pm. I know the kids like "breakfast for dinner," but I'm pretty sure that frozen waffles for 2 out of 3 meals do not make the kids well-rounded in the nutrition department. 6. Play with the kids. I don't, as a general rule, completely ignore the kids. My kids know that I am not here to be their entertainment center, and they are very imaginative and play well together, but sometimes they just want me to drop the laundry and join in a rousing game of Wild Pony Babies Camping Out (an Older Girl creation, I believe). And if I can't join in right away, then I will at least let them use the really big blanket for their fort (even though I have to dig it out of the upstairs closet). 7. Put the laundry away. That means I will actually finish the job, and once I bring the basket upstairs, I will get the clothes to their proper homes. The kids are better than me with this job. I put their clothes on their beds and they put them away. Rob and I just pull clean, folded clothes from the basket until the basket is empty and we take it back to the laundry room full of dirty clothes. 8. I will not buy a new pen, unless every pen I own simultaneously runs out of ink and I am on the verge of biting my finger and writing in blood. This one is hard for me, because I have a serious pen addiction. Luckily, Rob brings home tons of pens that he gets from the drug reps at work, so I won't have to go completely cold turkey. That would not be pretty. 9. Keep the van clean. Well, at least keep it clean-ish so that the kids can climb in and out without demanding hazard pay, and I no longer have to look in the rear view mirror and see Older Girl holding up a sports bottle I haven't seen in months asking, "Mom, do you think this is still good to drink?" 10. Recycle more. I recycle now, but more can't hurt. Especially all those mayonnaise jars that I am too lazy to wash. (shhh, don't tell Rob . . . he is Mr. GreenJeans around these parts) 11. Ease up on the nagging. Nobody wants a harpy for a mother. I need to trust the kids, because 8.5 times out of 10 they do what they need to do without me anyway. 12. Plant and maintain a garden. To those of you who know me, I say "stop laughing. now." I am not known for my gardening skills, but I am convinced that it stems (hah!) from a lack of knowledge. So I will learn some basics during the barren winter months, and then try to keep the carnage down to a minimum. 13. I will NOT stop kissing the faces off of my children on a daily basis. I can't help it, it's a compulsion; and if you could see their faces when I check on them at night, you would understand. Links to other Thursday Thirteens! 1. mav writter 2. momtoanangel 3. oliviadiane 4. amy 5. le laquet 6. janie hickok siess, esq. 7. chupieandj'smama 8. el-e-e 9. 4andcounting 10. raggedy 11. suburban mum 12. huberama 13. carrie

Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!

The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!
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In Which I realize a 5lb weight loss does not a Total Body Lift Make

WARNING: This post contains references to my underwear. Nothing bad, just factual. If that's too much for you, then I suggest you stop reading, go lie down, and fan yourself until the moment passes. Otherwise, intrepid friends, read on:


I'm sure you've all read about my weight loss goals (all 3 of you who read this, that is), and maybe you've seen by my little sidebar ticker that I've lost 5 pounds so far (did you? did you notice? huh, huh, well didya?). I know it doesn't seem like much, a drop in the bucket for me really, but it's still 5 pounds that are no longer hanging on me. Not being a stranger to the weight loss circuit, I actually do feel pretty good about my start, even if it is slow, because I know that slow and steady win the race. However, I am also a sucker for instant gratification, which is probably the reason why I need to lose weight in the first place. I'm like everyone else, I like to see some results for these interminable hours few weeks of rumbling tummy and early morning treadmill rendezvous. (I'm of the taller variety, so I usually need to lose about 15 pounds before anyone even notices. But on the "bright" side, I can usually hide those extra pounds a little more easily than someone smaller.)
So color me happy this morning when, after stepping out of the shower, I pulled up the old underoos and found that they were Too Big! And not just a little roomy, but otherwise ok; London Bridge was falling down, people! Damn, woman, I thought to myself, you are burning off those calories left, right, and center. Pretty soon you will be HAWT! (yeah, that's an example of my positive self-talk. It needs some work.)
Still all pumped up, I went to find a pair of underwear that I wouldn't have to spend all day pulling up from knees, and that's when I burst my own bubble. As I was folding the Too Big Underwear, I noticed that the label said "maternity." This was one last stray pair of maternity underwear that had escaped the Purge of All Pregnant Clothes that I determined would help keep me accountable in my weight loss goals. It was hiding in the back of my drawer, just waiting for its moment to trick me into thinking that I was actually getting smaller.
So, friends, I am getting there, just not as quickly as my underwear led me to believe. I will just have to focus on the 5 pounds gone and look forward to the day when my real underwear is too big. But first, I am going on a search and destroy mission through my drawer to make sure all those maternity undies are gone. Underwear can be so cruel.

