Irvington Fourth of July Parade-2007
Irvington Fourth of July Parade-2008
Showing posts with label Little A. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Little A. Show all posts
Sunday, July 06, 2008
What a Difference a Year Makes: Independance Day Edition
Irvington Fourth of July Parade-2006
Irvington Fourth of July Parade-2007
Irvington Fourth of July Parade-2008
Irvington Fourth of July Parade-2007
Irvington Fourth of July Parade-2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
The Making of a Movie Buff
Today, we took Little A to see Kung Fu Panda, his first movie in a movie theater. This kid comes from a long line of movie lovers, so naturally he enjoys a good flick. He's already a big fan of Cars and The Incredibles, and even at his tender age will sit mesmerized through these rather long movies. But he's not yet had the complete movie theater experience, and this year we decided he would be old enough to have the patience for a full-length picture, to appreciate the big screen, and to not get freaked out at the dark or the volume.
By the way, how much does it bug me when parents bring age-inappropriate children to movies? Like an infant who invariably starts screaming or babbling in the middle of the film and whose parents seem to think the best approach is to try and calm the baby there rather than GET UP AND WALK OUT OF THE THEATER WITH YOUR SCREAMING CHILD. Or like the mother I saw with her two elementary-school-age sons at a showing of Jackie Brown because that's teaching them fabulous things about guns, sex, and profane language. Or like the mother we saw in line to buy tickets with her three-year-old daughter as we were leaving Iron Man at some time past 10 o'clock because that's an awesome time to see a movie with your toddler. Okay, sure I understand maybe not having the dough for a babysitter or maybe having a hard time finding a dependable one. But for crying out loud people, just suck it up and wait for it to come out on DVD.
Anyway, I digress.
We've been hyping this movie experience and Kung Fu Panda since I got out of the hospital after my first round of chemo. We've been watching the online trailers, reading the book, and we even got some Happy Meal toys. I've been pretty jazzed about this, my son's first movie-going experience. Once the doctors declared me no longer neutropenic, we got busy picking out a day and a showing. We packed snacks, put on a snazzy polo shirt with pandas embroidered in the corner, and set off to meet my mom at the theater.
Then due to a mix-up with the times, we ended up there an hour early. Snort. But it was good opportunity to grab a quick lunch.
Occasionally, there are moments when Little A does something that makes me wonder if he truly is the fruit of my loins. Today, for instance, he summarily rejected popcorn. My mom talked him into trying a piece which he promptly ejected from his mouth. Doesn't like popcorn. Huh.
We settled into our seats. Immediately, Little A seemed puzzled as to why we were being forced to watch commercials. I told him I wonder the same thing too some times. Once the movie started, Little A was mesmerized. The only time he talked out loud was to inquire about the usher who came into the theater to make his rounds ("What's that man doing?"). I loved seeing his big grin whenever he recognized a favorite line or scene from one of the trailers we watch.
But I think the whole event, coupled with the darkness and the fact that the sound was a little low, wore him down. By the last ten or fifteen minutes of the movie, he was starting to look drowsy, but I think the final battle scene roused him out of his stupor. All in all, he seemed to enjoy the experience. The scenes with the younger Tai Lung and Master Tigress being the most memorable so far.
Later, when talking about his experiences, Little A made sure to mention the "holes in the seats to put our drinks in." My kid remember the cupholders. Awesome.
The day's events have pretty well baked his noodle because it's taken me a good while to try and spin him down for sleepytime. Whew. I guess our big screen adventures will be few and far between, at least for now.
On one last note, I've got a bone marrow biopsy tomorrow. Just a reminder of my friends, the zombie leukemia cells. Let's hope and pray that the last scorched earth approach has kept them somewhat at bay. Otherwise, the Zombie Warrior's going to start investing in some nuclear goodies for her arsenal.
By the way, how much does it bug me when parents bring age-inappropriate children to movies? Like an infant who invariably starts screaming or babbling in the middle of the film and whose parents seem to think the best approach is to try and calm the baby there rather than GET UP AND WALK OUT OF THE THEATER WITH YOUR SCREAMING CHILD. Or like the mother I saw with her two elementary-school-age sons at a showing of Jackie Brown because that's teaching them fabulous things about guns, sex, and profane language. Or like the mother we saw in line to buy tickets with her three-year-old daughter as we were leaving Iron Man at some time past 10 o'clock because that's an awesome time to see a movie with your toddler. Okay, sure I understand maybe not having the dough for a babysitter or maybe having a hard time finding a dependable one. But for crying out loud people, just suck it up and wait for it to come out on DVD.
Anyway, I digress.
We've been hyping this movie experience and Kung Fu Panda since I got out of the hospital after my first round of chemo. We've been watching the online trailers, reading the book, and we even got some Happy Meal toys. I've been pretty jazzed about this, my son's first movie-going experience. Once the doctors declared me no longer neutropenic, we got busy picking out a day and a showing. We packed snacks, put on a snazzy polo shirt with pandas embroidered in the corner, and set off to meet my mom at the theater.
Then due to a mix-up with the times, we ended up there an hour early. Snort. But it was good opportunity to grab a quick lunch.
Occasionally, there are moments when Little A does something that makes me wonder if he truly is the fruit of my loins. Today, for instance, he summarily rejected popcorn. My mom talked him into trying a piece which he promptly ejected from his mouth. Doesn't like popcorn. Huh.
We settled into our seats. Immediately, Little A seemed puzzled as to why we were being forced to watch commercials. I told him I wonder the same thing too some times. Once the movie started, Little A was mesmerized. The only time he talked out loud was to inquire about the usher who came into the theater to make his rounds ("What's that man doing?"). I loved seeing his big grin whenever he recognized a favorite line or scene from one of the trailers we watch.
But I think the whole event, coupled with the darkness and the fact that the sound was a little low, wore him down. By the last ten or fifteen minutes of the movie, he was starting to look drowsy, but I think the final battle scene roused him out of his stupor. All in all, he seemed to enjoy the experience. The scenes with the younger Tai Lung and Master Tigress being the most memorable so far.
Later, when talking about his experiences, Little A made sure to mention the "holes in the seats to put our drinks in." My kid remember the cupholders. Awesome.
The day's events have pretty well baked his noodle because it's taken me a good while to try and spin him down for sleepytime. Whew. I guess our big screen adventures will be few and far between, at least for now.
On one last note, I've got a bone marrow biopsy tomorrow. Just a reminder of my friends, the zombie leukemia cells. Let's hope and pray that the last scorched earth approach has kept them somewhat at bay. Otherwise, the Zombie Warrior's going to start investing in some nuclear goodies for her arsenal.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Summer's Here
Here's your much needed break from Amanda's Health Woes with some unrepentant toddler cuteness.
I present to you, Little A on his playground:
And yes, that is the face he makes when you ask him to smile. Killer, I know.
This is his "serious driver" look. I believe at the time he told me he was driving Grave Digger.
This is Little A's dismount pose from the slide where he is "waving to his fans". I couldn't make this up if I tried.
The last few days here in RVA have been blazin'. Our recent nightly ritual has been kicking back with some hot sprinkler action.
I tried to get some action shots of Little A running around the sprinkler, but every time I raised my camera, he wanted to pose.
"I'm all soaking wet!"
I present to you, Little A on his playground:
And yes, that is the face he makes when you ask him to smile. Killer, I know.This is his "serious driver" look. I believe at the time he told me he was driving Grave Digger.
This is Little A's dismount pose from the slide where he is "waving to his fans". I couldn't make this up if I tried.
The last few days here in RVA have been blazin'. Our recent nightly ritual has been kicking back with some hot sprinkler action.
I tried to get some action shots of Little A running around the sprinkler, but every time I raised my camera, he wanted to pose.
"I'm all soaking wet!"
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Holiday. Celebration. Come together in every nation.
(No medical updates today, peeps. I had a great holiday weekend with the fam and want to focus on that. The news from Friday wasn't devastating, nor was it ohmygoshyouaremiraculouslycured. More details tomorrow.)
My holiday weekend started on Thursday. The Mister and I threw caution (and my neutropenic state) to the wind and took in a flick. The flick. Iron Man, baby. In honor of my fabulously supportive 'jibans, I donned my "Pajiba Bus(ted) Tour 2008" t-shirt, as well as my Jolly Roger do-rag over my bald head especially for the big event: The first real movie post Big House. It was as if the whole Pajiba crew was there to cheer and celebrate as I crammed my mouth full of movie popcorn and dark chocolate Raisinets.
Man, that movie was something else. It was in many ways the perfect comic book movie. Just enough back story and character development to make Tony Stark believable, but not waste vital screen time. Action sequences were kickin' but not overly long. Actors put in smooth, professional performances. And I laughed out loud more than a few times. I'm just delighted to have been able to see it on the big screen.
Plus, the trailer for The Incredible Hulk was intriguing. I think I might want to see this one. Who can pass up Ed Norton AND Tim Roth?
Saturday, Clan Amos headed over to the king of bog box toy stores, Toys-R-Us, on a mission to acquire some outdoor play equipment for Little A. The set we ended up with is perfect for our crazy toddler man. It's got a ladder, a slide, two walls with climbing hand holds, a cave, and... a steering wheel, the feature that ultimately sold us on this particular model. My little racer does love to drive. After his first few minutes on his new playground, Alastair announced, "This playground is neat."
