An Ode from Pigs

Oh, how I adore you, morning coffee poo.
Prompt, predictable, and reliable too.
A few sips of the nectar, oh it is sweet!
And a bite of my breakfast I also eat.

And then Bam! It's time! You are at the ready!
I set down my coffee to keep the cup steady!
A dart and a dash and I've reached the potty.
My expectations are high, the results never shoddy.

The relief! Sweet it is, I firmly assure you!
This is my superfast, Prompt Power Poo.
The coffee, the beans, the oils...I don't know?
But it certainly puts on one heck of a show.

In closing, my dear poo, I enjoy your presence.
I even take pride in your shameless incessance.
Every morning at just nine fifty three
Is a very special time for you and for me.

....and my skirt is made of wheat.

I went to the spa today! Tee hee. Pigs at a spa. I love me a spa day. Due to my cantankerous scoliosis, I used to get massages regularly, but somehow since getting pregnant and then subsequently hauling around an 18 pound wriggling mass all the time, my back pains have gotten.....better? I know, it makes no sense, but who am I to complain?

Today, I redeemed my Mother's Day present, a gift certificate for a mini-spa package, including a facial, a massage, and - my favorite - a "stress relieving back treatment." It was the back treatment about which I was most curious.

Now, I'm not a big fan of a facial. I'm also not wild about a pedicure, since you asked, but I will tolerate one a year through gritted teeth and clenched fists as I try valiantly not to kick the pedicurist in the teeth as I - accidentally - did that poor old Jamaican woman that one time. At band camp. Digressing again!! I swear, my ADD is getting so much worse.

The facial. First of all, the woman was entirely too chatty. I know this is mostly my fault because I feel all rude if I don't encourage it and I would hate for someone not to like me. I have major issues regarding talking to people. Like, I can't stop. I'll talk to anyone - the waiter, the nurse, the mentally disabled kid who bikes around my hood, the cashier at Kroger....I'm not picky, I love to talk. It's just that it's kind of hard to talk when there's hot steam blowing onto your face. It's so humid! Okay, so there's that, and then the hot towels, and the hot...me. I get all hot sitting there, but the creams and exfoliation are lovely. Then she turns on that light. You know the one they show on TV where you can see everyone's clogged pores and sun damage and such? Yeah. That one. She takes a deep breathy gasp and goes, "Oh! You should've gotten an hour facial!" Well, that really makes me feel great. I sighed. "What's wrong with my face?" As much as Eddie nags me about the sun, you'd think sun damage, right? Nope, nope. Just a whole bunch of stuff she'd like to extract. Greeeeeeeat. Just what I wanted to hear about: all the stuff that she could spend an hour extracting from my face.

Lucky for me, it was time to move on to the much awaited stress relieving back treatment. YES!! Guess what it was? Mud. But not just any mud! This was Austrian mud. Million year old Austrian mud that caught and held all of the minerals and goodness from the streams that cascaded down mountains before there was pollution on this Earth. This lovely, clean mud gathered in caverns and was frozen by the Ice Age and preserved so that today it can be harvested and gathered to smear on the backs of today's stressed out yuppies in need of soothing care. Whatever. You know she dug it up in the parking lot this morning. But she said it in that pleasant, sing-songy lispy voice so that you knew her name was probably Rain and she was wearing a skirt made of wheat. (reference? anyone? anyone?)

All in all, good gig. Happy Mother's Day to me. Whoop!

Your Votes, Please.

Blog community, we come to you. Mr. Pigs and I would like for you to weigh in on a little debate we're having. A discussion. A ponderance, if you will. I suggested seeking opinions from others, naturally, my blog. It's public, it's opinionated, and we don't know most of you. And so Mr. Pigs agreed. Here we go. A point-counterpoint for your reading pleasure.

Pigs:

It has been brought to my attention that I complain about the same thing every day. I'm tired, worn out, in need of a break from Piglet, and my left arm is feeling shaky. The thing is, these things are true every day. It was brought to my attention that I also complained about feeling tired and worn out every day after school, long before Piglet, and that Mr. Pigs has had to listen to my sentiments regarding various states of my everlasting chronic fatigue for nine years. It is true. I have been tired for nine years at the end of each work day. I have held two particularly draining jobs: teaching and Pigleting.

