Jennifer’s

I am THRILLED to announce that I am currently suffering my thirty billionth sinus funk of this pregnancy!¬† You have to love this time of year in AZ when the weather switches from 100’s to low 80’s in a matter of 24 hours…bring on the mucusy funk.

Isabella threw up twice Sunday: she walked into our room at 3 a.m. and announced that she had “coughed up a sugar cube.”¬† Not knowing what that meant, I waited a few seconds to see if Brian would go investigate, but all I got from him was a chuckle followed by a snore, so I hauled myself out of bed.¬† Sure enough, there was indeed a chunk of thrown up bits that looked like Fruit Loops, so I can only surmise that is from where the sugar cube analogy stemmed.¬† I pulled all the linens off the bed, cleaned up Isabella, and took her back to bed with me because after all of that I wasn’t about to make the bed again.¬† She slept okay, as did her father through the whole ordeal,¬†and seemed to be fine when she and I got up that morning.¬† We played quietly with toys so as not to wake Brian, who after all was nearly 40 weeks pregnant at the time and could certainly use some extra sleep- oh wait… So as I was saying before I got all bitter wife there, we were playing quietly when all of the sudden Isabella heaved and vomit started rolling out of her mouth.¬† Fortunately, we were playing on the play rug, so I didn’t have to worry about the actual carpet being ruined.¬† This time around, to his credit, Brian did get up and cleaned the rug while Isabella and I rinsed off and started yet another round of laundry.¬† For the remainder of the day she was snuggly, fairly subdued, and took a lengthy nap, so we thought it a fluke thing.

Enter Monday night: after a lovely evening at a softball banquet, Isabella and her Daddy crashed in her bed.  I stayed up watching some crap TV and just as I was beginning to get ready for bed I  heard Isabella sobbing outside the bathroom door.  I open it up to find her being held by Brian whose face is covered in a mixture of horror and anger.  It turns out Isabella had thrown up AGAIN, this time all over the bed and Brian.  (I will admit a secret part of me was beyond thrilled that he had finally been initiated into the part of parenthood that results in being plastered in projectile vomit; although, I am sure if you asked Brian he would say that that part of my personality is not such a secret.)  As Brian had picked her up out of bed she began another round of barfing that resulted in two sides of her dresser, the trundle mattress and trundle, her chair, and carpet being covered. 

I ordered Brian and Isabella into the shower and began a nearly two hour clean up session.  Again, to his credit, Brian, after being vomited out of his slumber and showering a very upset toddler, shampooed the carpet and mattress.  Isabella and I proceeded to hit the couch, so I could keep a listen out for the washing machine and dryer while she slept.  Three loads later I was finally able to sleep as well.

Enter Wednesday: I woke up with some major tummy crampage going on.¬† Now, given that I am due tomorrow and that I have never experienced going into labor on my own my mind immediately went to thinking this could possibly be the beginning of labor.¬† This on one part thrilled me because yes, I would finally be done, but it also made me a tad nervous because, well that whole hours of labor and pain thing aside, we still had finals to get through at school AND no one to watch Isabella as my mom wasn’t flying in until the afternoon.

As all this was running through my mind Brian came into the bathroom and announced he felt terrible: headache and stomach ache.  I then realized we could both be battling whatever Isabella had, which let me tell you that little realization was far worse of a thought than I could be going into labor because now I could be going into labor within a few days AND be battling the stomach ailment.  ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

And oh, what a joy yesterday turned out to be.¬† Both Brian and I were miserable all day at school and he finally had several bouts of what he deemed a “horrifying biathlon” of stomach issues…I leave you to figure out what he meant.¬† I never actually had anything come out of any orifice, but man, driving to get my mom at the airport may have been the single hardest thing I’ve had to endure to date.

Brian is once again not feeling well today.¬† I’ve been a little better, but I have eaten very little since yesterday morning.¬† At my doctor’s appointment today I was down 3 lbs from last week, so there’s a positive, right?¬† The lack of appetite and general nutrition over the last 36 hours or so does not bode well, though, for my energy level come the big L day and given that I get rather cranky when I don’t eat that labor and delivery room could be one joyous place.

I told Brian I might start looking for another labor coach.¬† The man got a horrible stomach ache the first go round because of nerves…he slept through a few hours of labor and even had to leave for a bit because of how terrible he felt.¬† If he already feels terrible now what is he going to be like when things are really intense?¬†

I had begun to be lulled into thinking things were beginning to calm down for us and had finally stopped being so stressful, but dealing with the stomach flu one day before my due date is really no cakewalk.  This can only mean one of two things: either this baby boy is going to be a hellion and so we are being prepared now for constant chaos (I blame those Woolsey genes, if so) or he is going to be a breath of much needed fresh and calmer air.  Please dear God, have mercy on our souls and make it the latter!

