6/22/11 Insert Clever Title About Jello Molds, MacGyver and Naked Goat Dancing Here

So hey. I'm back. I don't know if you noticed or not from the weeks of silence followed by three posts in a row followed by more silence, but I'm trying to spend a little more time on the ol' blog here. Not sure how long this commitment to quantity will last, but at least you'll get to follow all the exciting and mind-blowing stuff happening here in the House of Quirk.

(That said, I've decided to package all this mind-blowing awesomeness in a list format so that you can absorb it in small doses. Don't want you to get an ice cream headache from all the excitement all at once, now do we?)

First of all, I've officially gone back to the gym. You might recall that I was a regular there pre-pregnancy, but what with the one kidney and tiny uterus and growing-a-new-human and all, the doctor suggested I not do anything high risk, such as walking fast or lifting heavy things or stepping on and off a step to music, so I had to put a temporary kibosh on the whole exercising thing. But! Fast forward 10 months and I am back, baby!

And boy does it hurt!

I knew I couldn't just pick back up where I left off after almost a year of couch-potatoness, but I was really hoping that there was still some muscle memory left. Alas, how soon muscles forget. And how vindictive and cranky they are when they figure out that yes, you want them to support the rest of you while you hover in a thigh-burning 90 degree squat for the next 15 seconds.

So the muscles are angry, but they're just going to have to get over it because there's nothing like marching on a little six inch high bench in time to music in front of a wall of mirrors to make you realize that since the baby did those unspeakable things to your body, parts of you that never jiggled before are certainly jiggling now. And unless you are one of those fruit filled jello creations that old ladies bring to church potlucks and funerals, jiggling is not good.

(I'm talking to you, thighs).

So to recap: jiggle=bad. Exercise= necessary evil. Fruit filled jello mold thingies= kinda scary.



Another thing that you could possibly care less about but that I am going to mention anyway is that Tony and I have just discovered that the entire MacGyver series is on Netflix Instant! And oh my goodness they are so bad they're wonderful! As soon as we found them we knew we'd have to watch every single episode, in order. We're still on the first season, which aired in 1985, so you can imagine the cornucopia of mullets and bad special effects and "computers" that are just giant gunmetal boxes with rows of random blinking lights on them. Oh, and I didn't realize this when I was seven and watching it the first time, but Mac was totally a player! Seems like every episode he saves some big-haired blond and she kisses him passionately. (Of course to be fair, dude did just disarm a nuclear warhead with a tic-tac, so I can see where women might assume that all of his other skill-sets were equally...ah, inventive.) Still, if you have the instant Netflix, you gotta watch old MacGyvers. Preferably while you're drunk or severely sleep deprived. You'll laugh your jiggly derriere off.


Finally, (because I really feel like this post needs a third thing, even though I doubt anyone has actually made it this far what with my sore muscles and tv watching habits being SO RIVETING AND ALL), you'll be pleased to know that ZB is doing just fine. She's hit the 3 month mark, which means that she's 1) working on her baby babble, which is adorable, and 2) drooling like a Saint Bernard, which is less so. We're also working on our daily routine, because BabyCenter (my go-to baby information website) says that babies need a consistent schedule so that when it comes times to nap or eat or poop they're not all like, "Whoa! Where did THAT come from?" (BabyCenter also says having a consistent daily routine will help ZB sleep through the night, and while I'm not quite sure about how consistently eating at 3pm helps mama get some zzzzzs, I'm just desperate enough to try it. Sleeping through the night is our holy grail, and if Babycenter said that me dancing naked on my roof with a goat would ensure a solid 8 hours of sleep, I'd be up there in a heartbeat with an entire herd). Actually, since we started this whole schedule thing our days have been a little more organized (for instance, I can tell you that she had exactly 15.8 oz of milk today and 6 wet and 2 poopie diapers) AND ZB has been sleeping a few minutes longer each night, so goooooo baby schedule! The only downside to it is that it requires a bit of record-keeping as to when the the above mentioned eating and sleeping and pooping occurs, and so far Tony has been remiss in recording pertinent information. (My part of the official record is documented minute by minute, while the three hour section that he watched her while I was at the gym just has the words "One Poop?" scribbled on a random scrap of paper. It appears that baby training is a lot easier than husband training).

