Relatives Come A-Callin'

We've had Grandpa Pigs and Grandma Pigs out here visiting wee Piglet this week, so my apologies for the lack of posting. A brief update in pictures for you:

1. Piglet has taken to hitting. Kind of a lot. Could he have a violent streak? Could he already be ADHD to show that karma is a real thing for me talking about all those kids that way? Perhaps he's just active. I'm not sure, but he was pretty abusive to Grandpa. [Note the K-Fed-esque cap askew on watermelon head.]

2. Peas. We've been doing great on the 'ol rice cereal and oatmeal, but today we ventured into pea territory. Turns out, not such a happy place. I read that it can take 10-15 tries for someone to adjust to a taste, so I envision lots of peas in Piglet's future. Lots of adjustment. The best part of the event was when he actually squinched up his eyes and shuddered, as though to shake it off. [See video.]

3. Piglet went a-swingin' for the first time at the park. Do you think the swing might be a shade too big for him? Bygones. He had a fun time and I like the picture. It's like a cute little bucket of Piglet.

Yes, there are people out there who need these things stated formally.

I don't consider myself to be overprotective or disillusioned about the Wonder that is Piglet. I know he has his faults and I know that he needs to not live in a bubble. However. There are some things that people do that cross a line. The following are some simple guidelines for people who may wish to interact with your child. Particularly strangers. So, if you are a stranger to a child (and maybe even if you know the child), please adhere to the following suggestions:

1. Do not take my child from my arms. Though I may look like I have my hands full at the cash register as I juggle my credit card, purse, and keys, I assure you that I have it completely under control. You, the stranger, reaching across the counter to hold Piglet weirds me out. A lot. Don't do it.

2. Should you insist on snatching my child despite the aforementioned warning, please do not put your face up to his. It is February and even though there is 80 degree weather, it is still cold and flu season. You? Are germy. So back off.

3. Let's say, we're in a restaurant and Piglet is sitting in my lap and you find him to be completely adorable. I understand, he is quite a charmer, but his gummy little smile and flirty eyes are not, I repeat NOT, an invitation for you to come over and kiss him. I don't know you and you are sweeping the floors of a hamburger establishment. Also? Your breath smells.

4. No matter who you are, where you are, and whether or not you know the child, please don't touch their hands. Yes, their hands are so cute and little and they grab your finger ever-so-sweetly, but DUDE. Their sweet little hand that just touched your raunchy, tainted, polluted grown up one? That's right, it goes straight into their cute little gummy mouth. I recommend the touching of feet. Baby feet are just as cute and much less likely to go in the mouth at that moment. Or? Just don't touch at all. They're darn cute little creatures to look at and talk to (just not too close to their face, see rule # 2).

Here ends my diatribe regarding the rules and regulations that I would like to remain in place regarding Piglet. Thank you for your time.

Gifted and Talented

Having Piglet around has brought out talents I never knew I had. I've always been good at eating fast, thanks to my 8 years of 20 minute lunches at school, but now? Now I can wolf down a construction worker sized portion and then some in 5 minutes and still have room for more. I used to always have to get a box in a restaurant. Now, I finish my plate and then check out what's left on Mike's while I wait for dessert to arrive. I'm an absolute glutton. It's made me understand that episode of Desperate Housewives with the woman who was still nursing her five year old so she could eat all the Krispy Kremes she wanted.

My one-handed skills have dramatically increased in direct proportion with my man-like left arm strength. I can cook, do laundry, clean, feed Gus, take out trash, put make up on, you name it, all with one hand. It's fairly remarkable if I do say so myself.

Also, I discovered a new skill yesterday. As Piglet is with cold, he's kind of clingy (very out of character, he usually just wants to MOVE) and so I popped him in the Baby Bjorn so I could get some cleaning done. Suddenly, I had to pee. I'm proud to tell you that I can now pee with a fifteen pound wiggling mass attached to my chest. That's talent.

Ode to the Snot Sucker

Oh, blue bulb of suction, you're my saving grace!
You never waste time, that snot's out post haste.
You suck out the nasties with speed and with power!
I rinse you out often, so nothing goes sour.

Your job is completed with style and with spunk.
A nostril will never be left filled with gunk.
My baby's first cold, no problem, you're in there!
His opinion, I'm afraid, remains less than fair.

He sniffs and he snorts and he cries in dismay.
He doesn't understand; he can't breathe the right way!
As the blue bulb approaches, his red eyes grow wide...
There's no way he's letting that thing get inside!

Twisting and turning and fighting he goes,
As the snot sucker invades his very small nose.
A squeeze and a slurp, everything all comes out!
Snot sucker, my friend, you I never doubt.

