I had something; Nothing specific mind you, to post about today. But then I lost it somewhere between cleaning out the garage (while The Husband Played PlayStation) going to the park (where the kids buried me) and watching a movie cuddled under a warm blanket (while the cat sat purring - which means shedding- so I can’t stop sneezing and I am about to cut my fucking nose off).
So I have nothing to say today.
One that note. Inspiration comes from all different things. Take this comment from my dear friend Shelli for example :
I have never known men who do the coin jiggling thing. You can make up a story on a whim, can’t you. You should let people give you a topic or a line and then you take it and make it into a story.
What a great idea! Feel free to leave me a word or phrase or idea in the comments and I will work it over..somehow! Plus! Easy! Post! Ideas! Yay!
*****I SHOULD WARN YOU*****
I once got bored and wrote the life cycle of sperm. It was absolutely all encompassing. their monetary/banking systems, governments, health care, schooling, social hierarchy, EVERYTHING. Including original drawings of wee little sperms waiting in line at the bank and my favorite, riding the Farris wheel.
I honestly think men should not be allowed to speak without the presence of a lawyer.
We were sitting in Edmond the Tax Dudes‘ little waiting nook when Jittery Joe stuck his hand in his pocket. I knew what was coming. I think this is something all men do when they are bored. It still doesn’t make it right.
Coin Jingling. I hate it. You hate it. We all scream for ice cream It should be outlawed. So should the incessant clicking of pens.
They give me the *shivers*
So, his hands shaking furiously up and down in his pocket, He says “I must have more then ten dollars in here. I wonder where it all comes from.”
In a desperate attempt to stop The Husband from feeling up his coins in a public place, I said “Well dear. After hooking up at a local register, they head to the nearest, and seediest pockets they can find. There, two pennies will fall in love. The product of this union is called a nickle.”
“And the dime?” He asks, eyebrow cocked, hand still pumping away in his pants. I went through the denominations of coin currency, one by one. The penny begot the nickle, the nickle begot the dime, the dime the quarter and so on. I was getting really into my explanations.
For example. Here in Canada we have various animals on our coins. On the nickle, we have the beaver. I explained how sometimes two women fall in love. How they bump beavers to have fun. And then, when they were sure they were in a committed relationship, they go to the piggy bank and are inseminated with coinage. Thus the nickle births the dime.
I am having moderate success with this distraction. His hand has slowed from a fast jerking motion to a slow, rolling motion in his jeans.
And then he has to ruin yet another perfectly good distraction conversation by bringing in Man Logic.
“Two pennies can’t make a nickle. You have to start with the larger coins, because that’s where the smaller ones come from. Five nickles to a quarter, twins for a dime. Like that. The way you are telling it, you end up with negative amounts. Then you have to deal with the …” As his hand resumes its furious pace.
Le Sigh.
about this post.
My baby turned five today. Five. How? Where was I? What do you mean he isn’t my Baby? He damn well is. And Dammit, If I want to mommy blog all fucking day long I will!
Five years ago I drove myself to the doctors office for my scheduled appointment. Blue Boy was one day overdue, and my contractions were eight minutes apart. My doctor told me to turn around and head for the hospital, but I told him I’d rather go to the mall instead.
So I did. FYI people. When you are panting and clutching your belly every four minutes, the people in the line in front will let you pass by. Just sayin’.
So after a few hours at the mall, I didn’t stay too long because I still had plans on phoning The Husband at work to get him to take me out for coffee before we went in to whelp the kid.
To make a long story short - because this isn’t about Blue Boy’s birth, but his birthday - Jittery Joe was NOT at work when I called to beg him to take me to the epidural hospital.
He was at the hospital already - getting stitched up himself. By the time he made it home the only thing on my mind was my glorious, beautiful epidural. It was the one and only time I have ever refused a cup of coffee.
(Also. I did not get my epidural until I was nine centimeters. Yeah. I know. They don’t give them after seven. Unless you are me. And very bitchy. And insistent. Oh and you threaten to walk out of the fucking hospital right now and have this goddamn baby in the parking lot if I don’t get my goddamn epidural NOW)
(And also? 11.5 hours of labour - total- and three half hearted pushes. No swelling, tearing or any other sort of pain if you discount the massive hemorrhaging that started two hours after his birth)
Where was I going with this again? I don’t remember either, except that even when Stuperman was minutes old, I still considered Blue Boy to be my baby.
It might have been the fact that I knew. I KNEW that our pediatrician was wrong about his diagnosis. I knew it with a hundred percent certainty. I knew Blue Boy should have been treated by nine months old. I knew KNEW. That’s why I kept taking him in. But I still accepted her pithy words and did nothing.