During the time I was in The Big House, Alastair has totally moved out of babydom into little boyhood. Watching him play and listening to the things that come out of his mouth, I've realized how much he's grown in such a short time.
Adrian has taught him to exclaim, "Punk rock!" (which he sometimes gets mixed up and calls out "Punk up!" instead.), as well as to command someone to "Throw the goat!"
Tonight at dinner Adrian asked him where the million dollars was, and he replied, "Upstairs in bed sleeping." I explain that probably wasn't a wise investment of funds.
We have also established that "narcolepsy" is a magic word that sends Daddy to the ground with some voracious fake snoring.
Sunday, I enjoyed my favorite mom-shared pastime, shopping and spent most of the time digging through the Anthropologie clearance room. Hey, were I independently wealthly, I would be outfitted exclusively in their high-priced quirk.
Yesterday was full of outside playtime (resulting in some butt whooping allergy symptoms today), Indy car racing, and ice cream. I actually watched the entire race with The Mister, particularly enjoying Danica Patrick's minor hissy fit when a fender bender in the pits pulled her prematurely out of the race.
Listen to me. I sound like a freakin' race fan. Shivers.
Finally, I cannot express how excited I am to have So You Think You Can Dance back on television.
My holiday weekend started on Thursday. The Mister and I threw caution (and my neutropenic state) to the wind and took in a flick. The flick. Iron Man, baby. In honor of my fabulously supportive 'jibans, I donned my "Pajiba Bus(ted) Tour 2008" t-shirt, as well as my Jolly Roger do-rag over my bald head especially for the big event: The first real movie post Big House. It was as if the whole Pajiba crew was there to cheer and celebrate as I crammed my mouth full of movie popcorn and dark chocolate Raisinets.
Man, that movie was something else. It was in many ways the perfect comic book movie. Just enough back story and character development to make Tony Stark believable, but not waste vital screen time. Action sequences were kickin' but not overly long. Actors put in smooth, professional performances. And I laughed out loud more than a few times. I'm just delighted to have been able to see it on the big screen.
Plus, the trailer for The Incredible Hulk was intriguing. I think I might want to see this one. Who can pass up Ed Norton AND Tim Roth?
Saturday, Clan Amos headed over to the king of bog box toy stores, Toys-R-Us, on a mission to acquire some outdoor play equipment for Little A. The set we ended up with is perfect for our crazy toddler man. It's got a ladder, a slide, two walls with climbing hand holds, a cave, and... a steering wheel, the feature that ultimately sold us on this particular model. My little racer does love to drive. After his first few minutes on his new playground, Alastair announced, "This playground is neat."
During the time I was in The Big House, Alastair has totally moved out of babydom into little boyhood. Watching him play and listening to the things that come out of his mouth, I've realized how much he's grown in such a short time.
Adrian has taught him to exclaim, "Punk rock!" (which he sometimes gets mixed up and calls out "Punk up!" instead.), as well as to command someone to "Throw the goat!"
Tonight at dinner Adrian asked him where the million dollars was, and he replied, "Upstairs in bed sleeping." I explain that probably wasn't a wise investment of funds.
We have also established that "narcolepsy" is a magic word that sends Daddy to the ground with some voracious fake snoring.
Sunday, I enjoyed my favorite mom-shared pastime, shopping and spent most of the time digging through the Anthropologie clearance room. Hey, were I independently wealthly, I would be outfitted exclusively in their high-priced quirk.
Yesterday was full of outside playtime (resulting in some butt whooping allergy symptoms today), Indy car racing, and ice cream. I actually watched the entire race with The Mister, particularly enjoying Danica Patrick's minor hissy fit when a fender bender in the pits pulled her prematurely out of the race.
Listen to me. I sound like a freakin' race fan. Shivers.
Finally, I cannot express how excited I am to have So You Think You Can Dance back on television.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Mixed Nuts With a Seasoning of Marrow
Tonight I've been gimping about my house like a geriatric hip replacement patient. Now I can fully appreciate having gone through my four previous bone marrow biopsies in The Big House where I could laze about in bed and oxycodone was on tap. The biopsy went well; the doc performing it was actually a hemo-oncologist fellow and the pathologist observed and assisted. That's the double edged sword of being treated at a teaching hospital; there are lots of fresh minds on your case, but you are also something of a guinea pig. The fellow performed the biopsy fine, yet I couldn't shake the feeling that he was seriously digging for treasure in my pelvic bone. Plus he reiterated the findings of the two previous pathologists who did my other biopsies: I have bones of stone.
The biopsy results will be ready for my appointment on Friday. Here's hoping for good news.
Speaking of good news, my white counts are up. Other counts are holding firm. Of course, I forgot to ask whether or not this takes me out of neutropenic precautionary zone. A viewing of Iron Man is still in my near future, even if I have to wear my sexy mask and cover the seat in a surgical drape.
Other random news from down Amos Way:
My relationship with Little A has been firmly (and perhaps even stronger than before) reestablished. Yesterday, for the first time since my being home, he called specifically for "Mommy" after his nap. We spend lots of time snuggling and hugging and wrestling, and actually, he's gotten pretty lovey and cuddly lately. It's awesome.
He has also become obsessed with watching the online trailers for both Kung Fu Panda and Wall*E. Based on release dates, it looks like Clan Amos will have to betray their fierce Pixar loyalties and introduce Little A to the movie theater experience with a Dreamworks flick. Oh well. He'll love them both, of that I am certain. He can already sing the first few bars of "Kung Fu Fighting" complete with the "da da da da duh duh duh" part and can identify both Wall*E and his robotic girlfriend Eve.
I can't believe I've not posted this sooner, but my West Coast blogger buddy Girl With the Curious Hair is working with Team in Training, raising funds and preparing to run a half marathon in my honor this October. Mosey on over to her fundraising page and toss her some coin. The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society does some awesome work for folks like me and their families, acting as a support system and an advocate for people who are battling blood cancers. Hopefully, this time next year I will have successfully kicked leukemia's butt and will be training for my own race.
Speaking of events in my honor, the blood drive was apparently a success. Forty-four people showed up to donate, and thirty-eight were able. I only wish I could have been there to personally thank every single donor or potential donor. That's thirty-eight lives saved. Kick Ass.
It appears that the esteemed Senator Teddy Kennedy and I are rowing in the same boat. I'd love to send him a card saying welcome to The Cancer and just suck it up because you've had a long life, outliving your more esteemed brothers, and even managing to dodge that whole Chappaquiddick business.
What the hell was up with the House season finale? Could it be any more Debbie Downer? And why did it have to air on the same day I get a rotten prognosis concerning my particularly nasty brand of Stupid Zombie Leukemia? And my anniversary? Jeezie-peezie people. Way to stick it in and break it off.
I really need to post a baldness picture soon because I am very proud of my naked skull. It's quite lovely.
The biopsy results will be ready for my appointment on Friday. Here's hoping for good news.
Speaking of good news, my white counts are up. Other counts are holding firm. Of course, I forgot to ask whether or not this takes me out of neutropenic precautionary zone. A viewing of Iron Man is still in my near future, even if I have to wear my sexy mask and cover the seat in a surgical drape.
Other random news from down Amos Way:
My relationship with Little A has been firmly (and perhaps even stronger than before) reestablished. Yesterday, for the first time since my being home, he called specifically for "Mommy" after his nap. We spend lots of time snuggling and hugging and wrestling, and actually, he's gotten pretty lovey and cuddly lately. It's awesome.
He has also become obsessed with watching the online trailers for both Kung Fu Panda and Wall*E. Based on release dates, it looks like Clan Amos will have to betray their fierce Pixar loyalties and introduce Little A to the movie theater experience with a Dreamworks flick. Oh well. He'll love them both, of that I am certain. He can already sing the first few bars of "Kung Fu Fighting" complete with the "da da da da duh duh duh" part and can identify both Wall*E and his robotic girlfriend Eve.
I can't believe I've not posted this sooner, but my West Coast blogger buddy Girl With the Curious Hair is working with Team in Training, raising funds and preparing to run a half marathon in my honor this October. Mosey on over to her fundraising page and toss her some coin. The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society does some awesome work for folks like me and their families, acting as a support system and an advocate for people who are battling blood cancers. Hopefully, this time next year I will have successfully kicked leukemia's butt and will be training for my own race.
Speaking of events in my honor, the blood drive was apparently a success. Forty-four people showed up to donate, and thirty-eight were able. I only wish I could have been there to personally thank every single donor or potential donor. That's thirty-eight lives saved. Kick Ass.
It appears that the esteemed Senator Teddy Kennedy and I are rowing in the same boat. I'd love to send him a card saying welcome to The Cancer and just suck it up because you've had a long life, outliving your more esteemed brothers, and even managing to dodge that whole Chappaquiddick business.
What the hell was up with the House season finale? Could it be any more Debbie Downer? And why did it have to air on the same day I get a rotten prognosis concerning my particularly nasty brand of Stupid Zombie Leukemia? And my anniversary? Jeezie-peezie people. Way to stick it in and break it off.
I really need to post a baldness picture soon because I am very proud of my naked skull. It's quite lovely.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Where the Deer and the Antelope Play
Yes, indeed, I am home.