   

(Cardigan: Loft; Embellished Tee: Loft; Capri Jeans: Gap Maternity; Necklace: Modern Charm in Terre Haute, IN; Shoes: Gap Kids)

So there are about five weeks left in this, what will most likely be my last, pregnancy.¬† Up until about last week I had this pregnancy thing down.¬† Sure, I have been a little less excited (still trying to get a grasp on God’s sense of humor in giving me a boy) and life has been unbelievably MORE STRESSFUL than at any other point to date, but I’ve been fortunate in that my biggest pregnancy issues have been about baby gender and body image.

Then, one day last week I got up out of a chair and realized that unless someone produced a walker I wasn’t going anywhere too quickly.¬† After a few minutes of hobbling the stiffness and achiness in my nether regions¬†dissipated and I was able to carry on as normal.¬† However, that pain has only gotten worse over the past few days.¬† Some days are worse than others and it seems to have nothing to do with the amount of time I am standing or sitting.¬† I know that pelvis pain is normal at this point in pregnancy, but HOLY MOSES I do not remember this much at.any.point with Isabella.¬† Yesterday, while going “number one” (I have to be specific because when I told this to my husband he asked if I was pooping, which he equated with giving birth.¬† After punching him in the nards I reminded them that there was nothing his body could do to him that would equate to giving birth sans pain meds.) I seriously thought I would end up having one of those birth stories that ends with, “I had to pee and next thing you know I’m pulling a newborn out of the toilet and then I walked out the front door of our trailer and yelled for Billybob to get off his lazy butt as I had just done gave birth in the bafroom…”¬† I don’t think I can handle 35 more days of risking a “toilet birth”!

This time around I have also been plagued by a never-ending sinus infection, which may sound somewhat exaggerated and I suppose if you count those few days in March when I wasn’t congested or blowing my nose constantly or hacking up my lungs and the baby’s or breathing out my mouth like some slack-jawed idiot then I am indeed blowing it out of proportion.¬† I am naturally prone to a few nasty colds per year, but this constant mucus fest is tortuous.¬† I have also read some horror stories of women who have suffered the same condition during pregnancy but that it did not go away even after giving birth.¬† SERIOUSLY? Isn’t pushing that kid out enough penance?¬† Must I be cursed to care for a newborn, recover from labor, AND still be full of snot?

With Isabella I had some horrific periods of acid reflux, so we assumed she would be a hairy monster and as it turns out that even though she did have some hair, she wasn’t the Yetty we had imagined.¬† This time around the acid reflux is nearly every night- no matter how early I eat dinner and no matter how bland the food- so it’s inevitable that he will be born with a full pelt.¬† Last night was by far the worst: around 11:30 I woke up to a horrid taste in my mouth and a clear sense that unless I got up right then I would end up covered in barf.¬† I made it on time, but squatting by a toilet late at night while 34 1/2 weeks pregnant is not ideal.¬†

And on a superficial level I am more than OVER being pregnant.¬† I am tired of having to hitch up my pants every time I stand up.¬† I am tired of having people comment on how great I look and then others saying I’ve really started to get big: which is it people?¬† I am tired of having a very, very limited wardrobe.¬† I am tired of seeing all the pretty dresses in my closet and passing them up for yet another pair of elastic wasted pants.¬† I am tired of choosing sensible flats over fashionable heels.¬† I am tired of counting down the days until I can exercise properly again (77 days in case you wondered).¬† I am tired of not being able to eat sushi or drink caffeine.¬† I am tired…

How about you?  If you have had multiple pregnancies or are currently pregnant how did, or how does, one pregnancy differ from the other?

Alas, I have reached a state of pregnancy that heretofore I have only read or heard horror stories about but have never personally experienced.  As many of you know I have endured near constant sinus, allergy, cold funkage this time around.  My current bout has me blowing my nose every ten seconds and sounding more and more like an emphysema patient with each passing day.

The other day, while at a very public park with Isabella and Brian, I started hacking up a lung.  As Isabella and I were close to the bathroom I tried, amid the coughing jag, to get her to follow me into the facilities so I could hack in private, blow my nose, and avoid peeing myself!  Being the toddler she is, Isabella chose that exact moment to be non-cooperative, so I had to try to suppress my cough (so as not to pee), pick her up (against her will), and make it to the bathroom in time.  Guess which of the three did not happen in a timely manner?