I complain because I want someone to hear me. I complain so that someone might say, "Man, that's tough. Here, put your feet up. Have a beer." I think it's okay to say these things every day. Then I tell him about the rest of my day. Mr. Pigs rarely tells me much about work, though I kind of like to hear other people complain. In teaching, it's a sport of sorts, the complaining.

So, the dealbreaker came when he suggested that I work on not telling him that I'm tired every day, just on the days when it's particularly debilitating*. So I should just keep it to myself and not burden him with anything unpleasant. Only tell him events of roses and sunshine and sugar and spice. You know, keep things peppy. Peppy and perky. I feel that this is insensitive.

*Note: To his defense, Mr. Pigs has never spent an entire (6:30am-6:00pm) day alone with Piglet, plus the daily chores and errands.

Mr. Pigs:

I think some clarification is in order. Every day when I hear the same complaints, I do say, "I'm sorry, why don't you lie down or take a relaxing bath tonight?" So I do not tune it out. But do you understand that after hearing the same complaint day after day, that it gets to the point where it's no longer noteworthy? It's like saying the sun came up today, gas prices went up, and Rosie O'Donnell said something stupid - you know, same stuff, different day. Pigs claims to be exactly the same level of tired every day (which is physically impossible). Thus, my concept of only complaining when it is a truly uncommon level of fatigue was met with a blank stare.

Also, and this is maddening, she tells me that if I got home at 5 PM instead of 6 PM, she wouldn't complain! How is it that you're uncommonly tired at the end of every day, but this accelerated manifestation of fatigue only happens in the last hour?

Just because I don't come in the door saying, "I'm tired" doesn't mean I'm not tired. I get that all day with Piglet is not easy. I think she does a wonderful job and frankly makes herself so tired because she absolutely refuses to compromise on him, and I respect that. I love to hear about their day together. But here's the key clarification - telling me "I'm tired and my left arm is shaky" tells me nothing of your day. It only tells me the end result of the day.

Am I really so wrong?

Pigs:

1. I do tell him of our day.....after I clearly state my level of fatigue and detail my general maladies.

2. Yes, there is an acceleration of fatigue in the last hour. It is rapid and intense. This hour is when the left arm begins its aforementioned infernal quaking.

3. Sympathy, please!

Mr. Pigs:

1. "Infernal quaking"?? Laying it on a little thick, isn't it? See, complaining!!
2. For the record, from this point forward, sympathy for her day is automatically granted, without requiring swooning and embellishment.


So there you have it, good readers. Do share your wise words.

News You Can Use

1. I only shaved one leg today. Again. Why am I such a flake?

2. I've got two, count 'em, TWO tutorees! Two! Ah! Ah! Ah!

Nigglies

Okay. I realize that I don't have a lot to think about, and this is going to be evidenced by what I am about to pontificate upon. BUT....

Alright. Boys and men have for many moons blathered on and on about the vast amount of pain they allegedly endure when they are struck in the nigglies. Personally, I can't imagine that it's really that bad. Afterall, it's really the only pain they have to suffer.

So, after snapping the crotch snaps for the millionth time on Piglet's change today, I began to wonder. Why is it that boys have shorts and pants, and girls have skirts? I can't imagine why boys, with their seething pain potential, would want a crotch in their britches. Imagine the wedgie potential. Is it so that boys can whip it out and girls can squat? From back in the Survivor-esque caveman days? It would make much more sense to me that boys should wear the skirts.

Also? Boys' bikes versus girls' bikes. Why on earth would boys have the bar if, as they claim, the searing pain is such a possibility? And what is that bar for, anyway? These are the thoughts that busy my brain while I'm changing poopie diapers. And these are the questions which I pose to you, dear readers.

These are a few of my favorite things.....

Right! So, since I want to be just like Eddie when I grow up, I've decided to do a list JUST LIKE HERS of all of my current favorite things. Imitation is the highest form of flattery, Eddie. Now pay attention. You might learn something.

My first two items have to do with the ever-present loads of laundry in my life. I would estimate that I spend about 63% of my life doing laundry. Okay, so maybe it just feels like that when you have a child who barfs about as much as he breathes, but still.