So yeah...that's the inside look at out lifestyles of the rich and famous. Our evenings now mostly involve us sitting around on the couch watching a tv show from 1985 while Mama complains about her sore glutes and marks down the EXACT second the ZB takes a sip of milk or needs a diaper change. Not exactly world-changing, but I've seen reality shows with worse stuff.

Plus if you're really lucky and ZB has a couple of bad nights, there's a chance that whole naked-on-the-roof-with-goats thing will still happen. And what with the jiggle and all, there's no way you'd want to miss that.

6/16/11 One Score and Eleven Years Ago...

Sooooo...it's my birthday today. Actually, mine and Tony's both. We're turning 31. He celebrated by going to work, and I am celebrating by pressure washing the siding on the house and then changing some poopie diapers. Later today we will meet up for a birthday celebration of signing the papers for refinancing the house.

Whoo-boy! Do we know how to party or what?

Remember when you looked forward to your birthday all year long? Remember when it meant cake and streamers and getting your name called out over the PA system at the skate center while they played the Happy Birthday song?

Or that pool party?

Or the giggling sleepover with pizza and sleeping bags in the living room floor?

What about the obligatory Chucky Cheese?

There's nothing quite like being a kid on your birthday. The siren call of too much sugar, a pile of presents, and 500 of your closest friends and classmates playing games and running amok. Birthdays were rivaled only by Christmas and the first day of summer as the best day of the entire year.

So why is it that adult birthdays are never as awesome as what they were when we were kids?

Actually, I can't really complain. While today might be a little humdrum, my extended family will get together this Sunday to celebrate Father's Day and all the June birthdays, including mine. We'll grill burgers and hot dogs, and buy funny birthday cards and pass them around so we can all laugh at the jokes. And I have it on good authority that my new favorite dessert, Chocolate Trifle, will be made. So as far as birthdays go, not bad.

I've heard that the tradition of birthday parties started in Europe because people thought that evil spirits were particularly active on the day of a person's birth. To combat this, friends and family would visit and bring small gifts and well wishes. Toss in some refined sugar and frosting, and viola! A birthday party!

I'm not sure if evil spirits are chased off by pressure washing and home refinancing, so maybe you should leave me birthday wishes, you know, just to be on the safe side. After all, you'd feel horrible if the evil spirits got me on my birthday, right?

Bonus points for singing the actual song.

6/15/11 Baptism

ZB's baptism was a few weeks ago, but I'm just now getting around to organizing the pictures. I figured that if I was going through them on my online photo album, I might as well share a few.

It was a really great service. Family showed up from as far north as Chicago and as far south as Savannah to witness it. ZB wore the christening gown that my great-grandmother made roughly 60 years ago...the same one that my dad was christened in, as well as all of my uncles and cousins. It's gotten soft and thin from age and numerous washings, but it was neat having that kind of family history.

To augment the family christening gown, (which in addition to being white and fairly unadorned, was a little big on ZB and therefore looked like she was wearing a pillowcase) my mom made a satin and lace over-robe, bonnet, and matching blanket. All together, she was just lovely. (Plus she really enjoyed raising her legs and watching the fabric billow up around her-endless baby entertainment there).

ZB hadn't yet made it through an entire church service without needing feeling the need to express herself vocally, so we were a little nervous about sitting in the very front where we wouldn't be able to slip out easily, but it turned out that our fears were for naught. She was perfect the entire time. Even when the priest poured water on her head. Even when he marked her with oil. Even when everyone crowded around to take pictures afterwards. She was a trooper, and she handled it with grace and dignity. (Well, except for the very very end when we had a minor diaper explosion, but a little bleach in the pre-wash and that gown will live to see another 60 years).

Seester and her husband Stubby were the godparents, and they did a great job. They didn't even drop her or anything.