So there I am race walking, carrying an upset kid, coughing away, and peeing myself.¬† Fortunately, I was wearing black pants, so it wasn’t too obvious… from afar anyway.¬† I finally got us both into a stall, plopped on the seat, and proceeded to bark my way through another five minutes or so of coughing, dry heaving, and eventual barfing on the floor.¬† All the while I am trying to wrangle a little girl who has just discovered that timeless toddler fascination with peering under the stall at other people.¬† When she saw the barf on the floor, Isabella said, “Oh, Mommy.¬† What is that?¬† Did you spit your food out?”

After getting the cough under control, cleaning up the barf, washing both our hands several times I then had the joy of getting Isabella past the park to where Brian was sitting without having her cause a scene so as to draw attention to the lady with the big, fat tummy who also happened to have peed herself.

I eventually hid behind a tree and yelled out to Brian.¬† Thankfully he assumed I was ready to go, grabbed the stroller, and came our way.¬† When I explained what happened, Brian’s very sympathetic, loving response was, “Well, do we need to go buy some Poise pads?”

It’s no secret:¬† I am not that great in social situations.¬† As a rather shy person, I much prefer the anonymity of large crowds in which I know not a single soul¬†over a small crowd in which I know not a single soul.¬† The fewer the numbers the more chance of actually having to talk to someone beyond the formalities of polite society.¬† I’m just not good coming up with idle chatter and so spend the entire time in a small crowd searching for some kind of hole in which to crawl.

I have no trouble going shopping, out to eat, or to a movie by myself, but ask me to attend a party or meet up with a small group in which I know no one or only a few people and suddenly I become very, very uncomfortable and generally do anything I can think of to avoid such situations.

Brian and I have been together for six years now, so this personality quirk should be more than apparent to him, especially when you consider that he, too, is less than comfortable in social situations.¬† Thus, you can imagine my surprise when he announced that our next door neighbor stopped him to extend an invite to me to come over later that night for a “Girls’ Night”¬† and he told her I would probably be interested. (Bare in mind that we have lived in our house for three years and in those 36+ months I have maybe seen this particular neighbor about five times and have said “hello” to her about three times.¬† I don’t know her name nor would I recognize her if I saw her out of the context of her front yard.)¬†

At the time I was about ten weeks pregnant and suffering a horrid sinus thing, so I wasn’t apt to go for a “Girls’ Night” even if my BFF called let alone haul myself over to a virtual stranger’s home to subject myself to an evening of¬† prolonged awkwardness.¬† After berating Brian for saying I would be interested I put the whole thing out of mind and settled in for a night of hanging out on the couch reading to Isabella.¬†

Brian had to leave for a bit, but when he returned he mentioned the party again and asked if I was going to go.¬† Given that I was in the same spot I was in when he left, wearing my jammies, and hocking up snot I thought the answer obvious, but he would not let it go.¬† He suggested that he would at least go over and let our neighbor know I wasn’t coming.¬† Listen, I may be socially inept, but even I know it strange if a 32-year-old woman sent her husband over as some sort of courier. Instead, I sighed deeply a few times (just so he’d know how out out I was by the whole thing), donned some flip flops, and walked over to the house.¬†

I rang the doorbell, but of course was greeted from yelling inside to just come on in.¬† Our neighbors’ house is such that upon entering the front door you are immediately deposited in a long hallway that empties directly into the living room, which is where the majority of the guests were located.¬† Those that did not have a direct line of vision peered around to see the new arrival.¬† So there I am, facing a sea of unknown faces thinking to myself is one of these ladies my neighbor and I’m just not recognizing her and why did I have to choose the track pants that make me look about ten .lbs heavier?¬† I decided to hide out in the dark hallway and call my neighbor’s name, which I learned¬†mere seconds before heading over to extend my apologies for not being able to stay.

At the sound of her name, the neighbor came around the corner and gave me a great big hug as if we were the best of pals.¬† Perhaps this would have put any other person at ease, but for me it just added to the uncomfortable feeling washing over me.¬† I dove right into explaining how appreciative I was for the invite, but that I was not going to be able to stay due to a long work week and a nagging illness.¬† I think I said something about not wanting to get other people and their kids sick.¬† She looked crestfallen as she said, “But there aren’t any kids here, so don’t worry.”¬† I replied that I meant that I was fairly contagious and so would fear spreading germs that would continue to be spread to other households.

At that point I should have taken a bow and made for the exit, but I found myself opening my mouth and saying, “How’s it going?¬† Looks like you’re having fun.”¬† How in the world I would know if they were having fun is beyond me because all I’d done since arriving was avoid looking at anyone for fear of having to talk to someone else I didn’t know.¬† She then said, “Yeah; hold on a second…” and ran to grab something.