Poet Laureate

Older Girl's class will be studying poetry when they return from Christmas break, and they will also be trying their hands at a little poetry writin'. So leave it to my child to write a poem in preparation for Poetry 101. Of course, this writing frenzy took place when she was supposed to be upstairs putting away all of her Christmas bounty, but how can you yell at someone for writing poetry? I mean, it's poetry for goodness sake! It's not like I'm saying "hey, what have I told you about that crack pipe?!" (I guess it doesn't hurt to have a former english major mom, either.)
She used her siblings' real names, but I am using my editorial discretion and substituting their blog aliases. If you know my kids' names, feel free to use them in your own private, dramatic reading because it really does sound better.

The Boy and Baby Girl
by Older Girl Langan, 7

The Boy is a little naughty,
Baby Girl is extremely nice.
Baby Girl eats what's served,
The Boy dislikes pudding with rice.

Baby Girl likes her Exersaucer,
The Boy prefers his trains.
Baby Girl likes her play-gym,
The Boy likes board games.

The Boy is really active,
Baby Girl takes afternoon naps.
Baby Girl will wear any hat,
The Boy won't wear caps.

THE END

Happy New Year

Ah, here we are in 2007, and it crept into Chez Langan and caught us all unawares. Because we were asleep, folks. Not a creature was stirring. It was a New Year's "Rockin" Eve, indeed.

But we did manage to send 2006 off in fine style, even if we didn't wait up to see it out the door. We had a nice dinner together; apricot glazed salmon, which the kids ate and then pronounced "we don't like salmon." Um, that horse has left the barn, guys.

We played some rousing games of American Trivia, Junior Edition and Great States! as well as a little I Spy - Mystery on the computer; because nothing says Happy New Year like games that test your knowledge of the history and major exports and cash crops of the United States (admit it, you know you want to party with us.) The kids were in bed at 7, and then Rob and I watched tv and ate all kinds of junk food as a last hurrah before resuming The Healthy Lifestyle, 2007 edition. And it was kind of surprising that there wasn't much that we wanted to watch . . . well, that we could both agree on anyway. There was plenty of football, which Rob wanted, and plenty of Platinum Weddings, which I wanted, but no middle ground (platinum weddings at a football stadium?). I found an Absolutely Fabulous marathon on BBC America that we watched for a while, since we both think it's hilarious (if you've never seen it, I can't explain it because the British accent doesn't translate so well over the blog. You've got to have the accent.)

And then we were at loose ends. I saw Rob starting to fall asleep with his book open, and so I figured we should go down to the kitchen and toast the New Year before he just gave in to sleep altogether. We popped the cork, clinked the glasses, and drank our sparkling wine, and then Rob went to bed. It was 10:08. (But to be fair, he is on call this week and he had a nice fat hospital service waiting for him. For some reason, people like their doctors to be, you know, alert and all.)

And then there was one. I wasn't feeling tired, so I thought it would be no problem to stay awake and read until the midnight hour. The death knell for that plan came when I crawled into bed next to Rob and opened my book. The next thing I remember is The Boy running into our room crying because people next door were setting off firecrackers and he was scared. So I let him climb into bed with us, all the while grumbling to myself about the neighbors. Why do they have to be so, so . . . celebratory? If they wake up that baby, I'm gonna go out there and get all medieval on their a**es. (Yes, I exhibit a strange combination of incoherence and outright hostility when I am roused from a deep sleep.)

So now I am feeling a little nostalgic for 2006, because '06 was so good for us. Our family spent the whole year together, which was an improvement over '05, when Rob was finishing his call-up with the Navy reserves. The Boy has made such tremendous progress with all of his therapy that he is practically unrecognizable as the same child. Older Girl continues to march to her own beat, happy and healthy and still, always, herself. Rob was promoted at work, and has embraced the new responsibilities that it entails. I started blogging, which has been such an unexpected blessing to me. This small outlet, this little corner of adult time, has made a huge difference to me; not to mention all of the wonderful, fun, creative people I have met out there in Blogville. And, saving the very best for last, our darlingest darling Baby Girl came to us in '06. She is joy personified. She is our reunion baby, the result of so much happiness that I truly feel like it must have been encoded into her very DNA structure. She is a little light in our home, drawing everyone together and towards her, warming us, and cheering us. My head is spinning from the goodness!

I know 2007 is full of its own unknown possibilities, and next year I will be writing with the same bittersweet feeling, but right now the change is a little daunting. I am resistant to change because I never want to jeopardize what I have right now for what I might have in the future, even though the changes in my life have always brought me some of the most unexpected blessings. "Let go and let God" is easy to say but so contrary to human nature. We are tenacious, we are meant to claw and cling to anything familiar. It's how we think we can survive. And we could survive that way, but we can't thrive that way. Thriving requires change. So I guess, if I was the resolution-type, I would resolve to thrive in 2007, with all of the change that entails.

Happy New Year, my lovely friends and family. We wish you the best kinds of changes for 2007 and a year full of happiness, health, and peace.