In a moment of strength I called on a different doctor and Blue boy was in for the first of his surgeries (left orchiopexy and minor plastic surgery on his tongue) within a month. And now, at five years old. I hear him talk and I see his scars (He had a third operation last May - right orchiopexy) and think about how he will never get to be a daddy, and I am overcome with guilt.
And how in the hell do I face him in twenty more years when he tells me he and his wife are “trying”? How do I tell him it’s MY fault??
I had every opportunity to fix this in time. Had I just stood up for my son when he was unable to stand up for himself, - my ONLY job as a parent ->keep your baby safe and healthy - and I failed it - he would have been fine. But I didn’t and because of that, I hold him a wee bit closer, because..
He’s my baby.
And he turned five at 7:30 tonight(04/23)
(And also. I am well aware that this post jumps around more then Fab on a monkey, but I had to write it quick! quick! quick! because BB’s story still either pisses me off or makes me sob, so deal, mmk?)
ehn.
I feel like I have been on the run all day long. And yet. If I stop and think about it, It’s actually been a really good day.
Lets start with the kids. They got up..whenever, I don’t know. I was still sleeping.
They ate breakfast without dumping the entire box of cheerios on the floor. I got up round eleven and The husband made me coffee. They played - without fighting - until cookie time, which in some homes is known as lunch time, and then I sent them to the Mother-In-Laws’ so We could get our taxes done in the city.
What did I do while they played? I surfed blogs and managed to not comment on a single one. I have been very bad at commenting lately. Bad bloglines! Bad! Tomorrow I plan on commenting on every single blog in my bloglines. That’s uhm. 93. and there are about ten in my bookmarks. Might just comment on them too. Never know.
Moving on to tax time. We got to to the city early. If you take into account the fact that Edmond the Tax Dude was running late, we were almost an hour early. So we walked around the mall and I had a cappachino.
My first.
It was interesting to walk in the coffeebistro thingy. All I wanted was a coffee. A plain, hot, black coffee. I had to laugh, when I asked her for it, and she told me they don’t serve “regular coffee”. She said it in such a … “OMG you drink regular coffeh??!! you poor poor stupid girl. Move into the 21st century, puh-leeese!” kind of way.
So I ordered the cappachino. ‘Cus I knew how to pronounce it. Later the husband told me That there were flavored syrups, but I didn’t feel confidant enough in my coffee bistro knowledge to tackle that subject! Maybe next April.
The cappachino itself was .. OK. Nothing special, not something I would order again. It also took a hell of a long time to make. She was doing something with a machine that spat steam every where, and it was rather amusing watching her jump out of it’s way every thirty seconds.
Edmond the Tax Dude had told us to walk around for forty minutes, so after forty five minutes pouting over TVs big enough to store children in, and disapproving looks from the camera clerk as I drooled on her display cases, we headed back to the tax place. But Edmond was still busy, so The husband and I had a spirited discussion on coinsecks.*
Finally Edmond the Tax Dude ushered us into his office and proceeded to take his comb over through our papers one by one. It was rather entertaining telling him the spellings for names, reciting birth dates and what not, only to have the husband stop him and say - “wait, there’s not supposed to be a backslash here, right after the H in my name”. Or “You have one to many sevens in the word house”. - I thought that for a six hundred and eighty year old man who had forgotten his hearing aid, he did well, But The Husband was convinced that today was Edmonds’ First day with a keyboard.
Taxes took close to Three.Bloody.Hours to complete. And I had to pee five minutes after we started.
We walked out of Edmond the Tax Dudes office, giggling, with a check in our hands and bladders ready to burst.
Drinking a very very large cappachino on the way to get your taxes done is a very very bad idea. However I would like to point out I did win our race to the restrooms!
*coinsex discussion has been typed out and will be saved for a rainy day.
The party for Blue Boy was a big success.
Stuperman managed to get a girlfriend three years older than him. They spent a lot of time holding hands. There were a few times I glimpsed her hands on his butt. She says she was helping him up to the high parts on the slides, but I dunno. Would you trust a girl in pig tails and pink camo?
Blue Boy had so much fun that he asked if he could be five again at his next birthday. I told him no.
I am way to tired to properly post anything, but I took many photos and many videos which will be dealt with in the next week. Or so.
**
The solution to my problem earlier this week is this.
**
Tonight I got the stuff ready for us to bring in tomorrow to get our taxes done. And by got ready I mean I slapped some random numbers on a paper that I am hoping he will accept even though we have no documentation of expenses what so ever, because we suck. What a horrible end to what had been an awesome Caturday.
