It's my aeroplane.

Actually, no, no it's not.

I just read an article on Yahoo! where parents are bellyaching about airlines creating 'baby ghettos' on the back of a plane so that the crying and general shenanigans won't upset other passengers.

...The parents complain that their seat assignments get screwed up and they're constantly at the mercy of  other travelers to help their families stay seated together.
...They complain that spacious seating - best for privacy in diaper changes and facilitating squirmy toddlers - is too expensive for families to afford.
...They complain that they get the stink eye too often from other passengers.
...and that the airline won't check their big stroller, only their small one.

Allow me to introduce a foreign concept:

Don't. Fly.

Duh, emergency situations will present themselves where 'it' (the fresh hell that is flying with a toddler) can't be helped. Where you have no other choice. And friends, you'll just have to white knuckle it through, but...

Did you not think your life would change when you had children?

Did you think you'd be able to do everything you used to do as a goofy, stink-eye-doling, cheap Chardonnay-sipping, business class-flying single or couple, whose heads you skim with your diaper bag on the way back to the 'baby ghetto' at the back of the plane?

Seriously, shut up.

If you're flying for 'convenience' to be where you want to be for the holidays or for vacation in a timely manner, suck it up.  You're making the choice to go there. And while, yes, you did acquire three super human abilities shortly after the birth of your child - an impervious shield to the atrocities of poop, vomit and screaming - others have not. And those three things? Bad for business.

Don't tell me you haven't winced at the sound of a crying baby before you had one.

Yep, I'm lookin' at you.

...If you want to avoid the small quarters, the hours in the airport, the stink eye, the 'no privacy' for diaper changes, pack up your big ass minivan, arm yourself with juice boxes and Goldfish crackers and drive to your destination. If you do it just right, you might even have enough space for that mobile home you like to call a jogging stroller.

where I draw parallels between pregnancy and those fainting goats

The 36th week of pregnancy. The week that separates the men from the boys. And fainting goats.

Common sense and experience have been forsaken in the name of tallying up a laundry list of first-world problems I'd really love to rattle off to anyone who'll listen, but I don't usually... b/c:

I'd be remiss in not mentioning this not-so-rare jerk. Do you know her? She's at the grocery store, Target, the park. . . .

Jerk says: "How far along are you?"
Me: "36 weeks."
Jerk: "Oooh, you're almost there!"
Me: "He can come anytime he wants!  I'm ready to meet him!" (I swear, I'm delivering this line as good naturedly as possible..not all Gilda Radner/Wendy Whiner)
Jerk: "Oh, you'll be so tired in those first couple of weeks, you'll wish he was back in there ((motions to my stretched-beyond-all-recognition womb))."

Don't say that, ok? It doesn't help and could get you punched in the nose. Pregnant women be crazy.

With that in mind, I'll carry on.

I'm officially out of room. Wanna know how I know? Henry just kicked my sternum and it popped. Audibly.

And yesterday morning? I had to get low on a hospital bed because Henry's head is so far down that the ultrasound tech couldn't get a picture of it.

That, of course, came after a med student tried to measure the size of my uterus with ye olde tape measure. Mid-palpation/comfortable rhetoric about the exact location of my pubic bone, Henry punched him so hard that the med student yelled, "Holy crap!" and dropped the tape.

Speaking of breathing, every time I bend over, all of the air rushes out of my lungs and my "extremely long! how tall is your husband?!" baby cuts off all circulation below the waist, and I feel like I'm going to pull one of these:



I've developed a prehensile foot for picking things up off the floor.  Or when I can't be motivated to do that, I'll just stare and cuss. Nothing good happens after a 45 degree bend at the waist.  
Melissa & Doug, I've had it with your Velcro pepperoni. HAD IT. I'm thinking about firing up the outdoor fireplace just so I can bask in the glow of your wooden block pizza, wedding cake, realistic food groups and educational puzzles.

My friends Braxton and Hicks are coming hard and fast and unpredictably. They leave me uncharacteristically breathy and very Marilyn Monroe. Except not hot. At all. Maybe more like this:

There are no comfortable sleeping positions left. I compensate by falling asleep sitting up, then falling over (goat-like or drunk-like), waking up to my own snore/drool/dead arms and waddling through the house at all hours of the night eating extra strength peppermint Tums. I'm living the life of a Golden Girl.

I have only two shirts and two pairs of pants that fit. 

That's all for today. It's time for me and Harper to run to Blockbuster so that I can knock over another candy display with my belly.

Possibly Unpopular Opinion of the Week

Today, I'm thankful for all of the people who show their thankfulness in November by, each day, writing how thankful they are for frivolous things and publishing them on Facebook. Thank you. And thank you again. I am thankful.

how to tame a black cat

We've been practicing for a week, now.