After the service, we all headed over to Mom and Dad's house (our house is too small for so many people) and had a fabulous barbecue lunch that I'm still dreaming about. (Seriously, we had various flavored trifle for dessert, and the other night I had a dream that I was eating chocolate trifle by the handful. That stuff was sooooo good! It is also a main reason why I'm not back down to my pre-pregnancy weight either).

So a good day. I'm so glad that both the church family and the family-family were able to witness and celebrate with us. How lucky ZB and we as her parents are to have so many people who love her so much.

6/14/11 Only Her Stylist Carpenter Knows For Sure

So I'm tired of my kitchen cabinets. They look old and dated, and they desperately need a makeover. I'd rip them out completely and just put all new cabinets in, but unfortunately I haven't found anyone giving away kitchen cabinets for free, so I suppose I'll just have to work with what I have. (Plus it isn't like there's really anything structurally wrong with the ones I have...they just need a new dye job). So I think I'm going to restain them and maybe change out the hardware. The simplest thing to do, of course, would be to just restain them the same color that they are now. Just cover up the grey so that they won't look quite their age. That way any boo-boo spots won't be noticeable, and they won't come out some weird strange color (remind me to tell you about the time I stained my back deck), and they'll still match the "eyebrows" of the rest of my kitchen. Easy peasy.

But.

But the color of my kitchen cabinets are boring! They're this yellow-y oak color that I swear every early 90's contractor put in every early 90's house and it just screams Update me! Update me! And if I'm going to go through all the trouble, why not get a color I really like? (Like cherry. I've always wanted cherry cabinets.) And while maybe cherry would be too dark with my dark blue tile and my dark blue walls, perhaps a strawberry blond would work instead?

On the other hand though, if I start mixing cherry stain over yellow oak cabinets, am I just going to end up with orange? Because despite living in Big Orange Country, orange cabinets would not be cool. And even if I get a color that's more red that yellow without being orange, is it just going to look like faded knock-off cherry? (Kinda like when you were in college and you and your pals had the bright idea to dye your hair with kool-aid. Does that ever work out for anybody?) I really really don't want kool-aid cabinets.

So what's a girl to do? Ideally it'd be best just to have naturally cherry cabinets, but so few of us are lucky enough to be born with beautiful cabinetry. The next best thing would be to have a professional cabinetry stylist do it, but optional cabinet makeovers are just not in the budget right now. Which leaves the take home, do-it-yourself dye job, which frankly could turn out looking great or looking hideous.

I think I'll go look at some gel stains later today...you know, get a feel for what's available. Check out the home and garden mags to see what the cabinets to the stars are sporting this season, and maybe see if I can find a color that I like.

I'll keep you posted on what I decide for my new look. And ya'll feel free to weigh in also, especially if you've ever done a home cabinet makeover. Or if you haven't. Or if, you know, you have kitchen cabinets at all. I'm a flurry of highlight vs lowlight (vs undercabinet light) indecision, and a girl needs her gal pals to tell her what would look best with her coloring.

6/3/11 Summertime, and the Living is Easy

Have you missed us? We've been out playing at the park!

The Little Miss and I try to take a walk in the neighborhood park a couple of times a week. (Well, I walk...she mostly naps in plush comfort with her sun shade and stroller fan. Such is the life of a baby).
Poor little dear. You see how she suffers.

Meanwhile, I have lots and lots of stuff to share with you and pictures to post, so I'll try to get started on that as soon as we get back from our little expedition. Ya'll stay tuned.

5/18/11 In Which I am Bested by a Plant

Oh Internets, I have contracted the poison ivy.

(I'll give you a minute for the full suckiness of that sentence to sink in).

Apparently, unbeknownst to me, it was hiding out in my hydrangea bed, waiting to ambush me when I planted my newest little hydrangea bush that I had received for Mother's Day. (Which, can I just say, is really heartless and cruel...attacking me on my very first Mother's day like that. But then poison ivy has never really been known as a thoughtful and sentimental plant, has it?)

I didn't even realize it at first because I've never had poison ivy before. I just thought I had a mosquito bite on my wrist. So I ignored it. Then the next day, I had three more itchy spots on my arm. Then two more the day after that. It was about that time that I figured that these were no ordinary itchy bumps. So I studied them carefully and jumped to the obvious diagnosis- a deadly brown recluse spider was living in our bed, and I would have to have my arm amputated immediately.