Grammar Police....

Seen on my husband's doctor's receipt.....from a DOCTOR! Shouldn't they have a copy editor? Spell check? Grammar basics in mind? Shameful.

Valentine's Day Tips for Husbands

1. Do not call at 4:45pm and ask, "Do you want me to bring anything home for Valentine's Day? Like ice cream or anything?"

2. See number one.

Efficiency and Productivity

So, I've been working my six hour "joblet" for about a month now. That means I've been about eight times, three hours each time. It's a shame that I have yet to be officially approved to work with children by this incompetent district. I'm really shocked that things have moved so slowly when you consider just how incredibly organized they are: [see below]

August 27: Former [insane] principal attends my baby shower only to ask me to tutor in writing. I agree.

December 5: Hear from 4th grade that they want me to start in January.

December 6: Email principal to inquire what I need to do with the district to start working.

January 5: Send email from Dec. 6 again, as never received response.

January 6: Principal directs me to HR person, Sidney. Agrees to my January 16 start date. I promptly call and leave message regarding tutoring for district.

January 7: Receive call from Central Office. Although I worked there for three years and just resigned in May, they are unable to find me in the system. I will need to start over and fill out an online application. This will take at least an hour and I will need transcripts and references. I am aghast. Picture my aghast face here: __________

Later January 7: Go to fill out online application only to be told by internet genius that one already exists and I can access it with my password. The one from four years ago when I filled it out. Clearly, I am in the system.

Still later January 7: Listen to message again. Realize she has addressed me as (Pigleigh), a common formal name for my nickname, Pigs. My name actually comes from the more formal (Pigslina). No wonder they couldn't find me. Heaven forbid they actually ask me how to spell my name. Leave annoyed message with HR Sidney with spelling of my name and explanation of existing online application from 2003.

January 8: Nothing

January 9: Nothing

January 10: I call again. Confused people give me my password. I re-fill out (long) application, updating last four years and resubmit.

January 16: I begin working as a tutor/teacher six hours a week.

January 26: Sidney calls me to tell me I have been cleared by my criminal background check and may now begin working with kids (?!). She needs me to come down and fill out paperwork and come to a half day, unpaid substitute teacher training. I explain that I am not going to be substitute teaching, therefore I will not be attending said substitute teacher training. She asks me why, then, did I fill out the online application? I try not to squeeze the phone into tiny little pieces. She tells me to come in Monday morning and fill out paperwork (unpaid).

January 29: I arrive at agreed upon time and am kept waiting for 15 minutes. I have Piglet in tow, and he is on the verge of eruption. At last, Sidney arrives with vast amounts of paperwork. I fill out enough paperwork to procure a mortgage on a new home, agree not to sexually harass anyone, and acknowledge the district's inane lockdown procedures. Despite the fact that I "did not exist in their system" they were somehow able to unearth some godforsaken digital image of me from three years ago for my badge. Go home.

January 30: Work fifth day (13th-15th hours)

January 31: Cell phone rings. It's Sidney. She forgot to have me fill out an I-9 form, can I come back by Central Office? I say no. She says she will send to school for me to do. I agree.

February 1: Sixth work day (16th-18th hours) Fill out I-9 form. Secretary sends through school courier to my buddy Sid.

February 5: Cell phone rings. It's Sid. She's lost the I-9 that I filled out, could I do another? She'll send to school, no worries.

February 6: Fill out form again. Am getting good at I-9 form. Return to Sid-Sid. Later that afternoon, she calls. She forgot.....she needs to see my license with that form. I'm going to need to "swing" by central office before school on Thursday. Thanks!

February 8: Leaving Piglet at babysitter for extra half hour I "swing" by Central Office to be told that Sidney is in a meeting. Secretary calls her. She will be out in three minutes! Fifteen minutes later, I am going to have to leave to get to the 20 kids waiting for me to teach them on time. I explain to secretary, trying not to be mad at her. She photocopies my license. I seethe to work. (Day 8, hours 22-24)

February 9: Sidney's boss calls me. She wants to know where my I-9 form is. I take deep breaths. I recount the entire saga of I-9ness. I do not hide my frustration or my belittlement of Sidney. She tells me I'm going to need to "swing" by and bring my license and my Social Security card. (?! Sidney had never even mentioned the SS card! That would've been another trip.) I told her that it had already been copied and begged her to let someone at school do it so I didn't have to make another trip. Poormouthed about already paying babysitter for time. She said she would see what she could do.