And home has worn me out. My house feels a little like a foreign land. The formerly natural daily routine has become awkward, like I've been thrust into a square dancing competition. My legs are sore from, I kid you not, walking up the stairs in my house. It's the most walking I've done in weeks. But I can tell you that it's a whole heck of a lot better than the heart palpitations that plagued me months ago whenever I went up the stairs.
Last night, I found it difficult to sleep in my own bed. I struggled for ages to get settled in what used to be a comfortable bed. I spend a month sleeping on a plastic encased mattress and pillows, with bed rails on either side, and no matter how much I lowered the dang thing, always on a slight incline. I was woke several times during the night by nurses to poke and prod me. Finally, I get home to my own quiet, darkened, comfy bedroom, and I turn into a freakin' insomniac. Then I woke at 4:30 this morning and couldn't get back to sleep. Awesome.
So, this whole transition to life on furlough is going to take some time. Reestablishing my relationship with Little A seems to be turning into a process as well. There was a bit of a meltdown at breakfast this morning that depressed me, but by the end of the day we were frolicking in an empty box and imitating Dancing With the Stars. But I have to admit that it's mighty depressing when your toddler with whom you spent most waking hours is suddenly intrepid around you.
I go for my follow-up visit tomorrow morning. Before I left yesterday, the lab results were still inconclusive on my final neutrophil count. As a result, I am still on neutropenic precautions: no fresh fruits, flowers, plants, or veggies; strict hand washing; avoid public places where exposure to germs could be high. This is mildly frustrating since returning home and seeing all the blooming life in my yard and subsequently dying to get my hands in the earth and do some gardening. Plus, there's this little movie called Iron Man I'd like to catch. Here's to hoping that tomorrow's blood draw reveals a decent count that would allow me to get back more of my normal life and allow me to eat a freakin' apple.
Geez people. Give a girl a break.
In my last few days of incarceration, I added yet another book to my list, the hardcover Marvel Zombies, bringing my total tomes consumed to 15. Need some recommended summer reading?
For the next few days I'll be trying to ease back into my old routine and life around the house, unpacking my stuff (I swear it's like moving home from your college dorm room. I've practically got a whole new library which only contributes to my existing, ahem, problem with books.), and getting a small posse of sellables together for my church's yard sale Saturday. All this while I'm still trying to heal and my marrow attempts to get with the program of making my blood.
Overly ambitious? Or just me?
Glad to be back, folks. Stick with me; I guarantee this won't be my last medical adventure.
And home has worn me out. My house feels a little like a foreign land. The formerly natural daily routine has become awkward, like I've been thrust into a square dancing competition. My legs are sore from, I kid you not, walking up the stairs in my house. It's the most walking I've done in weeks. But I can tell you that it's a whole heck of a lot better than the heart palpitations that plagued me months ago whenever I went up the stairs.
Last night, I found it difficult to sleep in my own bed. I struggled for ages to get settled in what used to be a comfortable bed. I spend a month sleeping on a plastic encased mattress and pillows, with bed rails on either side, and no matter how much I lowered the dang thing, always on a slight incline. I was woke several times during the night by nurses to poke and prod me. Finally, I get home to my own quiet, darkened, comfy bedroom, and I turn into a freakin' insomniac. Then I woke at 4:30 this morning and couldn't get back to sleep. Awesome.
So, this whole transition to life on furlough is going to take some time. Reestablishing my relationship with Little A seems to be turning into a process as well. There was a bit of a meltdown at breakfast this morning that depressed me, but by the end of the day we were frolicking in an empty box and imitating Dancing With the Stars. But I have to admit that it's mighty depressing when your toddler with whom you spent most waking hours is suddenly intrepid around you.
I go for my follow-up visit tomorrow morning. Before I left yesterday, the lab results were still inconclusive on my final neutrophil count. As a result, I am still on neutropenic precautions: no fresh fruits, flowers, plants, or veggies; strict hand washing; avoid public places where exposure to germs could be high. This is mildly frustrating since returning home and seeing all the blooming life in my yard and subsequently dying to get my hands in the earth and do some gardening. Plus, there's this little movie called Iron Man I'd like to catch. Here's to hoping that tomorrow's blood draw reveals a decent count that would allow me to get back more of my normal life and allow me to eat a freakin' apple.
Geez people. Give a girl a break.
In my last few days of incarceration, I added yet another book to my list, the hardcover Marvel Zombies, bringing my total tomes consumed to 15. Need some recommended summer reading?
For the next few days I'll be trying to ease back into my old routine and life around the house, unpacking my stuff (I swear it's like moving home from your college dorm room. I've practically got a whole new library which only contributes to my existing, ahem, problem with books.), and getting a small posse of sellables together for my church's yard sale Saturday. All this while I'm still trying to heal and my marrow attempts to get with the program of making my blood.
Overly ambitious? Or just me?
Glad to be back, folks. Stick with me; I guarantee this won't be my last medical adventure.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
A Bit of Parole and More Pelvic Drilling
Yesterday was bone marrow biopsy number four. My docs are hoping this biopsy will give them a better picture as to why my white counts are on the slow boat to China, as well as check the status of my marrow in general. Worst case scenario: They find that the stupid leukemic cells are still hanging about, and I'd be up for chemo round two.
I won't know results until later today or tomorrow. This uncertainty has been weighing pretty heavily on my heart. I've prayed a lot about it over the past day, but I'm human and unfortunately worry seems to be part of my genetic code. Can't seem to shake the stink of doubt and pessimism off of me.
More than anything, the prayers and thoughts of others have buoyed me through some of the darker portions of the past month. So I am calling in my troops to do what you guys have been doing tremendously well for me and that is all sending up those prayers and healing, positive thoughts and vibes.
I've been working on my healing imagery, and y'all sent me some pretty good ideas. I decided to go with the Willy Wonka candy factory pumping out white blood cells on a conveyor belt that slide into a big copper funnel and into my blood stream. I liked the Krispy Kreme idea, but thinking too much about doughnuts only made me hungry for one. I'm trying to get better not get fat.
Also yesterday, my wardens let me take a stroll outside the building (with mask on, of course) with my parents and Little A. It was a perfect day to be outside: sunny, in the seventies, light breeze. We went to the nearby Healing Garden, a gorgeous explosion of flora and fountains and sculpture in a little walled garden overlooking the hum of I-95. Little A had a great time dashing about the plants, getting his hand wet in a fountain, and then getting his head stuck in the metal gate (quickly remedied but not without tears). For the first time in I don't know when, I got to carry him around. The feel of his little arm around my neck was pure heaven. We stood and looked out over the highway traffic and called out what kind of vehicles whizzed by. Little A was particularly excited about a caravan of school buses and a TANKER TRUCK (his emphasis). Hopefully this afternoon, Adrian and I will be able to take a trip to the Healing Garden for more fresh air and sunshine on my skin.
This is the roller coaster of LeukemiaTown. Sunshine and biopsies.
Now I sit and wait, as I have for at least a week now. Only this time I'm doing a bit of the hand-wringing in anticipation of the news to come. That dark, negative part of my gut instinct tells me that not only will I be stuck in the Big House for Mother's Day, but in all likelihood, my anniversary as well.
Nuts.
Oh and in other news, for those of you in the RVA area, there is a blood drive in my honor to be held at Dumbarton Elementary School on Thursday, May 15 from 3-7. More on that to come.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
My Son is Sweetness Personified
This week has been particularly rough for me, health wise. Monday night I started running a low-grade fever that clung to me like a tick until yesterday morning. I would randomly be overcome with chills and cold sweats. At night I could barely sleep for the sweating. I've also developed random bouts of light-headedness; yesterday morning it was so bad Adrian had to stay home for about a hour to supervise me because I was worried I was going to pass out.
Today was a similarly challenging day. In addition to my heart palpitations, I know wander around feeling like my head's in a fishbowl. Poor Little A is starting to become attuned to the fact that his mother is all busted up. He wants to play with the same passion and energy that he shares with his daddy, but more often than not he hears from me, "Mommy's sick" or "Mommy doesn't feel well." My patience with him is limited, especially when I'm spinning with dizziness or stricken with palpitations, and I find myself losing my cool more and more.
This morning we were playing in his room and getting ready for a trip to Target. Little A got up to go downstairs, and I asked him to wait a bit for mommy, that he needed to go slow for me since I didn't feel well. He came over and threw his arms around my neck for an embrace, then stood back and proclaimed with an enormous grin, "Mommy better!" He hugged me a few more times, each with the same satisfied grin that told me he was giving me the same comfort I give him when he bumps his head. And he was. For a few moments, that outpouring of love seemed to block out all the physical discomfort I was having.
I did feel better. For a little while anyway.
Tomorrow I go to a cardiologist for more poking and prodding. Maybe this doctor will be my fairy godmother. More than likely, as my pessimist mind likes to assume, I'm headed for more medical square dancing. Swing your partner! Do-si-do! Paging Dr. House?
Dear readers and interweb buddies, keep me in your thoughts and prayers. It's like I told The Mister: I want my old normal back. When normal meant climbing a flight of stairs without feeling like my chest was on fire and my heart was about to burst.
Today was a similarly challenging day. In addition to my heart palpitations, I know wander around feeling like my head's in a fishbowl. Poor Little A is starting to become attuned to the fact that his mother is all busted up. He wants to play with the same passion and energy that he shares with his daddy, but more often than not he hears from me, "Mommy's sick" or "Mommy doesn't feel well." My patience with him is limited, especially when I'm spinning with dizziness or stricken with palpitations, and I find myself losing my cool more and more.