(Sidenote: I have an completely irrational fear of brown recluse spiders. One, they are spiders. Two, they love to live in things like dark corners and under bedsheets. Three, they have a potentially deadly hemotoxic venom that rots away your flesh when they bite you, and four...did you read that part about the rotting flesh? I rest my case).

Anyway, after stripping the sheets and checking the mattress and having a heart attack over every spider-shaped dust bunny that I came across under the bed, no such arachnid was found (which is good because if I had, I would take my husband and child and MOVE. AWAY. I wouldn't even bother to pack. We would just vacate the house immediately. The end. Spider wins). But there wasn't a spider. (Thank the good Lord in heaven). And instead, the mystery itchy bumps kept appearing.

It wasn't until I was digging around in the medicine cabinet for some anti-itch creme that hadn't expired, (mental note: clean out medicine cabinet. Some of the stuff in my first aid kit is now old enough to vote) when the words "relieves pain and itching due to burns, insect bites, poison ivy, oak and sumac" caught my eye and I thought, "Oh you know what? I seem to recall a nefarious looking three-leaved vine from a few days ago. I bet that sucker got me". And it did. Who-boy, did it ever.

Of course, wasting precious days looking for imaginary spiders instead of immediately washing everything that could have possibly had the ivy oil on it means that I am positively COVERED in the stuff. Apparently I had it under my fingernails or something, because I have transferred it EVERYWHERE. (Either that or I temporarily took leave of my senses and rolled around naked in the side yard, but I do not recall that, so I'm going with the oil under the nails theory). As a result, I have scrubbed the top three layers of my skin off, cut all my fingernails back as far as they go and transferred every piece of fabric that I have come in contact with into the washing machine using a pair of salad tongs, which I then boiled for good measure.

But here's the kicker! Because I'm breastfeeding, I can't take any sort of antihistamine like Benadryl, because it can get into my milk supply and affect the baby. So I'm limited to crappy 1% hydrocortisone cream, which is so ineffective that I think the poison ivy actually looks forward to me smearing it on each day...like a hydrocortizone massage. Other than that, all I can really do is wait it out for the 14 to 21 days that it takes to run its course.

So feel sorry for me, internets, for I am one giant ball of itch. And by my count, I still have roughly 9 days to go.

I may not survive.

5/16/11 Trumpet for the Lord

So we're sitting in church on Sunday (in the last row in the back because our church doesn't have a cry room and the Quirklet hasn't quite mastered volume control yet), and the priest is in the middle of the scripture reading. And we're right in the middle of the book of Matthew, and the whole church is quietly listening to the reading about Jesus on the road to Jerusalem, when the Quirklet lets out this massive MASSIVE wet baby fart.

It was classic.

And you know the whole church heard it. A couple of people in the row in front of us did this kind of quarter turn thing like they were going to look around but then caught themselves and stared straight ahead instead. The priest did this started throat clearing thing. And a 7 year old boy four rows over was turning purple from the effort of not laughing out loud. (Actually I was pretty impressed by his stoicism, because my internal 7 year old self was snickering like crazy).

But what can you do? Babies just don't hold it in. I wanted so badly to yell, "That wasn't me! I was just holding her!" or something along those lines, but alas, it could not be done. Instead, I just made a big production of gathering up her diaper bag and heading to the changing area. Let the people put two and two together.

And then I ran home to blog about it because 1 )baby gas is adorable, even in the middle of church and 2), I'll need something to mortify her with when she's about 14 years old.

This story ought to do nicely.


Suddenly a sound like the blowing of a violent wind came from heaven and filled the whole house where they were sitting. - Acts 2:2

5/12/11 The Trial of the State Vs Yours Truly in the Unlawful Barbecuing of Her Husband

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I beseech you today to listen to my tale of woe, for while it is true the I am culpable in the spontaneous combustion of my husband, there were extenuating circumstances that, if you only knew, would no doubt help you to understand why I did what I did.