Laundry is a very large part of my life. And I've gotten darn good at it. You know why? Oxiclean. The blue spray kind. The most amazing chemical substance known to reflux. It even gets out old stains that have already been through the dryer! Oxiclean gets out poop, boogers, pee, drool, spit up, prune barf, carrot hurl, spinach puke....you name it. Even blood! And if you want to see something cool, spray the blood and watch it turn white. It's almost as cool as when Libby Brewer and I put Lip Therapy in a glass of water and baking soda in 4th grade and the string of lip goo stood up. It's that cool.

Another way I've improved as a Laundry Lass has been in my sheer speed and dexterity. I'm often doing laundry with an 18 pound wriggling mass writhing in my left arm while I battle with clothes, detergent and washer settings. Though I got really skilled at the one-handed pour, I have since discovered dropps. Ah, dropps. Know what that stands for? Dissolvable, Ready-to-use, Organic, Premeasured Packets. That's right, baby! You just drop this bad boy in the washer and close the lid! The packet dissolves and Voila!! You have clean clothes. And? They're all earth friendly and stuff.

That's probably more than you ever wanted to know about my laundry habits, so I'll move onto my favorite thing: food. I'm not going to say much about them, but you cannot, cannot, cannot do a favorites list and not include Baked Cheetos. 'Nuf said.

What I can blather on about, though, is my newest luxury item ("Luxurious!" -Trump) which I blame 100% on my friend Shea who enticed me last time I was at her house. The new item? Nonni's Toffee Almond Biscotti. Dipped in milk chocolate. Dunked in my morning cup of Half-Caff Folgers. All soft and doughy....melt in your mouth chocolately....my mouth is watering just thinking about it. Droooooooool......

Shake it off. Time to move on from food. I could stay on that topic all day. Maybe if I ever write a book it will be about food. Food, Cooking, and the Art of Eating. Hmm. Hmm? It will be followed by the sequel How to Stay on Topic. My next topic: clothing. I'm just so grateful to not be wearing maternity clothes this summer, that I've just thrown myself back into the world of clothing. Cheaply, of course. It's not like I have a job and y'all know not a soul has answered the call of tutoring on my flyers. So. Bathing suits! Target! Issac Mizrahi! El cheapo suitos for me(o). They're so cute and inexpensive that you can buy several and mix and match. The best part? Full coverage for the backyard. I'd love to wear the teenybopper swimwear, but I just can't get on board with half my tail hanging in the wind. Not gonna do it.


From here, I will wrap up with a peek at summer. You cannot properly begin summer without my Best Raft Ever. [See picture for flashback to last summer.] In actuality, the product is a Swimways Raft. It is the most fabulous contraption that exists. The meshy bottom drops you ever-so-slightly into the water, but not so far that you don't get a foxy tan. The sun warms you, the water cools you....what more can you ask for?

Well, I'll tell you. Eddie's been lecturing me for a good 2 or 3 years now about my desire for a good fetching tan. See, Eddie had this one summer in which she, well.....she kind of briefly changed races. She spent so much time on a boat that she got so tan her knees looked kind of dirty. Then and there she declared the sun to be evil and renounced all things tan. Including me. So! I have slowly, but surely come around and now I do occasionally enjoy the self-tanning product. Now, I can't use the body kind because no matter how many tricks I try, my ankles and knees turn all Oompa Loompa. But the Neutrogena face stuff? The Build a Tan? That's my product. And it has SPF 15! What more could you ask for? I always wear a hat now. No facial tanning for Pigs. No sirree, Bob.

And finally, my hair. In the summer, I get lazy and hot. When it's hot, I do not like to dry and straighten my hair, so I usually air dry it and go curly. The #1 curly hair product? Frizz-Ease Dream Curl Perfecting Spray. It's wicked awesome. Good curls, nice bounce, not stiff. Rock on. Summer is here.

And so, my friends, these are a few of my favorite things. I would love to read about your favorite things too. If you are so moved, please tell me of your favorite things in the comments. If you are super industrious, make your own list and leave me the link.

Bleb

Um....I have a bleb. My husband says that someone must have said, "Hey, what's the grossest sounding word you can think of? Let's name this medical condition!"

Bleb. Say it until it has no meaning. Bleb.