This morning we were playing in his room and getting ready for a trip to Target. Little A got up to go downstairs, and I asked him to wait a bit for mommy, that he needed to go slow for me since I didn't feel well. He came over and threw his arms around my neck for an embrace, then stood back and proclaimed with an enormous grin, "Mommy better!" He hugged me a few more times, each with the same satisfied grin that told me he was giving me the same comfort I give him when he bumps his head. And he was. For a few moments, that outpouring of love seemed to block out all the physical discomfort I was having.
I did feel better. For a little while anyway.
Tomorrow I go to a cardiologist for more poking and prodding. Maybe this doctor will be my fairy godmother. More than likely, as my pessimist mind likes to assume, I'm headed for more medical square dancing. Swing your partner! Do-si-do! Paging Dr. House?
Dear readers and interweb buddies, keep me in your thoughts and prayers. It's like I told The Mister: I want my old normal back. When normal meant climbing a flight of stairs without feeling like my chest was on fire and my heart was about to burst.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
My First Tale
It's not nearly as long and full of turns as the mouse's tale, but it resides at Blog Me A Tale. Go read it. Tell me what you think.
And I swear all subsequent lengthy ramblings posted there will not necessarily involve my kid, despite his being insanely good subject material. Occasionally, I do need to remind myself that there's more to Manda than the Fruit of Her Loom.
And I swear all subsequent lengthy ramblings posted there will not necessarily involve my kid, despite his being insanely good subject material. Occasionally, I do need to remind myself that there's more to Manda than the Fruit of Her Loom.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
A Conversation With Little A
Place: Casa Amos living room as LITTLE A and MOMMA A prepare to leave for a trip to Costco.
LITTLE A: Momma got gum in her mouth.
MOMMA A: Yep.
LITTLE A: No got camel in her mouth.
MOMMA A: Nope, no camel in my mouth. Actually it's been a long time since Momma had a Camel in her mouth. Or a Marlboro Ultra Light, for that matter.
[There is a pause as LITTLE A digests this little nugget of information.]
LITTLE A: No got camel in mouth.
LITTLE A: Momma got gum in her mouth.
MOMMA A: Yep.
LITTLE A: No got camel in her mouth.
MOMMA A: Nope, no camel in my mouth. Actually it's been a long time since Momma had a Camel in her mouth. Or a Marlboro Ultra Light, for that matter.
[There is a pause as LITTLE A digests this little nugget of information.]
LITTLE A: No got camel in mouth.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Oh Solo Mio
I've been schlepping through the past few days as Single Momma A while Papa A plays race car driver down at VIR. Needless to say, I've not had an amazing amount of energy for blogging or anything else besides the bare minimum to keep the house in order and watching La Vie En Rose (Yes, Marion Cotillard deserved her nekkid gold man.). It's actually not been too bad; Little A has kept his theatrics to a minimum as I am sure he sees the strained weariness behind my shark eyes.
Our first night alone was pretty uneventful; Little A, exhausted from the weekend, decided to buck his recent trend of waking up after a few hours sleep for comfort and then rousing the household at around 5:30 a.m. He slept soundly all night, waking a little before seven. Momma A was relieved to get uninterrupted sleep. Energy is highly coveted when in Single Momma mode.
Yesterday we spent a few hours at one of our favorite RVA haunts, Maymont Park, admiring the farm animals and the construction vehicles that were working on the new bird habitat. Momma A decided that it would be a fabulous idea to trek up the steep hill to Dooley Mansion whilst wearing thirty-one pounds of Little A on her back. Halfway up the steps, after background grunting courtesy of Little A who obviously sensed my struggles, I had to take a breather or we all would have come tumbling down. We followed our park exploits with lunch at Crossroads, though the shop's co-owner, my friend, and member of the Little A harem, Olivia was off for the day.
Last night, my parents had us over for dinner (and for catching up on Project Runway). Grandparent-induced activities always delay bedtime, but Little A took his bath and headed to sleep with little fanfare. However, I was roused from my bed a little before 4 a.m. this morning by his plaintive cries. We went through the comforting routine of new diaper and story, and I laid him back down. Forty-five minutes later, he was calling for me again, this time with complaints that the room was too dark. At this point, I was way too tired to fight his fears, so I scooped him up and headed for my bed to crash back out together. Scold me if you like, but Single Momma A mode is prone to making last minute compromises.
The hour or so of sleep we got before my alarm went off was some of the sweetest I've had in a long time, snuggled close together under the blankets with a chubby arm tossed around my neck. Only wish I could have indulged in more as I've been a narcoleptic all damn day.
While I look forward to Papa A's return tonight, I've enjoyed flying with only my nutty kid as co-pilot. He's good times . Mostly.
In an hour or so, I hope to be indoctrinating him in the art of baking by enlisting his assistance (to use the term loosely) in making The Best Damn Cornbread Ever.
Our first night alone was pretty uneventful; Little A, exhausted from the weekend, decided to buck his recent trend of waking up after a few hours sleep for comfort and then rousing the household at around 5:30 a.m. He slept soundly all night, waking a little before seven. Momma A was relieved to get uninterrupted sleep. Energy is highly coveted when in Single Momma mode.
Yesterday we spent a few hours at one of our favorite RVA haunts, Maymont Park, admiring the farm animals and the construction vehicles that were working on the new bird habitat. Momma A decided that it would be a fabulous idea to trek up the steep hill to Dooley Mansion whilst wearing thirty-one pounds of Little A on her back. Halfway up the steps, after background grunting courtesy of Little A who obviously sensed my struggles, I had to take a breather or we all would have come tumbling down. We followed our park exploits with lunch at Crossroads, though the shop's co-owner, my friend, and member of the Little A harem, Olivia was off for the day.
Last night, my parents had us over for dinner (and for catching up on Project Runway). Grandparent-induced activities always delay bedtime, but Little A took his bath and headed to sleep with little fanfare. However, I was roused from my bed a little before 4 a.m. this morning by his plaintive cries. We went through the comforting routine of new diaper and story, and I laid him back down. Forty-five minutes later, he was calling for me again, this time with complaints that the room was too dark. At this point, I was way too tired to fight his fears, so I scooped him up and headed for my bed to crash back out together. Scold me if you like, but Single Momma A mode is prone to making last minute compromises.
The hour or so of sleep we got before my alarm went off was some of the sweetest I've had in a long time, snuggled close together under the blankets with a chubby arm tossed around my neck. Only wish I could have indulged in more as I've been a narcoleptic all damn day.
While I look forward to Papa A's return tonight, I've enjoyed flying with only my nutty kid as co-pilot. He's good times . Mostly.
In an hour or so, I hope to be indoctrinating him in the art of baking by enlisting his assistance (to use the term loosely) in making The Best Damn Cornbread Ever.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Six for Sunday: Cool Stuff in Toddlertainment
1. Steve Martin wrote a children's book! How awesome is that? This begs the question, at what age would it be appropriate to introduce Little A to the comic genius that is The Jerk, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, or Bowfinger?
2. I like to peruse the Easy Reader section of the Children's Library while Little A does some post-story time socializing. I discovered amongst the more generic books about animals, counting, and ABC's are some books with fairly specialized subject matter ranging from deaf siblings, trailer living, divorce, as well indentured servants, mom losing her job, and George Washington's farm animals. If you're ever looking for some amusement and a dash of enlightenment, browse children's literature. There's so much more out there than just Curious George and Carl the babysitting Rottweiler.
3. More proof of the awesomeness that is Pixar: One of Pixar's main character designers is William "Bud" Luckey , the creator of Woody from Toy Story and the short film Boundin'. Back in the day, Bud wrote and animated a ton of shorts for Sesame Street including The Alligator King, a personal favorite. Remember the Alligator King and his seven sons? Here's a refresher:
4. And speaking of Pixar, my mom and I have decided that this summer Little A will be old enough to have and hopefully enjoy his first real cinematic experience. Considering his love of all things Cars and mechanical, I think Pixar's latest offering will be perfect.
5. Yesterday, Clan Amos visited a new furniture consignment store on Lakeside Ave. where we stumbled up a wooden train set and big train table for $150. It's sturdy and in near pristine condition. Considering that some tables alone are $150 and this particular set retails for over $200, I think we got a sweet bargain. While mom and dad have been building elaborate train track configurations, Little A enjoys finding new and exciting ways to inflict disasters about our miniature town and bring the whole set up crashing down.
6. This has absolutely nothing to do with Toddlertainment, but fellow blogger Girl With the Curious Hair, sent me a link to this article. Looks like those nutty Virtue folks have got some stiff competition in the Holy Body Products market.
2. I like to peruse the Easy Reader section of the Children's Library while Little A does some post-story time socializing. I discovered amongst the more generic books about animals, counting, and ABC's are some books with fairly specialized subject matter ranging from deaf siblings, trailer living, divorce, as well indentured servants, mom losing her job, and George Washington's farm animals. If you're ever looking for some amusement and a dash of enlightenment, browse children's literature. There's so much more out there than just Curious George and Carl the babysitting Rottweiler.