February 13: Today. Went to work (Day 9 of 10, hours 25-27 of 30) No word from Central Office, no sign of any monetary compensation of my time and effort, nothing. I have one more day of work left. Maybe by then I'll be in the system and approved for work. It's a darn good thing I'm enjoying what I'm doing, that's all I can say.

You Know What's Funny?

It's funny when you're writing a story about when you were little for your fourth grade writing class and get to thinking about your childhood friend who you haven't seen since 7th grade when you both lived in Ohio...
[read to end for fun irony]

Egged, A True Story

Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot…..my skates glided along the sidewalk as smoothly as skis skimming across a lake as I made my way to my friend Dana’s house. The wind blew gently through my hair as I navigated the familiar neighborhood streets. I had made this trip so often; I could probably do it in my sleep. Knowing today was going to be just another ordinary summer day with my best friend; I relaxed as I thought about the many possibilities for adventures they lay before us.

Emerged in my own thoughts, I was a bird in flight as the houses flew by, my skates pounding the pavement. I carefully slowed my pace as I neared Dana’s block, approaching the worst house on the block. The house where Billy lived. The house all the kids knew to avoid. Billy was a seventh grader and there was only one word to describe him: bully. I was surprised (and a little alarmed) to find that Billy and his gang of friends were not in the driveway as usual.

The thought left my mind as I saw Dana appear in her driveway and I began waving to her as my skates zigged and zagged me down the sidewalk toward her house. Suddenly, Dana’s cheerful face was replaced by something large. Something large and round. Something large and round and white zooming at about 200 miles per hour directly at my face! Instinctively, my hands flew to my face, but it was too late. The unidentified flying object had made a direct hit just north of my nose and absolutely exploded all over my face. I sat down on my leg. Hard.

This predicament was certainly not what I had in mind when I was imagining what fun Dana and I might have today. My leg hurt, my head hurt, and my pride definitely hurt. I could hear loud boys’ laughter coming from somewhere up high. Looking up, I tried to find the source of the noise, only to see yellow. Yellow and white stringy, slimy goo coated the outside of my glasses. What on earth had hit me? I gingerly felt around my face to find more goo, along with some shards. Thin. Sharp. Pointy. Smearing off my glasses, I gasped as I saw blood (my blood!) streaking through the goop and realized what the weapon of choice was: a raw egg. Tears filled my eyes as I tried to imagine why these cruel boys did this to me.

Dana came rushing toward me, having witnessed the entire event and helped me to my feet. “You are in SO much trouble!” she yelled furiously in the direction of Billy’s house, shaking her fist. “Come on,” she took my arm and started to guide me back to my house. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried, but it’s really difficult to maneuver your way down a sidewalk on skates with blood and egg-covered glasses. Left foot…..clump. Right foot….thud. So much for me as a bird in flight, and thank goodness for Dana. I’ve never been so glad to see my own front door before, and I frantically pushed my way inside, skates, egg, blood and all, in search of my mom.

I sat pitifully in a chair while Dana told my mom the whole story and my mom picked bits of eggshell and goo out of my hair and tried to clean the cut over my eyebrow. “I don’t understand,” my mom wondered for the third time. “Why would someone throw an egg at you?” She sat back in her chair, puzzled. I shrugged my shoulders pathetically, trying to ignore the pounding pulse in my fresh wound. Dana looked a little nervous about the thought of heading back home, so my dad offered to take her. I thanked her for her help and said goodbye.

Don’t feel too sorry for me because the story’s not over yet. The best part comes at the end. The moral of this story is: don’t throw an egg at a little kid and think you’re going to get away with it. On her way home, Dana just so happened to point out Billy’s house to my dad. My dad just so happened to knock on the door and he just so happened to mention to Billy’s dad just what Billy had done to me. That’s the story of how Billy wound up trembling on my front porch as he stumbled through an awkward apology, shaking from head to toe with tears in his eyes under his dad’s watchful glare. I rather enjoyed his moments of embarrassed discomfort and hoped that it taught him a lesson. It at least gave me the courage to keep rollerskating and not to be afraid to go by his house. In fact, I was back at it the very next day with a spanking white bandage over my eyebrow. Left foot, right foot…left foot, right foot…

The End

.....and then it's funny when you get the idea in your head to see if maybe she's on MySpace.

.....and then it's pretty weird when you find out that she is indeed on MySpace and you start corresponding via email.

.....but the weirdest thing is when you find out she lives in the same city in Texas as you do and you make plans for lunch 17 years after you last saw her in Ohio!

All because of a silly story about an egg. I guess I can thank 'ol Billy the Bully for that one. Of course, after talking to Dana in real life, I found out his name was really Robert, but does it really matter? Now I have a whole 'nother story to tell the students! Who knew?