It seems that I always manage to get less than common medical conditions, not to mention my affinity for odd accidents. When I was little, I had that little piece of skin that connects your bottom gums to your bottom lip snipped because it was pulling my gums away from my teeth. My vision is off the charts bad coming in at 20/1100 last check. I would be two inches taller if not for my S-curve scoliosis. A sink fell off a wall onto my foot, smashing my toe. A coconut fell out of a tree and missed my head by mere inches. I have a condition called Raynaud's Disease where my fingers swell up and itch if they get too cold. When I'm around a cat or the month of May, the white part of my eyeballs swells up and itches.

And now I have a bleb. Sigh.

Donde Esta los Estudiantes?

Pant.

My friend and I have spent the last three days distributing flyers to houses around my neighborhood. Make that my friend-who-deserves-a-medal-for-helping me-do-this. In the Texas sun. With two babies. Did I mention the sun? 250 flyers later, I realize I have a really big neighborhood.

Guess how many calls I've gotten! Go ahead....take your best guess! I'll wait while you think. Remember, I've spent three days putting out 250 flyers....


*drumming fingers on desktop*


*whistling Dixie*

Did you guess? Well, I bet you're wrong because the answer is NONE! Nada. Zip. Zero. I will agree that door to door flyers is probably not the ideal manner in which to garner a superior amount of tutorees, but none? Really? If I hadn't gotten really good exercise and a stellar start on my tan, I would be sadly disappointed.

Additionally, I created one of those flyers with the Hangy Down Tear Off Strips™ and hung one at both pools which I frequent and have Big Plans to hang them at the two libraries. Can you think of any other places to hang such a flyer? Maybe a gym?

My hope is that people probably want to get the school year over with first before getting on with tutoring and writing training and such. So, my New Plan is to start when I come home from the beach at the end of June. That is assuming that people, you know....call. I have had one email from a former student's parent who happens to be in my book club. She is looking for a tutor for her other son. So, okay, I have one kid. Uno.

If anyone has any other clever ideas for getting the word out, I'm all ears.

Leisurely Stress

I'm experiencing a little book stress of late. I have my 2007 Reading List over there bearing down on me with great pressure. I wanted to try to read 50 books this year and beat last year's paltry 45, but it's not going so well. Last year, I had an entire summer of being unemployed and pregnant. Talk about your free time. This year I'm lucky if I squeeze in two chapters before my eyes close at 10:30pm.

Here's the trouble: my book club meets on Monday and I am supposed to be finished with Drowning Ruth by then. I am on, oh....about chapter 6. Not good. It's just not drawing me in, this book, and it's kind of depressing so far. Then, the next part of the problem is that in June I have to choose the book for book club and I am heaping tremendous amounts of pressure upon myself regarding this decision. What if they hate the book? What if it's too long and no one has time to read it? What if I choose one that's too light and people think I'm an airhead? Oh, the crosses I bear.

So just based on that decision alone, I'm having to reread at least parts of books that I am considering for my selection. Also to consider is that I don't want to pick a book that people are likely to have read before. Augh!! *beating head on desk* I'm currently leaning toward Clyde Edgerton's Walking Across Egypt, but it's been a long time since I read it, so I will have to reread.

Now, that's not the end of my reading saga. For those of you who live under rocks, the final Harry Potter book is being released in July. Yes, I will promptly read it and all, but this just adds to my pressure at this time. It should go unsaid that I will have to reread book six before book 7 comes out. I haven't read it in two years since its release because I didn't care to repeat the scads of tears I cried over Dumbledore's demise. But clearly, I've got to get over that because I can't read book 7 properly without first reviewing book 6.

On top of all that, there is an imposing stack of books on my nightstand that have nothing to do with any of these other issues that are just books I want to read "next". I'm just not sure when "next" is and I really want to start them too. Oh, and there are two Glamour magazines, a Cooking Light, two Southern Livings, and an Our State that are gathering dust as well. I hope I'm not the only person who gets stressed out over their leisure reading. I might be disturbed.

Critic's Corner

Alright, I have to make one more post regarding American Idol, and then I'll move on. First, I still have a big crush on Blake. I like Blake in the same way that I like Sting - he's not classically good looking, but he has rough features and a creative edge that just make him darned likeable. Plus, he pulls off goofy clothes and doesn't conform to American Idol cheesiness. He's the first Idol that I can say I would buy the CD.