3. More proof of the awesomeness that is Pixar: One of Pixar's main character designers is William "Bud" Luckey , the creator of Woody from Toy Story and the short film Boundin'. Back in the day, Bud wrote and animated a ton of shorts for Sesame Street including The Alligator King, a personal favorite. Remember the Alligator King and his seven sons? Here's a refresher:
4. And speaking of Pixar, my mom and I have decided that this summer Little A will be old enough to have and hopefully enjoy his first real cinematic experience. Considering his love of all things Cars and mechanical, I think Pixar's latest offering will be perfect.
5. Yesterday, Clan Amos visited a new furniture consignment store on Lakeside Ave. where we stumbled up a wooden train set and big train table for $150. It's sturdy and in near pristine condition. Considering that some tables alone are $150 and this particular set retails for over $200, I think we got a sweet bargain. While mom and dad have been building elaborate train track configurations, Little A enjoys finding new and exciting ways to inflict disasters about our miniature town and bring the whole set up crashing down.
6. This has absolutely nothing to do with Toddlertainment, but fellow blogger Girl With the Curious Hair, sent me a link to this article. Looks like those nutty Virtue folks have got some stiff competition in the Holy Body Products market.
Monday, February 11, 2008
I Like You: The "Sing. Sing a Song." Edition
Today, the Central Virginia weather did another one of its neat tricks on us all. After several balmy days, the temperature took a nosedive. So it's an All Indoor Day for me and Little A. Just hanging around the house, makeup-less, rocking my salmon-pink sweatpants, and trying to get over this slightly painful bellyache I've developed.
And of course, when there are no outside diversions to break up the day, Little A and Momma A begin to grate on each other's nerves. I'm trying hard to not let His Toddlerness push my buttons too badly, and as part of that effort, I pause during these moments of sheer annoyance and dwell on something totally cool about my child.
Today's What I Like About Alastair:
He's a rock star, a music lover, and a dancing machine.
Who knows if this is solely biological or a result of his parents constantly keeping music going since he first arrived home from the hospital. One of the first albums we played for him was American Beauty. As an infant, we put on a lot of Johnny Cash, 40's era swing, and the soundtrack to Amelie (which totally delighted him). Car rides had to be accompanied by tunes or fussing would commence. As he got older, we broadened our play list to include more rocking stuff, and The Black Parade quickly became his favorite album. He also loves to be sung to and there are frequent requests that Momma or Daddy A serenade him with songs, everything from the "ABC song" to Sesame Street tunes to whatever comes out of our mouths.
When it comes to dancing, Little A is a Boogie Down Master. Throw on a rocking tune (His favorites are MIKA and Scissor Sisters.), and he starts a-twisting and pumping his arms. When we're in the car, he makes his toys dance, and sometimes just his various body parts. He'll call out from the backseat, "Momma my arms is dancing, " and sure enough, he's flinging his arms around to the music.
For over a year now, Alastair has accompanied me to weekly choir rehearsals at church. Normally, he hangs out with his Pappy at the sound board and plays. One night while our director was leading us in a song, Alastair came down and stood right beside her, mimicking her arm gestures. I don't think any of us were able to get through the song without cracking up. After rehearsal, we let him tinker on the piano and the drum kit. He even turns the pages of the hymnal on the piano, as if he's looking for the right song to play. His chubby little fingers spread out so gracefully across the keys.
Last week after choir practice, Little A spotted something on the stage. Pointing, he said, "Microphone". So my dad (who would probably have an aneurysm if any other little kid did this), handed him the microphone. Alastair held it up to his mouth, looking like he'd been singing karaoke for years, and proceeded to sing (with some assistance from me) the entire first verse of the Sesame Street ditty "Sing." All of the sudden he's found his inner diva. He liked to sing before, but now the music just won't stop. If it's not nonsensical songs or single subject songs (One word sung over and over), then he's warbling "Old MacDonald" and encouraging me to take over for a solo.
Sing out loud, Little A. Sing out strong. And don't worry if it's not good enough for anyone else to hear. Cause if anyone ever makes sport of your singing, Momma A gives you full permission to slap their lips off.
Little A rocking out to his favorite Sesame Street cartoon featuring "The Ten Song".
And of course, when there are no outside diversions to break up the day, Little A and Momma A begin to grate on each other's nerves. I'm trying hard to not let His Toddlerness push my buttons too badly, and as part of that effort, I pause during these moments of sheer annoyance and dwell on something totally cool about my child.
Today's What I Like About Alastair:
He's a rock star, a music lover, and a dancing machine.
Who knows if this is solely biological or a result of his parents constantly keeping music going since he first arrived home from the hospital. One of the first albums we played for him was American Beauty. As an infant, we put on a lot of Johnny Cash, 40's era swing, and the soundtrack to Amelie (which totally delighted him). Car rides had to be accompanied by tunes or fussing would commence. As he got older, we broadened our play list to include more rocking stuff, and The Black Parade quickly became his favorite album. He also loves to be sung to and there are frequent requests that Momma or Daddy A serenade him with songs, everything from the "ABC song" to Sesame Street tunes to whatever comes out of our mouths.
When it comes to dancing, Little A is a Boogie Down Master. Throw on a rocking tune (His favorites are MIKA and Scissor Sisters.), and he starts a-twisting and pumping his arms. When we're in the car, he makes his toys dance, and sometimes just his various body parts. He'll call out from the backseat, "Momma my arms is dancing, " and sure enough, he's flinging his arms around to the music.
For over a year now, Alastair has accompanied me to weekly choir rehearsals at church. Normally, he hangs out with his Pappy at the sound board and plays. One night while our director was leading us in a song, Alastair came down and stood right beside her, mimicking her arm gestures. I don't think any of us were able to get through the song without cracking up. After rehearsal, we let him tinker on the piano and the drum kit. He even turns the pages of the hymnal on the piano, as if he's looking for the right song to play. His chubby little fingers spread out so gracefully across the keys.
Last week after choir practice, Little A spotted something on the stage. Pointing, he said, "Microphone". So my dad (who would probably have an aneurysm if any other little kid did this), handed him the microphone. Alastair held it up to his mouth, looking like he'd been singing karaoke for years, and proceeded to sing (with some assistance from me) the entire first verse of the Sesame Street ditty "Sing." All of the sudden he's found his inner diva. He liked to sing before, but now the music just won't stop. If it's not nonsensical songs or single subject songs (One word sung over and over), then he's warbling "Old MacDonald" and encouraging me to take over for a solo.
Sing out loud, Little A. Sing out strong. And don't worry if it's not good enough for anyone else to hear. Cause if anyone ever makes sport of your singing, Momma A gives you full permission to slap their lips off.
Little A rocking out to his favorite Sesame Street cartoon featuring "The Ten Song".Monday, February 04, 2008
My Hip Toddler
Back in the day when Little A was just Lumpy floating around in the vast cavernous space of my uterus, I would sit at work and cruise all the trendy baby clothing sites and dream of my hipster baby in all those witty little onesies.
When finally the wee one sprung forth from my loins and had been living among us for some time, I realized that the snazzy onesies weren't all that important in a world where the baby changes clothes some three or four times a day. Once a baby's outfit is poop or urp stained, one care more about the ease of removal and washability. Not to say that Little A didn't have some rockin' ensembles in his first year of life. He had his Star Wars "Who's Your Daddy" onesie, the "My Dad is a Geek" onesies, and the awesome faux flight suit. But mostly he wore the usual baby clothes adorned with cars or animals.
Now that he's older, I am slowly coming back to my original vision of a Little A Fashionplate. He already rocks his Osh-Kosh's pretty fierce. For his birthday, he got some new swank t-shirts. (I must make sure one day to explain to him how wonderful it is to have gay uncles; they give the best clothes.)
I am glad I stumbled upon a new purveyor of cool baby clothes. I love the variety at PollyTod, plus the availability of t-shirts in so many colors.
My only problem will be choosing amongst their designs (Unfortunately, I am not MoneyBags, but if I did there would be no choosing only BIG shopping.):
This was one of my first choices, but since I only have three relatively small tats it might be false advertising. Now if I can only get my ass in gear for future ink, this shirt will be aplicable. Anybody know any good tattoo designers? Next design:
Perfect for Little A's obsession with construction vehicles and with a fierce edge that definitely says "Not From Gymboree". Next:
True, but also consider:
Again, too true:
But on some level I don't want to have to explain blogging to my mom.
'Nuff said.
Finally, here is the shirt for Little A in honor of the killer trike he got for his birthday. Perfect to wear on those warm days when he's cruising in the driveway.
If you've got munchkins of your own or have a little budding hipster in your life, check out the stuff at Polly Tod. You won't surf away empty -handed.
When finally the wee one sprung forth from my loins and had been living among us for some time, I realized that the snazzy onesies weren't all that important in a world where the baby changes clothes some three or four times a day. Once a baby's outfit is poop or urp stained, one care more about the ease of removal and washability. Not to say that Little A didn't have some rockin' ensembles in his first year of life. He had his Star Wars "Who's Your Daddy" onesie, the "My Dad is a Geek" onesies, and the awesome faux flight suit. But mostly he wore the usual baby clothes adorned with cars or animals.
Now that he's older, I am slowly coming back to my original vision of a Little A Fashionplate. He already rocks his Osh-Kosh's pretty fierce. For his birthday, he got some new swank t-shirts. (I must make sure one day to explain to him how wonderful it is to have gay uncles; they give the best clothes.)