It occurred to me, then, that this “Girls’ Night” was really just some guise to get people to come over for some kind of jewelry, candle,¬† kitchenware party and was relieved I was not staying.¬† If there’s anything I hate more than going to some social function where I know few people, it’s a social function that is tied to the obligatory feeling of having to order something so the hostess can get enough sales to get some free crap.

When she returned she handed me two catalogs and before glancing down I said, “Oh, I’ll look through these and let you know if I want anything”.¬† I then glanced down and it is a wonder my eyes did not fall out of my head for this wasn’t something as innocent as overpriced measuring spoons or handbags; it was a Passion Party.¬† As I tried to recover a guest yelled out, “Stay.¬† We’ve got drinks, too.¬† What’s better than sex and alcohol?”¬† My mind still reeling, all I could think to say was, “I’m ten weeks pregnant, so no drinking for me and well, I guess the sex has already happened.”¬† I really don’t remember what transpired after that, but it felt like another ten years before I made my escape.

I sprinted back home and when I busted through the door Brian said his suspicions about the party’s true nature were confirmed.¬† Of course he claims nowthat it only occurred to him that this was a sex toy party after I left to give my regrets.¬† I still think he suspected all along and sent me over there just to see how I would handle myself.

There couldn’t have been a worse person to invite to such a fete.¬† If I don’t like discussing bodily functions, then I sure as heck don’t want to talk about the nature of my sex life with other people, let alone complete strangers.¬† When I told this story to a good friend she, of course, was laughing at my misfortune but said that if she had to make a list of 1, oo0 people to invite to a Passion Party I would never, ever make the list.¬†

Call me a prude, but when I glanced through the “literature” I couldn’t believe the products being sold for home use.¬† I figured on a little lube, maybe edible panties, and a few marital aids (Please, someone explain those to спални комплектиBri.¬† How does she, of all people, not know?), but oh no, this was full on pornesque.¬† I felt like the catalogues needed to be burned and that I needed to wash out my eyes.¬† I still break out into a sweat when I think about the awful nature of that party and the awakwardness of the night and how that awakwardness returns everytime I see my neighbor’s house.¬† I am forever scarred.

What awkward social moments have you experienced of late or what awakward social moments has your significant other put you in?

This has been a tough couple of weeks, you guys.¬† (This little combo from JCrew¬†may have gone a long way in helping me stomach the whole back to school, shipping my kid off to pre-school three days a week thing.¬† I’m looking at you, Mr. W.)

Unlike in year’s past we really did not have much time the week prior to get ready for our students’ arrival.¬† Due to budget cuts, we had a furlough day, which meant the district was short one day in which to over plan pointless meetings.¬† Instead of recognizing we might be able to do without the same lame power point presentations they’ve over killed the past, well forever, they decided to cram it all into three days and give us an afternoon to prepare for the upcoming year.¬†

And sure, a crazy truly passionate teacher might have come up during the summer to compensate for the shortage of prep time, but I refer you to the furlough day and the decreased pay, so the likelihood of that happening is carry the seven: 0%!

Normally, I feel fairly ready, and by ready I mean copies made, room cleaned, rosters printed, and desks dusted.  I am never, in fact, actually ready to give up the lazy days of summer.  So moral is low and temperatures are high, which all has made for a super, duper back to the grind attitude.

Our child care situation has changed significantly this year as well.¬† Isabella is home two days a week and the other three she is enrolled in a pre-school.¬† What can I say about that that won’t bring tears to my eyes?¬† NOTHING that’s what.¬†

It has been an emotional roller coaster around these parts.  Isabella seems to like the idea of school and KIDS, but only if she is not actually going to school with kids.  I get that at some point in her life she is going to have to actually get accustomed to the idea of a school that houses other kids, but dear moses, she is not even two yet.  It must be horribly discomforting to consider that three times a week you are being deposited into a situation that is less than ideal in your mind.

Isabella is shy, as are Brian and I.¬† I deal with shy kids, painfully and otherwise, all the time.¬† I get that for Isabella school is a mixed bag of emotions: on the one hand there is the learning and the snacks (mustn’t forget the food, the sort of food I would never give her) and the kids (who she now sings about at home, so that’s good, right?), but there’s also the kids (about 14 others) vying for a little bit of individual attention and over whose voices she must try to make her tiny, sweet voice¬†be heard.¬†¬†

This being heard and getting noticed for herself is hard for Isabella as she only talks in whispers at school.  I think she is finally starting to talk louder, but the whispers really bother me.  She is loud and talks non-stop at home, so my guilt gets the better of me and I start to consider if school is so traumatic for her that the whispers, which start in the car on the way to school, are a sign she feels insignificant in the face of all those kids.