That disclaimer aside, I can't decide who should win. Yes, I heart Blake, but if he wins then he's all trapped into the American Idol contract and all that. I think he'd be more successful on his own. I will say that the other two girls are clearly the better singers, I just think Blake's an awesome performer. So let's take a gander at the ladies. [Now there's a sentence I don't think I've ever uttered before.]

I'm slightly troubled by both girls, nothing to do with their singing, just me being mean and critical. Jordin makes me a little insane when Ryan is telling you the numbers to call and she has to make all three numbers with her fingers. This little display is silly, distracting, and immature. It shows her age, I suppose. If I was a voting viewer, I wouldn't vote for her because of that little performance. Nothing to do with her singing.

Melinda? Okay, let's just talk about it. Melinda has no neck. Maybe that's what gives her such an amazing voice, her head is all squashed down there on her vocal chords and those songs all just rumble out like she's got built in Bose speakers or something. I'm not saying it's bad to have no neck, but you simply cannot be sexy without a neck. And Melinda has been attempting some sexiness of late. Last night, for example, with the jacket over the shoulder hinting at a strip tease. Not alluring at all. In summary, great sound, no neck. Not that that's a reason for her not to win American Idol, I'm just saying that it's distracting.

And as long as I'm being mean and critical of features that people have no control over, Simon has either ridiculously small hands, or a tremendously large head. I can never figure out which it is, but it's another distraction a la American Idol. That is all.

Magic Pants a Go-Go

Picture it: Sicily, 1908.

No wait, Greensboro, 1993. The year of the pants. The year of my first Goodwill shopping experience. The year of the day that fate led me to my pants. Destiny. Kismet. Me and my pants, together forever.

I'll always remember that special day.....I entered Goodwill with a sneer on my lip, an eyeroll at the ready and a smart remark on the tip of my tongue. I didn't shop at Goodwill! I was a J.Crew girl! An Express chick! A Gap gal. I was only here under protest with my friends who thought it would be a good time. Until It happened.

My eyes fell upon the pants that were meant to be mine. The pre-softened denim. The broken-in seat. The perfectly worn thin spots in the fabric. I hurriedly raced to try them on. They fit like a dream! These pants were clearly made for my body. A quick snip with the scissors and these bad boys were going to be my new shorts. Tucking my prize under my arm lest someone else spot my loot, I hastened to the register and forked over my $1.50. Then they were mine....all mine.

All was well until I arrived home. Despite my head over heels love for the garment, it seems that a pair of men's Wrangler's with a wallet mark and a Skoal circle embedded on the rear pockets was not what my mother had in mind for her teenaged daughter's ensemble. Stubbornly, I cut the jeans into shorts and tried them on.

"You're going to get crabs!" yelled my mom desperately.

I admired the view from the back. I admired the view from the front. The dip ring added just the right amount of charm to these shorts. I couldn't imagine why everyone at my high school didn't have these shorts. Nothing could be more fetching. Clearly, they weren't lucky enough.

"Those probably belonged to some...some....construction worker!" mom grasped at straws, wringing her hands. "Who knows what he had!"

I sat down. These were by far the most comfortable pants I had ever sat in. I could vaguely hear my mom scolding and nagging, nagging and scolding in the background, but her words were drowned out by the angelic music emanating from these here britches of mine. I was in pants heaven.

My mom never did grow to like those shorts. Not in high school. Not in college. Not while I was teaching. I am relatively certain that she will not be thrilled to know that they still exist today. That they are worn around her grandson. And most importantly? That they still fit me. They're magic pants, my dip ring shorts. I was so obviously meant to be with these, my own magical pants. I mean, how can you go wrong with this look?

That's right, class. You can't.

Toothless Narcoleptic

Alert! Alert! There is big news on the homefront! Are you ready? You might want to sit down for this announcement. Brace yourself.....ready? Piglet got his first tooth. That's right, the little turkey has a new chomper. Turns out though that he's kind of a freak. Babies are supposed to get their bottom middle teeth first. I've been watching and waiting, waiting and watching, and lo and behold, that bad boy sprung out on top! He looks like a little beaver, poor Piglet. I guess he's going to do things his own way.