I am glad I stumbled upon a new purveyor of cool baby clothes. I love the variety at PollyTod, plus the availability of t-shirts in so many colors.
My only problem will be choosing amongst their designs (Unfortunately, I am not MoneyBags, but if I did there would be no choosing only BIG shopping.):
This was one of my first choices, but since I only have three relatively small tats it might be false advertising. Now if I can only get my ass in gear for future ink, this shirt will be aplicable. Anybody know any good tattoo designers? Next design:
Perfect for Little A's obsession with construction vehicles and with a fierce edge that definitely says "Not From Gymboree". Next:
True, but also consider:
Again, too true:
But on some level I don't want to have to explain blogging to my mom.
'Nuff said.Finally, here is the shirt for Little A in honor of the killer trike he got for his birthday. Perfect to wear on those warm days when he's cruising in the driveway.
If you've got munchkins of your own or have a little budding hipster in your life, check out the stuff at Polly Tod. You won't surf away empty -handed.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
They had a white pony in the stable; They ride it when the doggie's not able.
Today was one of those rough days. Alastair seemed to be in a grouch mood from the moment he woke up, incorrigible and disagreeable. Then he decided to lunge at me while we were playing with his drum and pop me right in the eyeball with his drumstick. Scared the living snot out of me, hurt like a bejeebus, and knocked my contact lens clean out of my eye (Contact was recovered from the carpet many panicked moments later.). Needless to say, I expelled a few harsh words and shook him roughly off of my body. Knowing he had both hurt and angered me, Little A laid prostrate on the floor in silence while I search for my contact and swore under my breath.
We reconciled and got going to the grocery store where we had a smashing time until I reached into my purse to pay for the groceries and discovered my wallet had gone AWOL. Fortunately, the folks at Ukrop's were kind enough to hold my bags to let me rush home and get my checkbook.
Where was my wallet? In Adrian's car. Of course.
I've been snippy and on edge for the rest of the day. To offset the ickiness of today, I will hearken back Sunday's trip out to Adrian's mom's farm. Alastair had a grand old time hanging with the turkeys, chickens, kitties, bunnies, horses, and cows. (Yes, my mother-in-law is Dr. Doolittle.)
Of course, the farm equipment rated pretty high on Little A's excitement-meter. Here he is hanging out in "Frank", otherwise known as the combine harvester.
And posing with the bulldozer.
Of course, we had to take a stroll about the farm on Snowball.
Little A also loved on grandmommy's newest kitten, Rudy.
A feisty feline indeed, as this picture was snapped moments before rescuing Little A from some pretty sharp kitten claws.
Adrian's mom took us out into the fields in her new John Deere Gator. We drove past the horses in the pasture; especially lovely was a flaxen-haired mare and her sire. The cows and calves in the field went galloping as we drove through. Man, if there's one animal that the Creator didn't intend to move at high speeds, it's the cow. And I thought I looked goofy when I ran. Little A was elated and kept clamoring to jump out of the Gator and get a closer look at the livestock.
Lunch at a local joint was followed by treats back at the farm in honor of my mother-in-law's birthday. While we were eating, she decided to let her pet squirrel out to roam (See? Dr. Doolittle all the way.). Squirrel Girl is normally shy and won't have anything to do with anyone else but her mommy. Stupidly, I put my hand down to see if she would sniff me, and sure enough, she sniffed me. Then she jumped on my hand, dug in her claws, and bit the shit out of my finger.
Ow.
I yelped and flapped my hand until Squirrel Girl disengaged. The bite was a narsty, painful bleeder. Adrian's mom was pretty flustered and shuffled the manic squirrel back down to the basement, reassuring me there would be no reason to worry about rabies. Maybe it was an attempt to distract us from the squirrel attack that she decided to share moments later her theory regarding her husband's (Not Adrian's dad, mind you.) asshole behavior and how it was the result of brain damage suffered from a tree falling on his head. Were it not for the fact that my hand was pulsing with pain and visions of squirrel germs were boogieing in my head, I might have suggested with sly sarcasm that he was a high-functioning autistic, just to set her wheels spinning even more.
Moral of the story: No such thing as a fucking tame squirrel.
My finger's fine now, healing up nicely with no signs of infection. No foaming of the mouth either.
The Chocolate-Kahlua Brownies with Sugar Cookie Crust that I just baked are calling me. Baking always brightens a bad day for me.
Though now I am a starting to worry about rabies again...
We reconciled and got going to the grocery store where we had a smashing time until I reached into my purse to pay for the groceries and discovered my wallet had gone AWOL. Fortunately, the folks at Ukrop's were kind enough to hold my bags to let me rush home and get my checkbook.
Where was my wallet? In Adrian's car. Of course.
I've been snippy and on edge for the rest of the day. To offset the ickiness of today, I will hearken back Sunday's trip out to Adrian's mom's farm. Alastair had a grand old time hanging with the turkeys, chickens, kitties, bunnies, horses, and cows. (Yes, my mother-in-law is Dr. Doolittle.)
Of course, the farm equipment rated pretty high on Little A's excitement-meter. Here he is hanging out in "Frank", otherwise known as the combine harvester.
And posing with the bulldozer.
Of course, we had to take a stroll about the farm on Snowball.
Little A also loved on grandmommy's newest kitten, Rudy.
A feisty feline indeed, as this picture was snapped moments before rescuing Little A from some pretty sharp kitten claws.
Adrian's mom took us out into the fields in her new John Deere Gator. We drove past the horses in the pasture; especially lovely was a flaxen-haired mare and her sire. The cows and calves in the field went galloping as we drove through. Man, if there's one animal that the Creator didn't intend to move at high speeds, it's the cow. And I thought I looked goofy when I ran. Little A was elated and kept clamoring to jump out of the Gator and get a closer look at the livestock.
Lunch at a local joint was followed by treats back at the farm in honor of my mother-in-law's birthday. While we were eating, she decided to let her pet squirrel out to roam (See? Dr. Doolittle all the way.). Squirrel Girl is normally shy and won't have anything to do with anyone else but her mommy. Stupidly, I put my hand down to see if she would sniff me, and sure enough, she sniffed me. Then she jumped on my hand, dug in her claws, and bit the shit out of my finger.
Ow.
I yelped and flapped my hand until Squirrel Girl disengaged. The bite was a narsty, painful bleeder. Adrian's mom was pretty flustered and shuffled the manic squirrel back down to the basement, reassuring me there would be no reason to worry about rabies. Maybe it was an attempt to distract us from the squirrel attack that she decided to share moments later her theory regarding her husband's (Not Adrian's dad, mind you.) asshole behavior and how it was the result of brain damage suffered from a tree falling on his head. Were it not for the fact that my hand was pulsing with pain and visions of squirrel germs were boogieing in my head, I might have suggested with sly sarcasm that he was a high-functioning autistic, just to set her wheels spinning even more.
Moral of the story: No such thing as a fucking tame squirrel.
My finger's fine now, healing up nicely with no signs of infection. No foaming of the mouth either.
The Chocolate-Kahlua Brownies with Sugar Cookie Crust that I just baked are calling me. Baking always brightens a bad day for me.
Though now I am a starting to worry about rabies again...
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
What a Difference a Year Makes: Second Birthday Edition
Here's what Little A and I were doing two years ago, at about eight-ish in the morning:
And here's Little A about a year ago at his First Birthday Bash:
(That weepy little face is partly because of his head adornment and partly because my mom (AKA Grammy) had just walked out of the room. I promise he was having a great time.)
Finally, here's Little A this past weekend at his Second Birthday Bash. He's grinning because everyone in the room is singing "Happy Birthday".:
After first thinking, "Damn, I've got a cute kid!" followed by "Damn, my hair keeps getting better!" (I wisely omitted myself from the first picture. Not pretty at all.), I can't help but marvel at how much he's changed and grown and what an awesome, albeit frustrating, little boy he is becoming.
To think, he started out as just a tiny Lumpy.
Happy Second Birthday Alastair.
And here's Little A about a year ago at his First Birthday Bash:
(That weepy little face is partly because of his head adornment and partly because my mom (AKA Grammy) had just walked out of the room. I promise he was having a great time.)
Finally, here's Little A this past weekend at his Second Birthday Bash. He's grinning because everyone in the room is singing "Happy Birthday".:
After first thinking, "Damn, I've got a cute kid!" followed by "Damn, my hair keeps getting better!" (I wisely omitted myself from the first picture. Not pretty at all.), I can't help but marvel at how much he's changed and grown and what an awesome, albeit frustrating, little boy he is becoming.
To think, he started out as just a tiny Lumpy.
Happy Second Birthday Alastair.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Five For Friday
Thanks to everyone for their well wishes. Adrian's back on track, health wise (By that I mean only minor hacking and a sore knee.), and I've properly sanitized the bedclothes so I can sleep in my own bed again.
Today, Little A was in rare form with his bon mots, as well as being rather rambunctious during our outings. A few of today's gems to file under Funny Stuff That My Kid Says:
*This morning as I changed his diaper, Little A asked to see what was on the t-shirt I am wearing underneath my Invader Zim hoodie (Yes, I am a thirtysomething woman who wears clothing from Hot Topic. Shut your face.) It's a shirt given to me by my friend P'Nut and features a diagram of suitable behaviors in the event of a zombie attack. Little A pointed and said "Zombies". My boy. I am so proud.