Tee Hee...

You might recall the issues I've had with American Airlines. Like how they were mean to me last summer and gave me a $100 voucher to apologize. Then they were mean to me when I went to use the voucher and screwed up the whole thing so it wouldn't work and I had to write them another letter. And they issued me another voucher for $150 after I sent a copy to the Department of Transportation. Well, apparently my second letter has just now made its way through the AA customer service rankings because I got this in my email today:

Dear Ms. Pigs:

Please accept our apology for the problems you've had with the transportation voucher that we mailed to you. That voucher has been blacklisted and I have issued you another voucher. Please look for the voucher to arrive in the mail shortly.

We thank you for traveling with us and look forward to welcoming you on board your next flight.

Sincerely,
Customer Relations
American Airlines

Tee hee. Looks like they messed up and are sending me an extra voucher. Their bad!

Love it.

After doing a ten minute long writing conference with a student today, he stood up and turned to me.

Student: Can I go to the bathroom?

Me: Sure.

Student: Oh, good, 'cause I've been holding a fart for that whole conference.

Me: Thanks.

I can't decide if I should be proud that he knew not to blow one in front of me, or appalled that he told me about it. You will be proud to know that I somehow managed to contain myself until I reached the teacher's lounge.

Circular Ending

6:07am: Piglet awakens, "WAAHHHHHHHHH!"

6:10am: Change, medicate with Antibarf 2000™, and feed Piglet.

6:30am: Return Piglet to crib. Piglet stares wide-eyed at me with large, gummy grin.

6:31am: Return self to bed.

6:31-7:27am: Listen to Piglet squeal and laugh at the mobile animals instead of sleeping.

7:28am: Sleep

8:07am: Go get Piglet up.

8:08am: Stare in dismay at smiling, squirming Piglet covered in spit up. There is spit up on sleep positioner, spit up all over sheets, and [roll over and check] yes. There is crusty spit up in the mullet. Pick Piglet up.

8:09am: Piglet spits up all over my shoulder. Tuck a cloth diaper into shirt and go on.

8:10am: Change Piglet out of wet pajamas.

8:11am: Piglet spits up on new bib and outfit. Shrug [wet] shoulder and go on.

8:12am: Feed Piglet again since he lost most of last feeding*.

8:25am: Change shirt.

8:30am: Lay Piglet on floor to play and begin exhaustive task of changing sheets. Spit up has managed to dodge all of the between sheet protective lap pads I placed, thereby soaking 3 layers of sheets.

8:40am: Piglet spits up on blanket.

8:41am: Run bath and strip baby naked [nekkid?] En route to bath, Piglet spits up on shoulder of fresh shirt and into my hair. Again stuff with cloth diaper and move on.

8:42am: Sitting on my lap, waiting for bath to fill, Piglet yaks on my jeans. Sigh.

8:43am: Piglet pukes in bath water. Milk baths are supposed to be good for skin. Bygones.

9:00am: A newly dressed and clean Piglet manages to act normal and not barf while I get ready for day, clean up house and start excessive amount of puke-filled laundry.

9:50am: Prepare Piglet for nap. Rocking and reading.....Gus spots individual with audacity to walk on our sidewalk and BARKS! and scares the sweet begeezus out of Piglet. Piglet wails, turning mouth inside out with fear. Beat and chastise Gus severely.

10:00am: Piglet goes down for nap after great amounts of soothing. I race to kitchen to prepare breakfast.

10:05am: While rushing to get a fork, one somehow lifts itself from normal resting place in drawer and manages to stab own prongs into wood above drawer. Fork is stuck. Drawer is stuck. I'm hungry. Leave drawer challenge for later.

10:06am: Stare at empty juice pitcher in refrigerator. Curse husband for finishing accidentally purchased psuedo-orange juice-like beverage containing 1% orange juice. Attempt to scrub cancer-colored orange remnants from pitcher before giving up and making lemonade right on top of cancerous sludge.

10:10 Declare self best short order cook in town:

10:11am: Sit down to eat. Construction worker sized appetite must be sated.

10:12am: Two squirrels play tag in yard. Gus detects an imminent threat to our well-being. Hurls self into back windows with tumultuously loud BARK! Abandon culinary wonder and race through house at warp speed to tackle Gus at windows. Beat, chastise, and muzzle the beast only to hear...

10:13am: WAAAAAAAAAHHHH!

*Do not be alarmed by vast amounts of spitting up. Piglet is fine, but goes through days where reflux is more active than other. Do not worry or panic. Situation is medically under control and only remains as a laundry problem.