Now granted, my husband is a wonderful person. He works hard to bring home a paycheck, he is good with his daughter, and he is kind and loving to me. Sometimes he even helps out around the house. Any woman would be lucky to call him her own. But occasionally, just occasionally, he forgets his wonderfulness and reverts back to his base nature- being a man, and therefore clueless.


Plus you must also understand my state of mind. It may or may not have been a certain "time of the month" as they say. I'd cut down on my chocolate intake in an effort to drop the rest of this baby weight. And on top of that, I had just taken the baby for her 2 month vaccinations earlier that day, and she was fussy.

Very fussy.


As in, she had been crying for the last NINE HOURS.


(I'm sure anyone who has had to console a crying baby for nine hours will sympathize with me. But that is not why I fricasseed my husband).

I did not do it because he was late getting home from work. Or because he had a hockey game and couldn't relieve me of mommy duty for 5 freaking minutes so that I could go to the bathroom and wash the spit-up out of my hair.


It was not because when he did come home, he didn't say anything about the house being cleaned and vacuumed, even though I had to do it all with only one hand while the other one held his inconsolable child. (Although a "Wow honey, the house looks great!" would have been nice. In fact, I would have even settled for an "Oh good. You cleaned the house. Another day or two and the health department would have shut us down"). I didn't even roast him when he came in, kicked his boots off in my nice clean foyer and tossed his bag down on my nice clean table.

Although he may have begun to smolder at that point.




Nor did he notice that all the dishes had been gathered up from where he leaves them scattered around the house, washed, dried and consequently put away. In fact, I did not say a word when pulled one of those nice washed, dried and put away glasses down from the cabinet, fixed himself a drink and then left the empty glass sitting on the counter AGAIN.


I did not burn him to a crisp when he failed to mention all the clean laundry that had suddenly and magically converted itself from crumpled heaps of dirty clothing into nicely washed and folded stacks of clean clothes.


Or that I had changed and washed the sheets on the bed.


Or put away the 60 billion towels that he uses when he insists on showering two, sometimes three times A DAY.


(Okay, I admit that the towel thing may have had him smoking like a chimney as he entered the bathroom for his second shower, but I swear there were no actual flames yet).

As I recall, the flames may have come when I asked him how his day was and he forgot to return the favor by asking me about mine.

And he was certainly ablaze when he didn't notice that I had run all the errands, done the grocery shopping, ordered more flea medication for the cats and written a thank you note to his mother for some outfits she had sent for our daughter.

(Does he think this stuff happens on its own? Magical fairies with to-do lists live in the basement?)

But ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you may be saying to yourself, "So he neglected to notice all the hard work his wife had done. And all he's really guilty of is taking off his shoes, having a glass of water and taking a shower at the end of a long day. Is that really so bad? Did he deserve to burst into flames over that?" And I say to you, no. No, he did not. But none of that was why I barbecued him.

Sadly, it was when the phone was ringing, the cat was throwing up on my clean carpet and the baby had a dirty diaper that he made his fatal mistake. I handed him his screaming child with the simple request to change her diaper and he said...

"Jeez honey, isn't it your turn to do this? I had to work today".

And that, honored members of the jury, is when the laser beams shot out of my eyes and turned him into instant charcoal right there where he stood.


I knew you'd understand.

4/29/11 Things I've Learned in the Past Seven Weeks

My apologies for being so sporadic with the blogging. As you may have guessed, the little one takes up all my time now. (My hope is that eventually she'll be able to amuse herself long enough for me to sit down and actually write something...as it stands now, I just have to hold her with one hand and type with the other).

But in the 10 minutes or so that it will take her Daddy to put her to bed, for her to wake up crying, for him to shush at her for a few seconds, for her to ignore him, and for him to bring her back downstairs to me with a shrug and a "She wants her Mommy", I'll try to relate some of the things this new motherhood deal has taught me.