*As we were walking out of the door, I had my sunglasses pushed up on my head. Little A looked at me and said, "Mommy's hair looks funny. Like Grammy's." Nice.
*When the car CD player switched from Mark Ronson's Version to My Chemical Romance's The Black Parade, Little A said, over the first few strains of music, "Mommy's favorite." Yep, good call kiddo. "Not BeeBoo's favorite." Well okay then; we're all entitled to our own opinions.
Five Things In Movies That Drive Me Insane
1. When a characters sits down to a meal in a restaurant and then DON'T EAT A DAMN THING. Or better yet, when a character leaves the restaurant before the food even arrives. How wasteful. Makes me want to reach into the screen and bogart those perfectly good fries left sitting untouched on the table.
2. When two characters, during conversation, constantly use each other's name. Seriously; next time you are watching a movie pay close attention to how many times in conversation the characters call each other by name. It's bizarre; who does that? If my friend repeated my name over and over when she talked to me, I think my response would be something like, "What the hell's wrong with you? Suddenly stricken autistic? I know my name, goofball."
3. Vomiting as an emotional response. Again, who does this? By my memory I've seen characters in movies (and television) spew chunks when grief-stricken, shocked, ashamed, horrified, disgusted, possessed by an evil spirit, nervous, terrified... You name it. Personally, I call that lazy acting. Instead of having to show an actual emotional response through facial expression and body language, let's just make a bunch of horking sounds and spit out a mouthful of minestrone. Oscar worthy!
4. Not saying goodbye at the end of a phone conversation. If hang up the phone without even a little "Bye!", then I'm pissed and the person at the end of the other line knows it. Either that or my crappy cell phone battery died on me again.
5. Sex scenes. Cinematic sex scenes in general bother me because for the most part they have little grounding in reality. How many of us were just more than a little "meh" after our first sexual encounters because it was nothing like the softly lit, well choreographed, athletic displays we watched on HBO (or Skinemax). But my biggest issue with the sex scenes in movies is that I've never seen one deal with the dreaded Spot in the Middle of the Bed or as I like to call it, Leakage. Never once has a female character immediately following coitus, scrambled for a handful of tissues on her way to the bathroom (By the way girls, every woman should pee after sex. That was some of my mom's best advice.).
Oh wow, I could go on and one here. I'm leaving out cell phones that work EVERYWHERE (X-Files: The Movie was one of the worst offenders.), people not turning on a light before wandering into dark rooms, all those Macintosh computers with Windows operating systems...
Today, Little A was in rare form with his bon mots, as well as being rather rambunctious during our outings. A few of today's gems to file under Funny Stuff That My Kid Says:
*This morning as I changed his diaper, Little A asked to see what was on the t-shirt I am wearing underneath my Invader Zim hoodie (Yes, I am a thirtysomething woman who wears clothing from Hot Topic. Shut your face.) It's a shirt given to me by my friend P'Nut and features a diagram of suitable behaviors in the event of a zombie attack. Little A pointed and said "Zombies". My boy. I am so proud.
*As we were walking out of the door, I had my sunglasses pushed up on my head. Little A looked at me and said, "Mommy's hair looks funny. Like Grammy's." Nice.
*When the car CD player switched from Mark Ronson's Version to My Chemical Romance's The Black Parade, Little A said, over the first few strains of music, "Mommy's favorite." Yep, good call kiddo. "Not BeeBoo's favorite." Well okay then; we're all entitled to our own opinions.
Five Things In Movies That Drive Me Insane
1. When a characters sits down to a meal in a restaurant and then DON'T EAT A DAMN THING. Or better yet, when a character leaves the restaurant before the food even arrives. How wasteful. Makes me want to reach into the screen and bogart those perfectly good fries left sitting untouched on the table.
2. When two characters, during conversation, constantly use each other's name. Seriously; next time you are watching a movie pay close attention to how many times in conversation the characters call each other by name. It's bizarre; who does that? If my friend repeated my name over and over when she talked to me, I think my response would be something like, "What the hell's wrong with you? Suddenly stricken autistic? I know my name, goofball."
3. Vomiting as an emotional response. Again, who does this? By my memory I've seen characters in movies (and television) spew chunks when grief-stricken, shocked, ashamed, horrified, disgusted, possessed by an evil spirit, nervous, terrified... You name it. Personally, I call that lazy acting. Instead of having to show an actual emotional response through facial expression and body language, let's just make a bunch of horking sounds and spit out a mouthful of minestrone. Oscar worthy!
4. Not saying goodbye at the end of a phone conversation. If hang up the phone without even a little "Bye!", then I'm pissed and the person at the end of the other line knows it. Either that or my crappy cell phone battery died on me again.
5. Sex scenes. Cinematic sex scenes in general bother me because for the most part they have little grounding in reality. How many of us were just more than a little "meh" after our first sexual encounters because it was nothing like the softly lit, well choreographed, athletic displays we watched on HBO (or Skinemax). But my biggest issue with the sex scenes in movies is that I've never seen one deal with the dreaded Spot in the Middle of the Bed or as I like to call it, Leakage. Never once has a female character immediately following coitus, scrambled for a handful of tissues on her way to the bathroom (By the way girls, every woman should pee after sex. That was some of my mom's best advice.).
Oh wow, I could go on and one here. I'm leaving out cell phones that work EVERYWHERE (X-Files: The Movie was one of the worst offenders.), people not turning on a light before wandering into dark rooms, all those Macintosh computers with Windows operating systems...
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Worst Mom Ever-Nursemaid's Elbow Edition
Friday started off splendidly; there was a morning haircut for Little A (Being such a brave little toaster, he only briefly shed tears.) and a visit to Crossroads to see one of Little A's girlfriends, Miss Olivia. We enjoyed hot chocolate (for Momma A), milk (for Little A) and split a tasty muffin. Upon arriving home, we puttered and played for a while until it was time for lunch. I came up behind Little A and took his hands to pull him to his feet from his seated position. At the last moment, he pulled in the opposite direction and immediately let out a bloodcurdling scream. When I asked him what was hurt, through his howls and tears, he could only respond with "Hand hurt."
Because I am a brilliant medical professional, I examined his arm and hand for signs of injury. No blood, no scrapes, no swelling. But there was much howling and keening and tears. And he refused to lift or move his left arm and hand and shrieked if I tried to touch that part of his body. The only thing I could was a dislocated shoulder. After calling Adrian and informing him that we were on the way to the hospital, I wrapped Little A in a blanket and whisked him out the car.
While trying to maneuver my sobbing toddler into his seat, our nutty neighbor Bill decided it was a good time to chat with me about how pretty the light-festooned evergreen tree in our front yard had been. Not a good time old man, I thought behind my smiles and niceties.
Once at the hospital, the ER staff did a great job of whisking us through check in and getting Little A into the x-ray room for a nice amped-up howling session of x-rays. Then we were taken to a cubicle of an exam room. Where we sat. And waited. And waited. And waited.
Let me add here that neither Little A nor Mommy A had eaten any lunch, and Little A was fast approaching his nap time.
And waited. And ate a pack of peanut butter nabs and a nasty energy bar. And waited. And sang every Sesame Song we knew. Several times over. And waited. And tried not to move Little A's wounded arm. And waited.
Forty minutes later, a nurse came in and said the x-rays had been examined. She also said she had an idea of what was wrong with Little A, but couldn't be sure and since she wasn't a doctor, she wasn't able to perform any kind of fix, no matter how simple, on him. But she thought that perhaps removing his shirt to put on a gown would correct his problem. So we undressed him to more howling and protestations. This didn't seem to make any difference as Little A continue to complain of pain and refused to move his arm or hand. The nurse told us that often small children will continue to remember the pain of an injury long after it resolves and be afraid to move or touch the healed body part. We could only wait and see if his injury resolved itself.
So we waited. And waited. And paced the hallways looking at the murals. And waited. And Momma A began to go bat-shit insane from being cooped up and from having a suffering, tired toddler who was apparently not important enough for treatment. And then more waiting.
Finally after watching his bug-eyed mother lose her grip on reality, Little A reached out to me and said, "Big hug." Lifted both arms, mind you. Adrian rushed him out to the nurses station to show them the latest development. When Little A didn't perform, the nurse gave him a double Popsicle which required the use of both hands to eat. Did he eat it? Using both hands? With no screaming or tears of pain? Yup. All better.
According to the LPN who came in a few minutes later, Little A had a radial head subluxation, a fairly common injury in small children. I'm lazy, so Google it if you want to find out what that entails, but basically it's a small dislocation of the radius. The injury is also known as "nursemaid's elbow" and needs only a slight twist of the child's forearm to correct.
Ten minutes later, we get our discharge papers, and Adrian takes a passed out Little A to his car for the trip home.
Total time spent in the ER to discover our child has an easily cured dislocation without ever seeing a doctor: 3 hours.
Yeah, I was thrilled.
For his bravery in the face of medical inefficiency, Little A was rewarded with a showing of his current cinematic treasure, Cars. For her bat-shit meltdown, Momma A got another night of joyful insomnia and a bad case of indigestion.
Fun times, y'all. Fun times.
Because I am a brilliant medical professional, I examined his arm and hand for signs of injury. No blood, no scrapes, no swelling. But there was much howling and keening and tears. And he refused to lift or move his left arm and hand and shrieked if I tried to touch that part of his body. The only thing I could was a dislocated shoulder. After calling Adrian and informing him that we were on the way to the hospital, I wrapped Little A in a blanket and whisked him out the car.