We've watched many showings of the Dora Halloween special.

We bought ears and tail two weeks in advance so that she could warm up to the idea. Mainly, this manifested itself in my own (and Brandon's..which was infinitely more entertaining) wearing of the ears and tail. She liked for us to meow, also. "Ooooh! Deh's duh scawy bwack cat! Meooooow bwack cat!"  ((cue uncontrollable giggle fits))

We planned the costume with her normal clothes - not scratchy, not strange. Familiar. Unassuming.

Brandon was a doubter, "She's not gonna go!"

But, I talked it up all day.

We started putting on the costume one piece at the time at 5:30.

Black pants.

Leopard socks.

Black tutu.

Black shirt with cat face.

We had to appear apathetic - because Harper rarely wears anything I want her to - but with the successful donning of each piece of black clothing, my excitement grew.

When she let me paint whiskers on each cheek and a black heart-shaped nose and she started to meow and smile at herself in the mirror instead of scream in horror, I knew we were getting somewhere.

And as soon as the first princess and pirate came to our house for candy, she was ready to hit the trail.

I barely got her coat on in time - in a clutch & coordinating play, Grandma just happened to arrive yesterday with a double-breasted black pea coat that completed the outfit.

Stealthily and unbenownst to Harper, Brandon pinned a long black tail on her coat as we headed out the door.

I threw on her cat ears headband while she was busily examining the two pieces of  'starter candy.'

As our rookie stalked across the grass with her lime green pumpkin and up to the front door of our most friendly neighbors, we rehearsed, just as we had for a week:

me: "What do you say when they answer the door?"

H: "Twick oh Tweet!"

me: "Great! And how many pieces of candy do you take?"

H: ((silence))

me: "One."

me: "And what do you say after they give you candy?"

H: "Dank you! Happeh Hawwoween!"

Our girl had this down cold. She was so, so ready.

And much like her momma, the girl went on auto pilot as soon as our neighbor greeted her sweet and soft little knock at their door. Much to my (and Brandon's...and every neighbor's) delight, our rehearsals went out the window in favor of instinct:

She excitedly sat her bucket at their feet (I do not know why... but it was fantastic.) and said, "Hiiiiiii! Put duh candy, pwease! Dank you!"

Our plan was to go to 3 houses...

And after the 11th, she began to slow - weighed down by the considerable booty she insisted on carrying herself.

At the late hour of 7:15, a small, tired, 'scawy bwack' kitty cat - a seasoned pro - trudged back through our yard and proclaimed that she would like a few "de-wish-us tweats."

Happeh Hawwoween, indeed.

When Brandon went to get a juice box and came back with a Miller Lite,

I knew it was time to go home. 

But really, we had a great time at Disney.

In an elaborate dinosaur-themed restaurant at Downtown Disney, I turned 28 and got the very best birthday present I could have imagined: Harper fell asleep in my arms (y'all...this just does not happen) and I got to hold her like a baby for 30 minutes.

Lowlight: Harper got the pants scared off of her in a ride at Hollywood Studios. I'm still not sure B and I are back in the circle of trust. The best part? The brochure warned us that it might frighten small children. Epic parenting fail. We did not commemorate this with a photo. Honestly, I don't even know why I'm telling it now.  Except maybe to say this...

After she had napped off the horror of the scary ride and after Brandon drank that Miller Lite, he convinced her to go on a different ride by calling it a 'gondola.' He's not the type of guy who says 'gondola,' either, which I think was the highlight of the trip. Him. In a deeply persuasive conversation with our 2-year-old about a 'gondola.'

We stayed in a hotel that reminded me so much of being on Bald Head Island. Had it not been for an extremely merciful military discount, we could have purchased Bald Head Island for the price of 4 days in this hotel. The front desk was extremely attentive to Harper's every need.

The fountain drinks with ice in each park were spectacular. Seriously. It was perfect ice. I am in total withdrawal.

The food? Meh. Just before we left, I hastily threw together a bag of lightweight, non-perishable items to eat in our hotel room - because I am the child of Billy Butler - and I'm guessing that bag saved us at least $200.

We randomly happened upon Boyz II Men performing at Epcot - to both of our disappointment, we just missed them rocking the house to Motown Philly, but wheeled Harper up right as they were cranking out End of the Road. Y'all, there were some really really excited late twentyandthirtysomethings spilling $8 beer - but you wouldn't know it from the picture. It's b/c we were in the thick of the ruckus. And the Boyz' microphones were jewel-encrusted. Harper loved their groove beyond measure, which shocked us, b/c she's more of a disco-era girl when it comes to unexpected arms-in-the-air stroller boogying.

