Just Another Mommy Blog

The other day, after I had let too many days go by without doing laundry, I was looking for something to wear. A pair of Lucky jeans appeared from the depths of my closet. So, either there is a fashion fairy, or, they buried themselves in my closet while I was pregnant with Chloe and I forgot about them. Probably the latter. I vaguely remember trekking to the Lucky store on NW23rd right about the time I found I was pregnant. So, they've been sitting in there for a year, which begs the question of whether they are actually still fashionable. Regardless, they fit, so I think I'll wear them.

More and more, Chloe's personality seems to be coming out. So far, she is stubborn (like her mother), yet generally happy and laid back (like her father).

Martin and I were talking the other day about this, and we got onto the subject of the traits that we hope she doesn't get. Martin commented that I am quirky. Quirky? Me? Apparently, I have more than my share of quirks. After a very funny conversation, wherein Martin gave examples of said quirks, I have to concede: He may be right. In no particular order...

1. I change my socks before getting into bed. Every night. Even on summer nights when it is so hot that I go to bed without wearing anything else. Except socks. I ALWAYS have a pair of clean socks on. I can't sleep without them.

2. On a similar note, on the days when I clean the sheets, I prefer that we both shower prior to getting into bed. Who wants to dirty up freshly clean sheets!

3. I am afraid to look in the mirror at night, when the lights are off. Didn't anyone else play "Bloody Mary" at slumber parties as a child?

4. I am unable to put a new roll of toilet paper on the spinny thing. I just set it on top. Recently, there was a line up of at least 5 empty toilet rolls on the window sill in our bathroom, and an empty roll on the spinny thing. A new roll was sitting on top of the spinny thing.

5. I only like to make one trip. For example, at the grocery store, I'd rather carry 50 lbs of groceries from the store to the car and feel like my hand is going to fall off than take the cart to the car. I don't want to make the extra trip to return the cart. Same goes at home...I pile things on the stairs so I only have to make one trip going up or down. I'll balance three baskets of laundry precariously and hurt my back before taking each one up separately...Usually this ends up with my dropping things and getting angry about it or hurting myself. Or both.

6. My keys, and my license. I must know where they are each night before bed. I can't go to sleep if I haven't made sure they are both in their places. Can we say obsessive compulsive?

7. I have an order to eating my dinner. I eat all of the thing I like the least first. Then, the thing I like the second least. I always save the best for last. Sometimes this back fires if we have something really good, like, say, Martin's roasted potatoes. Then he eats his first and tries to steal mine. Not fair.

8. "There is poop everywhere". This is an oft uttered phrase in our house. I am paranoid that Maverick will bring poop in the house from the dog park or backyard, and track it all over the house. Yuck.

9. Bathtubs are yucky. I will not take a bath in a tub that was in a house, apartment, etc before I moved in. It doesn't matter what super strong bleach filled cleanser is used. I won't do it. I have lived here for almost two years, and have not taken a bath (don't worry, I do shower at least once a day). I love baths, but I won't take one until we either have the tub refinished or replaced.

OK, you get the idea. Martin also says I eat my oreo cookies weird. I open them up, take the insides out, eat the outsides, and then eat the stack of insides. I maintain that this is not a quirk. I believe this is simply an Oreo archetype. Feel free to weigh in on this one.

Of course, Martin is not immune to this. He has quirks too. Like, well...I am sure I'll think of something.

I think I need to make some adjustments to my training schedule. Lately, I run when I can. Since Chloe hates her BOB, I have to either run when someone is home to watch her, or run with a screaming baby. (I would be tempted to do the latter, but she has this high pitched scream and I am afraid the neighbors might call CPS on me.) And since I work in the morning, and am usually too tired in the evenings (excuses, excuses) that means I do most of my running on the weekends, with the occasional mid-week run when Rose is here.

I thought it was working pretty well, actually. I am one of those runners who runs without a watch. I pay no mind to time or distance. I enjoy it more that way. I usually have a pretty good idea of how far I've gone. Well, at least I used to...

Yesterday, I went for a run. It felt really good. It was one of the best runs I've had in a while, actually. I felt like my old (pre-Chloe) running self. I thought about some of the things that have been on my mind, solved some work issues, and felt like I could go on running forever. When I got home, I decided to map out the route on this cool software. I was sure it would be around 3.5-4 miles.

I mapped my route, and it came to just 2.4 miles. How could that be? I re-mapped it. Still 2.4 miles. Ugh. I have a long way to go to build my base before training for the Portland Marathon. It will be my fifth marathon, but this one already seems like it will be the hardest.

Today Martin and I went for a run together with Chloe in the BOB. She did well for the first mile, became fussy, and was full on screaming by 1.5 miles. We took her out and carried her home. We'll try again next week.

Today I bought some vegan cheese. It is made of soy and rice, and it is completely free of milk proteins. It's labeled "mozzarella style". Martin made pasta for dinner, and I proudly brought it out and opened the package.

Me: It smells like dirty feet.

Martin: That's a good sign. Lots of cheese smells like dirty feet. Here, let me try it before you put it on your dinner.

He cut off a piece about the size of a sugar cube. He tried it, and made a funny face.

Martin: I think you'll barf.

We ate dinner without said "cheese". As we were cleaning up...

Martin: You going to try it or what?

Me: I thought you said I'd barf?

Martin: It's just a theory I have.

I tried it. I gagged. Back to the drawing board.

Chloe has a milk allergy. It's not a "my kid gets a stomach ache" kind of allergy. It's a full blown throat closing life threatening allergy. We found out about 4 weeks ago, and at that time I was advised that as long as I am nursing her, I am not to eat anything that might contain milk protein. So, out went the obvious things like milk, yogurt and cheese, as well as the less obvious things like most commercial breads, crackers, cookies, etc.