Here's my fear: He sprouted this tooth at 7.5 months, precisely the time period that his trusty baby book said such a tooth was supposed to come in. Said book also mentions that the lower middle teeth are due in at 6 months. Does this mean he has no bottom teeth?? What if he has to get some sort of baby partial? Do you think my insurance will cover infant dentures? Will he ever be able to eat corn on the cob? What if he only has two top teeth and everyone calls him Bucky? What if I have to change his blog name from Piglet to Beaver? I'm very, very concerned about his future with his peers.

Speaking of his peers, how do you think young children will react to his chronic narcolepsy? I have the only child who fell asleep during swim lessons. As in, while we were in the pool practicing his back stroke kick, he fell asleep. Well, I was making his legs kick as he lay on his back, but still! ASLEEP. Is cold, chorine-laden water really conducive to sleeping? What about when we were at the park and all the other kids are squealing with glee from their baby swings and Piglet.....well, Piglet's off to dreamland. Conked out. Catching some zzzz's. What's up with that?

Do you think he's going to get beat up? The Sleeping Wonder Beaver? Do you??

Newbie

Make sure you check out my cute little meez character over there!
<-----
I saw one on my buddy AMP's blog and had what was probably way too much fun making one for myself. Speaking of my buddy AMP, be sure to welcome her to blog world. She's a former 4th grade teacher like myself who came to her senses and found a better way of life. You'll enjoy her funny writing and seamless sarcasm, so go check her out!

I recommend her highly. Together we survived a dorm fire, our first years of teaching, many silly boy problems, and several years of living together. Her best and most frequently given advice was to drink a beer for a stomachache. How could you go wrong? Tell her I sent you. :o)

I'll be eagerly awaiting your comments regarding the cuteness that is my meez chick.

Put on your thinking caps...

Pigs is ready to be a teacher again. Not full time or anything, just a little tutoring around the 'hood. I'm trying to create a flyer today advertising myself as the stellar educator that I am. I'd like to insert something about my modesty as well.

Here's where you come in: I want to offer two services. One, your basic tutoring in reading and/or math. Preferably grades 2-5, since that's what I know best and with some emphasis on the state TAKS test preparation. Two, I'd like to create some sort of 4th grade writing, um....thing. This is where I'm stuck. It's not so much tutoring because rising fourth graders probably haven't done enough in writing yet to be behind. I want to market it as a jump start type thing. So what would be a catchy name for that? It's almost an enrichment....put your child ahead of the pack kind of thing. Help!

I need to be back around big kids again. I miss them and their antics. This is a way for me to do it sans the crazy principal. Ideas! Quick! Go!

Really?

So I'm in Target a lot. At least once a week, sometimes more. Target has never been as good for people watching as, say, WalMart, but it just has so much stuff that I NEED that I can't stop going there. But today, the people watching meter jumped up a notch. Or three.

There I was, standing in line. Standing in line with my diapers, my baby food, my two cute little starter pots of basil and chives, and yes, my bacon. Did you know you can buy bacon at Target? Even the check out guy commented on my bacon. So, there I was with my bacon. After the checkout lady behind me called Piglet a "sweet girlie", despite his overalls and blue bib, I became annoyed and began to eavesdrop on the couple one aisle over.

The woman had a bundle of baby under a blanket, a child in the basket part of her cart, an infant car seat in the front of her cart, and a husband in overalls and a trucker cap who hadn't seen a razor in at least a decade. The cashier who had just told Piglet how pretty he was inquired about this lady's apparent bundle of joy.

The woman lifted up the blanket to give her a peek and OH MY LORD she was nursing this baby in Target! As she walked around the Target this woman was nursing an infant! She flashed boobie-sucking-baby at the cashier, me, and all those behind me, and then said, "He's eatin' right now!" Thank you, Captain Obvious. I was aghast. Didn't know what to do with myself and I wasn't even an intentional part of this interaction. I flustered my way through my Targetian transaction and hastened to the exit, leaving Flashy von Udder to share her suckling spawn with the rest of Target.

I mean, come ON. I'm all for natural goodness and breastfeeding and all that, but IN TARGET?? While you're walking around?! Really? A newborn baby eats every couple of hours. Could you not work your Target trip around the feedings? I know there's some people who are going to go zonkers over women's right to nurse and blah, blah. Fine. If you want to nurse in Target as you stroll the aisles, I guess more power to you. Seems a little risky and unnecessary to me, but whatever floats your boat. However, I do advise that you not actually flash your nursing child at the cashier. Or the innocent bystanders. My eyes are still burning. As are possibly the eyes of my sweet baby "girl" Piglet. Growl.