In other famous person-spotting news, I thought Burt Reynolds was in a pontoon boat next to us at one point, but it was just Brandon telling me that our hotel had boat rentals..

In general, it's impossible for a toddler to fully catch up on sleep each night, so Disney kinda turns them into glassy-eyed zombies who fall down a lot. True story: After we got off of It's a Small World in the Magic Kingdom, a 4-year-old girl in a Snow White princess dress tripped over her little brother's stroller and she sprawled out on the pavement in a huge, stiff royal blue and yellow polyester heap and was so tired she just lie there for a few seconds, to which her mom said, "Dammit, I think you just broke the iPhone! Get up!" ...the most magical place on Earth, indeed.

Just to get through, you have to ply them with sugar, or this happens:

Even if they take a three and a half hour nap in the middle of the day:

For example, Harper ate an entire Mickey Mouse ice cream bar by herself. I do not think she dropped a single bite, which is impressive, because sometimes she still misses her mouth with a spoon.

We won the battle of memorabilia, unless you count all of those $5 drinks where I really just wanted the ice - we came home with a mouse ears ball cap and a spinny, light-up Tinkerbell toy that Brandon is taking to work after Harp tires of it to mesmerize horrified children into doing his eye exam bidding.

Overall, the biggest hit with Harper was the Animal Kingdom.

She almost lost her marbles when this giraffe ambled up to stick his nose in our safari jeep:

She liked the petting zoo, but didn't actually do any petting. Fine. By. Me. Those goats had no space bubble:

She enjoyed trains of all sorts.

She really liked the characters and wasn't shy at all. She had brief chats with Jiminy Cricket and Chip & Dale. To Jiminy, she said, "Come on! Wets go pway!"

Enjoyed a conspicuously Dumbo-like dinosaur ride:

Loved the jumpy water fountain at Epcot:

And by our last night there, Brandon and Harper, loopy from sleep deprivation, took to taking self portraits..

And then we got on a plane and went home. And maybe one day, when she's 28 and has children of her own, I'll share with her the story of the plane ride home. So she won't completely lose hope in her parenting abilities and continue to procreate.  Apparently, the stress literally crossed my eyes..which particularly disturbs my husband, but I laugh every time I see it..with my one good eye.

practice makes perfect

We twick-oh-tweet at Hah-puh's house, Momma!/In this installment of "Harper Dresses Herself":

The one where my most favorite pregnancy craving is ruined forever.

1. I hate it when people crunch ice with their teeth! Other than someone chewing with their mouth open, I can not think of a more intolerable offense. Except maybe people who chew ice with their mouths open. Intolerable = I'd just as soon jump out of a moving automobile as listen to it.

I'll move on now.

2. Strangely, in my third trimester, I crave ice*. Terribly. Like it's going out of style. Maybe two cups a day, but that's two more cups than I'd ever consider in a non-pregnant state. Two more cups than I'd punch someone for eating in a non-pregnant state. Thank the sweet Lord it doesn't bug Brandon like it bugs me.

3. I am positive that it tastes better than any actual 'food' that exists, which lets me know that I am truly crazy. A few nights ago, I lamented my station in life as I pulled from the oven a Pyrex of saucy burritos. . . .because what I really wanted for dinner was a huge cup of that ball-y shaped ice (you know..the kind at BBQ Hut in Fayetteville?) and a Blow Pop. REALLY.

4. My desire went to a strategic, desperate and ..unfortunate place yesterday, when I found out that the nearest Sonic is in Baltimore. . .which made me audibly cuss, because I had already called Chick-Fil-A. They don't have the ball-y ice. I won't even talk about how that conversation went. ...a lot like this, actually:



5. So I Googled "Fast Food Crunchy Ice" thinking, surely, someone has blogged about it or created a website.

6. My search results yielded only horror - In 2006, Good Morning America interviewed a little girl who did a science fair project on the cleanliness of fast food ice. Turns out, it's 70% dirtier than the toilet water in the same restaurants. E.coli included..for free! B/c the machines are never cleaned. B/c dirty hands scoop it out. I die.

7. Here's the link: Commode Ice

8. Don't read it.

9. Especially if you're a crazy pregnant person who happened upon my blog because you, too, have an insatiable and irrational craving for ice.

10. Unrelatedly, b/c I couldn't squeak out a decent #10: While I'm on the subject of fast food, why does KFC force you to say the words "Breast Meal" when ordering it? Why can't they just mercifully assign it a number? I can never get that out without at least cracking a smile. Seriously, "Breast Meal with two sides?" lol. Gah.

*No. I'm not iron-deficient. Just crazy.