The hardest part has been the cheese. I LOVE cheese. Anyone around when I was pregnant noted my insatiable cravings for Cheese Its, Macaroni and Cheese, and Spicier Nacho Doritos. I also ate slices, yes slices, of Parmesan cheese. Lots of them.

My last taste of cheese was 4 weeks ago. I don't mind giving it up, and I know it's temporary. I was doing OK until yesterday. I was looking through the kitchen for something to eat and nothing looked good. All I wanted was cheese.

So, today I went on a mission. I decided we would have fajitas for dinner, and I would buy some soy cheese to try on top. I have never tried soy cheese. I hear it doesn't melt and tastes like wax. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Unfortunately, after going on my mission today, I have come to the conclusion that I won't be trying it any time soon. Why? Because all the brands I found have milk protein in them. This makes no sense to me. I imagine there can only be two types of consumers of soy cheese: vegans, and people who are allergic to milk. Why alienate both by packing milk protein in it?

I left the store disappointed and with a vegan chocolate chip cookie (made with tofu, but honestly one of the best choc chip cookies I have ever tasted). At least that craving is solved.

Maverick has been limping. I am ashamed to say that it's been off and on since before Thanksgiving. I was in denial, driven by visions of large vet bills. Very large vet bills. Maverick helped me in my denial. It was easy to deny he had a problem when he's been his happy self, interested in food, chasing squirrels, and jumping up trees. But for the last week, the limp went from intermittent to constant. I had no choice but to take him to the vet.

The first thing they did was put him on the scale. 106 lbs. Oops...This bad dog owner let her lab gain 13 lbs in 7 months. It will be less kibble and no treats for Maverick.

Unfortunately, Maverick's favorite doctor (the one who smears Turkey baby food all over his hands and lets Maverick lick it off) wasn't available. We got a younger doctor. We'll call him Doogie Howser. I am not sure who was more scared of this appointment, Doogie, or my Doggie. The second Doogie walked in, Maverick growled, and tried to climb into my lap. I had to muzzle him. The nurse was happy she didn't have to do it. She stood across the room peaking out from behind Doogie's shoulder.

Maverick wouldn't let them examine him with me in the room, so they left. A few minutes later, Doogie came in. He thinks that Maverick injured his knee. It's possible that he tore some cartilage, and they want to do xrays of both his knee and his hips. Apparently xrays require general anesthesia. He didn't say why, but he did say that would cost $700.

After picking my chin up off the floor, I asked, "Well, if it cartilage, will you be able to see it on an xray?"

Doogie hemmed and hawed and said, "Well, um, no." Riiiiiiight. So, I asked about plan B. Doogie went on about an anti-inflammatory drug with nasty side effects (phrases like liver damage and kidney failure were uttered) so he wanted to do a full blood panel. I asked him to consult the chart to tell me when the last one was and what the results were. It was last May. He was healthy as can be. So, I passed on the blood panel. You know what they said?

"Well, dogs age 5 years for every single human year."

I thought back to when I was about 8 years old, sitting on the playground with my buddies, trying to figure out my age in dog years. Back then, we thought it was 7 years. We were all excited that if we had been dogs, we could already drive a car, vote, and stay out past dark. How cool would it be to be a dog! Or not.

Back to the vet...I passed on the blood panel. Maverick is only 3 years old. If he were older I might consider it. I had to sign a waiver to get the medication, and I left only $95 poorer than I went in.

So now, Maverick is still limping, and he has a stomach ache from the medicine. I need to find a new (cheaper) vet.

I laughed when I saw the movie "Meet the Fockers." I swore I'd never become one of those parents. You know what I am talking about: the mom who reads up on sleep training (yes, "ferberizing"), and signs her infant up for classes like music and sign language.

Well, guess who's laughing now...

Yup, we Ferberized. Chloe was a bad sleeper. She started waking at night when she was about 3 months old, and by the time she was 6 months old, she was waking every hour all night long. Every night. This went on for weeks. Anyone who has walked in those shoes knows that you have to do something to fix the problem before someone (likely mom) goes flying out the second floor window. So, after the holidays, we moved her to her room, and let her cry. It killed me to listen to her. That night, she cried for 30 minutes, and I checked on her many times. Each night was easier, and within a week, we were all sleeping from 7p-7a.

I was so happy to be getting sleep that I decided we should get out more. So, I signed up for a music class. It's a gathering of mommies and babies who sing and dance for an hour. I was one step behind and severely off key the entire class. We sang songs with lyrics like da de da da su li chi. We danced in circles and pretended to be ponies. It was the kind of thing that would have made me run screaming the other way just a year ago. I even had to wear a "hello my name is" sticker, which Chloe proceed to suck on while it was on my shirt. The mixture of her drool and the sticky stuff resulted in a substance that would give liquid nails a run for its money. I walked around with a "hello my name is" sticker permanently attached to my sweater all afternoon. I hope it comes out in the wash. I like that sweater.

I felt like a goof at the music lesson. But Chloe loved it. She thrived on it. Her little arms were pumping and legs were kicking and she was smiling and laughing. I'll be the first one there next week proudly donning my dorky sticker just to see her smile like that again.

And the sign language? Well, we haven't started that. But we are scheduled for a class later this month.

So yeah, I am resigned to the fact that I am one of those parents. But at least I haven't gone totally off the deep end. I have not presented Martin with a supplemental feeding system (read: man boob). I think if I did, he'd have my head examined.