For instance, I have learned that:

• She changes every day. Every morning I wake up and she's longer, heavier, and her face has changed a little. It blows me away. I can almost sit and literally watch her grow right before my eyes. She looks totally different than she did when she was born, or when she was a month old, or even from what she looked like last week. Clothes that fit 3 days ago don't anymore. Of course, she becomes more beautiful by the day, so all this changing is nice, but still...it shocks me how quickly she grows. Do all babies do this? I never noticed before.

• Babies have no concept of time. Come to think of it, no patience either. The bottle warmer takes exactly 90 seconds to heat up her 3am bottle of milk. You wouldn't think 90 seconds would be that long. But to her, there's only RIGHT NOW, and the bottle is not here RIGHT NOW, despite you saying, "Seriously, just 20 more seconds! Enough with the screaming already!" Seconds mean absolutely nothing to her. The world is ending! The world is ending! The world is-oh hey, the bottle's ready. Cool.

• In a similar vein, she can also go from happy to screaming like someone has amputated both legs in nothing flat. There doesn't seem to be any in between with her. No sniffling, or trembling lip, or cranky warning noises. It's happy smiling (or sleeping) to tortured screams in an instant. Then, just as mysteriously, she's back to being fine again, and you're just left standing there going, "what the heck was THAT?" Tony and I have actually taken to calling these sudden little fits her alter ego, which goes by the name Fussy McFussypants. Thankfully, these visits by Fussy McF are few and relatively short lived, but they're still enough to send your poor nerves reeling if you aren't expecting it. (I know, I know, the same mad crying means I'm hungry, I need a diaper change, I'm tired, I'm bored, my tummy hurts or I just want to be held. Then as soon as she sends the message, she's back to being a happy camper. I will be so glad when she's able to add a few more tricks to her bag of ways to communicate.)

• Also? She melts my heart. She has just learned to smile back at me in the last week or so, and every time I walk into her field of vision and she smiles at me, it's like I float three feet off the ground. I am totally addicted to it. I would walk for days, wrestle mountain lions, and leap tall buildings in a single bound for one of those smiles. As it is, I am giving up sleep, changing poopie diapers and completely foregoing chocolate (which apparently I have an unhealthy devotion to since I can't stop thinking about it, and yet it gets into the breastmilk and gives her a gassy tummy, so it's off the menu for the time being). And the crazy thing is I'm happy to do it for her! It's baby mind control, and I don't mind a bit. (Well, except maybe a little for the chocolate).

• Tony has learned that he REALLY REALLY hates getting up to give her the 3am bottle. He's tired, he's cranky, he's annoyed that I'm still laying in bed even though I get up for EVERY OTHER FEEDING while he sleeps. But still, he does it. Every night. Because he's still dependable, even when sleep deprived. But oh how she has him wrapped around her tiny baby finger! He comes home every day at lunch so he can see her. And you should have seen them reading a story together last night on the couch. I'm not sure who enjoyed it more. So he may really hate 3am, but he's absolutely crazy about that little girl.

• Finally, I've learned it isn't about me anymore. For instance, today she spit up all down the front of my top. (I know...gross, right?) Gallons and gallons of spit-up right over the burp cloth (I'm still not sure how she managed to get around it), hang a left around my collarbone and right down the front of my shirt. Now before, I probably would have ripped the shirt off, run screaming from the room, and spent the next 30 minutes scrubbing off the top four layers of skin in the shower. But now? It didn't even register. Because she needed a bath, and she needed a change, and she needed to finish her lunch, and there just wasn't space in my brain to give it any more thought other than to stuff a paper towel down my front and keep on going. (I did remember it hours later when I stripped off the shirt and found the paper towel still stuck in my bra).

So yeah. This motherhood thing is kinda like being in a cult. I used to think it was a little obnoxious the way parents would go on and on and on about their children, but I totally get it now. They can't help it. I see the whole world through baby-tinted glasses. My life (right now at least) revolves around this little person. A tiny, demanding, wonderful little person. And right now, I'm okay with that. I'm totally drinking the koolaid.

4/24/11 Happy Easter

For your viewing enjoyment, some pictures of the most adorable baby ever in her Easter dress and bunny hat...

Hope you and yours have a wonderful Easter holiday!