While trying to maneuver my sobbing toddler into his seat, our nutty neighbor Bill decided it was a good time to chat with me about how pretty the light-festooned evergreen tree in our front yard had been. Not a good time old man, I thought behind my smiles and niceties.
Once at the hospital, the ER staff did a great job of whisking us through check in and getting Little A into the x-ray room for a nice amped-up howling session of x-rays. Then we were taken to a cubicle of an exam room. Where we sat. And waited. And waited. And waited.
Let me add here that neither Little A nor Mommy A had eaten any lunch, and Little A was fast approaching his nap time.
And waited. And ate a pack of peanut butter nabs and a nasty energy bar. And waited. And sang every Sesame Song we knew. Several times over. And waited. And tried not to move Little A's wounded arm. And waited.
Forty minutes later, a nurse came in and said the x-rays had been examined. She also said she had an idea of what was wrong with Little A, but couldn't be sure and since she wasn't a doctor, she wasn't able to perform any kind of fix, no matter how simple, on him. But she thought that perhaps removing his shirt to put on a gown would correct his problem. So we undressed him to more howling and protestations. This didn't seem to make any difference as Little A continue to complain of pain and refused to move his arm or hand. The nurse told us that often small children will continue to remember the pain of an injury long after it resolves and be afraid to move or touch the healed body part. We could only wait and see if his injury resolved itself.
So we waited. And waited. And paced the hallways looking at the murals. And waited. And Momma A began to go bat-shit insane from being cooped up and from having a suffering, tired toddler who was apparently not important enough for treatment. And then more waiting.
Finally after watching his bug-eyed mother lose her grip on reality, Little A reached out to me and said, "Big hug." Lifted both arms, mind you. Adrian rushed him out to the nurses station to show them the latest development. When Little A didn't perform, the nurse gave him a double Popsicle which required the use of both hands to eat. Did he eat it? Using both hands? With no screaming or tears of pain? Yup. All better.
According to the LPN who came in a few minutes later, Little A had a radial head subluxation, a fairly common injury in small children. I'm lazy, so Google it if you want to find out what that entails, but basically it's a small dislocation of the radius. The injury is also known as "nursemaid's elbow" and needs only a slight twist of the child's forearm to correct.
Ten minutes later, we get our discharge papers, and Adrian takes a passed out Little A to his car for the trip home.
Total time spent in the ER to discover our child has an easily cured dislocation without ever seeing a doctor: 3 hours.
Yeah, I was thrilled.
For his bravery in the face of medical inefficiency, Little A was rewarded with a showing of his current cinematic treasure, Cars. For her bat-shit meltdown, Momma A got another night of joyful insomnia and a bad case of indigestion.
Fun times, y'all. Fun times.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Weird Ass Holidays
It has been a strange holiday season here in Casa Amos. I'll say that this year Little A was much more aware of the goings on than he was last Christmas. Any drive after dark became a tour of the local Christmas light displays with our guide gleefully exclaiming, "Christmas over there! Christmas over there!" at every decorated yard. He can now also identify the infant in the manger as Baby Jesus and tell us that Baby Jesus' mother is "Maawee". At the sight of wrapped gifts, Little A will also inform us that it's "present time". He got a lot of great gifts, like new additions to his cast of Cars characters, a large stuffed (and ridable) horse he's named Seabiscuit, and a leather jacket.
This past week, however, has also been an exceedingly trying one. A narsty cold swept through the family right before Christmas, affecting Little and Papa A pretty badly. As a result of his sickness and the general excitement of the season, Little A decided for the first time in 23 months to stop sleeping through the night. In fact, he's decided to awaken several times throughout the night, a trend which has kick-started Momma A's long dormant insomnia. I think I was averaging about three hours of sleep per night during Christmas week. By Friday, I realized that if I didn't get a good night's sleep by the weekend I would probably start hallucinating and possibly offer my son as a sacrifice to the Sandman.
Sunday morning we were greeted with complaints from Little A about hurting ears, and so we spent a few hours in Patient First for a prescription of amoxicillin. Good times, y'all. Good times.
The same cold has also put Adrian completely on his ass with raging headaches, congestion, and a hacking cough. So Momma A's been working overtime on the nursemaid duties, all on very little sleep.
Needless to say, I felt like I was slowly losing my mind.
Last night we scrapped plans to enjoy the calamity of the ball rise in Carytown and have a low-key evening of dinner and a movie (I Am Legend which I liked more than I thought I would. Will Smith was quite captivating and some of the imagery of an abandoned New York was stirring. But the last third was weak and yes, the CGI sub-par.). We returned home with Little A tucked into bed, and I started pulling laundry out of the dryer only to discover that in my haste to juggle the needs of a demanding toddler with finishing the laundry, I had accidentally tossed my lovely sapphire blue J Crew sweater into the dryer. My wool-blend-dry-flat-no-heat-dry-clean-recommended sweater. It was ruined.
This mishap stirred up all my frustrations and resentments of the last few weeks and prompted a tirade of my misgivings about parenthood. That having a child was the biggest mistake of my life, that I have lost all my independence, my happiness comes in tiny inconsistent spurts, I feel like hired hand paid in room and board, and that in my child's eyes, I could honestly be interchanged with any female willing to feed and play with him and make sure he gets to watch his beloved Sesame Street tape.
I went to bed angry and depressed only to be awakened less than two hours later by Little A having a coughing fit that surprisingly didn't wake him up but did guarantee I'd get only a few hours sleep.
Today we opted to hang at home, watch the Rose Bowl parade and lots of football, and wrestle about the den. Adrian thinks he is on the mend, and Little A seems to be perking up. Tonight we had the traditional Southern New Year's Day meal of hoppin' john and rice along with chicken and greens. Hopefully I'll get a solid six hours of sleep tonight.
Happy New Year everyone.
Here's hoping 2008 starts off better than 2007 ended. I'm staring down the barrel of the Terrible Two's and not liking the looks of it.
This past week, however, has also been an exceedingly trying one. A narsty cold swept through the family right before Christmas, affecting Little and Papa A pretty badly. As a result of his sickness and the general excitement of the season, Little A decided for the first time in 23 months to stop sleeping through the night. In fact, he's decided to awaken several times throughout the night, a trend which has kick-started Momma A's long dormant insomnia. I think I was averaging about three hours of sleep per night during Christmas week. By Friday, I realized that if I didn't get a good night's sleep by the weekend I would probably start hallucinating and possibly offer my son as a sacrifice to the Sandman.
Sunday morning we were greeted with complaints from Little A about hurting ears, and so we spent a few hours in Patient First for a prescription of amoxicillin. Good times, y'all. Good times.
The same cold has also put Adrian completely on his ass with raging headaches, congestion, and a hacking cough. So Momma A's been working overtime on the nursemaid duties, all on very little sleep.
Needless to say, I felt like I was slowly losing my mind.
Last night we scrapped plans to enjoy the calamity of the ball rise in Carytown and have a low-key evening of dinner and a movie (I Am Legend which I liked more than I thought I would. Will Smith was quite captivating and some of the imagery of an abandoned New York was stirring. But the last third was weak and yes, the CGI sub-par.). We returned home with Little A tucked into bed, and I started pulling laundry out of the dryer only to discover that in my haste to juggle the needs of a demanding toddler with finishing the laundry, I had accidentally tossed my lovely sapphire blue J Crew sweater into the dryer. My wool-blend-dry-flat-no-heat-dry-clean-recommended sweater. It was ruined.
This mishap stirred up all my frustrations and resentments of the last few weeks and prompted a tirade of my misgivings about parenthood. That having a child was the biggest mistake of my life, that I have lost all my independence, my happiness comes in tiny inconsistent spurts, I feel like hired hand paid in room and board, and that in my child's eyes, I could honestly be interchanged with any female willing to feed and play with him and make sure he gets to watch his beloved Sesame Street tape.
I went to bed angry and depressed only to be awakened less than two hours later by Little A having a coughing fit that surprisingly didn't wake him up but did guarantee I'd get only a few hours sleep.
Today we opted to hang at home, watch the Rose Bowl parade and lots of football, and wrestle about the den. Adrian thinks he is on the mend, and Little A seems to be perking up. Tonight we had the traditional Southern New Year's Day meal of hoppin' john and rice along with chicken and greens. Hopefully I'll get a solid six hours of sleep tonight.
Happy New Year everyone.
Here's hoping 2008 starts off better than 2007 ended. I'm staring down the barrel of the Terrible Two's and not liking the looks of it.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Overheard in Casa Amos
(Scene: The kitchen. Little A is enjoying some strawberries. Momma A is making a grill cheese sandwich.)
Momma A: Are you a strawberry?
Little A: No.
Momma A: Are you...a puppy dog?
Little A: No.
Momma A: Are you a little boy?
Little A: No.
Momma A: Well, what are you then?
Little A: A bad guy.
Momma A: And what do bad guys do?
Little A: Eat.
Momma A: Are you a strawberry?
Little A: No.
Momma A: Are you...a puppy dog?
Little A: No.
Momma A: Are you a little boy?
Little A: No.
Momma A: Well, what are you then?
Little A: A bad guy.
Momma A: And what do bad guys do?
Little A: Eat.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Blog Archive