There's No Place Like Home

We had a big 'ol storm last night! It was scary. The power went out and our trees were banging against the house. Piglet slept through the whole thing somehow. Today we have lots of mess to clean up:

The news said there were 85mph winds. That's a lot of wind. I do not like the wind. It reminded me of a good 'ol Caroline style hurricane. 'Cept shorter. Yup. I was skeert. Our neighbors weren't so lucky:

On another note, how do babies sleep like this?

Poop catchers and Jacuzzi bubbles.

Piglet and I attempted something new yesterday: a baby swim class. It was interesting, to say the least. I think it's hilarious that there's actually a "class" to tell you how to introduce your baby to water. Clearly, their marketing scheme works, as I signed up. I'm a sucker for something to go and do during the day. And this was cheap.

So, my friend and I roll up with our babies just as the class is starting. Putting down our bags, we stared at each other blankly. How do you take your clothes off when you are holding a baby? Where do you put the baby? Concrete floor? No, probably not. Next to the pool? Um, no. We quickly lunged into motion, my friend taking both babies for a moment while I stripped down, picked my wedgie, and shoved my stuff to the side, then me manhandling two babies in modified crotch holds while she did her version of this bizarre strip tease. I still wonder how the people who didn't come with a friend fared. Bygones.

I headed for the water. How do you get in the pool with a baby? My friend wisely headed to the other end of the pool for the zero entry option, while I bravely hopped into the 4 feet of water with Piglet firmly clasped in my Amazonian power grip. I didn't drop him or anything! Waaaahhhhhhh! Whoops. Hadn't anticipated that Piglet might be alarmed by cold water, as the bathtub was his only prior body of water experience. He quickly got over the temperature as he became completely enamored by these new surroundings.

I, too, get sick of the house and have to get out every single day, but Piglet gets tremendously excited in new surroundings. He is happy as a lark just look-look-looking at everything. So interested, in fact, that he didn't even seem to enjoy my hearty rendition of The Wheels on the Bus as we walked in circles in the water. Harumph. Clearly, the ceiling beam structures were much more fascinating. And the pool flags. And the waterslide. And the brick patterns.

When the class was about half over, my friend's baby had successfully kicked, floated, scooped, splashed, and bubbled. Mine? Had examined the ceiling's structural quality, assessed the color scheme of the sprayground, accidentally swallowed and choked on chlorine-laden water when his mouth dropped open in awe of the parallel window arrangements, and created a temporary, but impressive, jacuzzi bubble situation from the inner workings of his swim trunks. With ten minutes left in the class, it occurred to him that I was actually trying to entertain him and teach him new things and he appeased me by putting my friend's baby's toes in his mouth. This is what I paid good money for. It seems that Piglet's going to have to go in the slow learner swim group.

After class was over, we entered the Lazy River for a spin around the loop and then, only then! - did Piglet decide to kick. And kick he did! He kicked so hard and splashed so much that he actually took a nap for an hour and twenty minutes when we got home. [Note: If you are one of those people who has a baby who takes naps that are an hour or longer, I really don't want to hear about it. We're happy when we get a nice 45 minute jobbie.]

The main thing that I got out of this class was self-gratifying. I now know that I have not jumped off the fashion train entirely. I realize that I may temporarily be sitting in the sweat pants car at the back, but I am hanging on. We actually saw a woman - not an old woman, like someone my age - wearing high waisted mom pants. I'm not talking about the ones that are coming back in style (though I can't figure out why, they're hideous too), I'm talking straight-up acid washed, pleated MOM JEANS. And they were about, oh.....4 inches too short? This shortness revealed her white socks folded down and her brown slip on loafers. It was bad. Really, really bad. I felt downright trendy in my running pants and flip flops, I did.

Moral of the story: It may seem like a waste of money on the surface, but Piglet was entertained, even if not in the intended manner, and I got to do some good people watching.

Oh, and? I learned something new in this mommying business. Swim diapers? Not absorbant! They are just a catching device so poop doesn't go in the pool! If they pee in them, it runs out! Doesn't that make you want to swim with babies?! So never put a swim diaper on too early. They repel liquid, which is not typically what you want your diaper to do for you. Lesson over.