What happens if a turtle gains too much weight?

Wow, busy week. It's amazing to me that I am only technically employed six hours a week, yet I manage to remain really, really busy all the rest of the time. It's been rare that I am home an entire day (unless it snows and then I become incapable of leaving the house due to my inability to drive in the mess). My dinky little six hour job works into a twelve hour job by the time I drop off and pick up Piglet, plus write all my lesson plans.

This week, we had pictures made at a real studio and Piglet was charming as always. Aside for a little drool and puke on their nice fabrics, I managed to leave unembarrassed. Realizing that I'm slightly biased, I still dare you to deny the cuteness:

I mean, come on. That could be a Charmin commercial! We won't elaborate on the fact that his head is the size of a watermelon and he still has that darn mullet, he's undeniably cute.

On another note, school is pretty fun. It kind of makes me glad I'm only there twice a week, but it's fun to nerd out teaching the writing to the high group of kids. The immature, disrespectful, undisciplined high group of kids, but it's fun nonetheless. I think for me it must be a control issue. If they were my kids and I'd taught them all year, I wouldn't feel bad being strict or issuing punishment, but it's hard when you don't know their teachers' expectations of them and you don't want to step on toes. The group winds up being kids from six different classes, so it's hard to name the cause for the brattiness. Let's just play it safe and go with parents. Parents paired with the fact that the principal has taken away all allowable consequences for students, but that shouldn't be a surprise for anyone who's been reading this blog for any amount of time.

At last it is the weekend. I'm wracking my brain for something to cook for a Super Bowl Party. Something easy, yet different. I'm trying to avoid the usual cookies, brownies, chips and queso-type fare. Off to ponder this challenging dilemma!

Reading, A Sport.

I am a reading junkie. You'd never know this based on the sad state of my 2007 reading list thus far, but truly....I am a reading junkie. I have never been able to understand people who say that they don't like to read. It must be my mission in life to save these people because a) I married one, and b) I became a reading teacher. Destiny.

This topic popped into my head today when I was talking to my mom about this very mystery, and I suddenly remembered being fairly young and without a strong concept of crime and punishment. I somehow believed that you could mess up just a little bit and find yourself in jail. In the pokey. The slammer. This was most likely around the same time that I was convinced - CONVINCED - that my house would definitely burn down, it was only a matter of time, but I digress. Back to the pokey. So there I was, eight years old, picturing myself in the pokey, when one day I found out that though you aren't allowed to have anything that could be used as a weapon in jail, you were allowed books. That's when I knew everything would be okay. I could handle a few years in the slammer, as long as I could read. Then I relaxed. Jail didn't sound half bad.

Life without books would be extraordinarily depressing for me. I actually start to panic a little if I get down to just one or two books in my "waiting to read" pile. I start niccin' for a little Amazon used book action and my mouse driving finger gets a little twitchy. I was the child who rendered herself legally blind reading by the flashlight after I was put to bed. The child who could effortlessly read in the car for ten hour trips with nary a hint of motion sickness. The child who is still quoted twenty years later for her belligerent statement, "I don't watch TV. I read" to her heathen sister who had the audacity not to care for the literary sport.

I read everything. Yesterday, I read the back of the Premium Cracker box while I ate soup. I've read the Cold Tips on the bottom of the Kleenex box. When I was little and didn't have contacts, I'd hold the shampoo bottle all the way up to my face so I could read the words on the bottle. (Rinse, lather, and repeat as needed were the obvious words, but I also read the descriptions of the scent and its enticing properties.) I've even been known to read Stuff magazine in the bathroom if I forget a book and I've finished my Glamour. I'm not recommending the reading of Stuff magazine, as it's full of deplorable content and the second string girls to Maxim, but it's still words on a page and that's all I need to get my fix.

The point of all this is that I am going insane not being able to read very much. This baby-raising business is seriously full time. And my TV/TiVo habits are reaching some scary levels. I have somehow become really, genuinely interested in the lives of the ladies on The View. I have developed an unhealthy interest in watching all of the episodes of Sabrina the Teenage Witch. For real. I'm not even going to talk about all of the MTV programming I am neck deep into. It's shameful and embarrassing.

So, this is my confession. It's making me crazy, but I've only read two books in the month of January. And one of them was half for work. I enjoyed it, but I was reading it for school. And it was a kids' book. Oh, the shame. I'm going to find a way to pick up the pace. I read forty-some-odd books in 2006, surely I can top that in '07. Do you hear my spirit! Read on, nerd friends! Join me in my quest! Or at least show me some support. I think I can, I think I can.....