I mentioned the crying, right?  We could float away on the tears that have fallen the past few weeks.  At first, Isabella did not cry , but a couple days in she realized this was a permanent thing, and so she started clinging, grabbing, and crying when we would drop her off.  That too has passed and now we are a much more heart-breaking round of crying: the stoic crying.  She starts crying silently at some point on the way to school, in between her whispered answers to our questions, which causes my heart to break and so we are both a mess when we go into her school. 

I swear you would think¬† this is the first time we have had to part instead of the third school year, but it isn’t any easier for either one of us.¬† Everyone told me it would get easier, which is absolutely a complete and horrible lie.¬† I feel more and more miserable each time I load her in the car and drop her off at school.

I do take comfort in the fact that she is talking more and more at school and that she has always been happy when we pick her up.  I do like the idea that she is learning to interact with other kids and adults.  I do think it important that she learn to navigate the world as an introvert and that she discovers ways to make herself seen and heard, in her own quiet way.  I do hope that she learns cool  things and continues to think knowing lots of stuff is the absolute best (I am pretty sure she is ready to tackle the Brittanica ). 

I can remember, though, situations from my own childhood where I quietly suffered through something because I had resigned myself to the idea that my parents chose this for me and so I had no recourse to change my circumstances.¬† Every kid needs to learn that sometimes there are things we have to do that we don’t want to do; I totally get that.¬† I am just not convinced that a child needs to learn the lesson at two while being left by her mom and dad.

I also get that after a while Isabella will adjust and going to school will be a breeze, but I also get that it could very well appear she has adjusted and that going to school is a breeze.¬† I am very, very worried about the latter possibility.¬† Isabella has a phenomenal memory, so I worry that the memory of those first miserable weeks or months will stay with her.¬† I can still recall, with shocking clarity, the pit in my stomach (I seriously just got the feeling as I think about this) I had my first day of kindergarten.¬† And while I generally came to love school, I can also recall those couple of years (second and sixth grade for me) that were nine months of Dante’s Inferno because of classmates and the teacher.¬†

I hope that for Isabella school really does become fun and that when she looks back on it she only recalls the joy of making friends, doing crafts, eating forbidden snacks, and learning, learning, learning.¬† And if she does recall the bad, I hope that she can forgive me and realize that however sad she was during those times I suffered more…the true mark of motherhood.

Please, please tell me you have watched TLC’s Toddler’s and Tiaras!?¬† You know that guilty pleasure that turns a camera lens on the the seedy parents and pageant circuit that takes sweet, innocent babies, toddlers and pre-teens and turns them into heavily made up, tanned, bleached teeth, processed haired versions of what their parents wish for themselves.¬† In short, a glorious train-wreck and a fabulous validation of your own parenting skills.

No matter what you’ve done wrong, like that time you let your 5 month old alone on the couch for a few minutes only to turn back in time to watch her tumble off the edge or the time you turned from eating lunch to see that your nearly two year old’s tongue was a suspicious shade of magic marker blue (the washable kind, the washable kind)¬† (it’s just a for instance), you can at least say you’ve never entertained the idea of entering your TWO WEEK OLD in a beauty contest.

Seriously, how many newborns can even be called cute let alone gorgeous?¬† And what exactly do you judge a two week old on anyway?¬† Ability to stay alert?¬† Sleep?¬† Spit up? Control his wonky arms?¬† Latch onto the boob?¬† The crazed look in the tired mother’s eyes?¬† Oh wait, that is a permalook of crazy as these wack jobs are completely and utterly BAT F CERTIFIABLY NUTS!

I happened upon this pleasure cruise down insane parenting lane the other night and could not tear myself away.¬† To TLC’s credit they have done an excellent job of asking the right questions and editing the footage so as to make nearly every second of the hour long program an uncomfortable glance into this weird, weird world.¬† It’s obvious that every. single. parent should be sterilized and heavily medicated and that nearly every child is completely miserable as their hair is teased within an inch of its life or as they put in their flippers, which are fake teeth because as one mom said, “Flippers help with that awkward phase between 7-10 when they start losing their teeth.”

Right, because only a small portion of kids actually loose teeth so it would be totally disgusting and an assault to the eyes to expose the pageant judges, the other contestants and the audience members to something so horrifically deformed as a hole in a child’s mouth because of a lost tooth.¬† That space would be so utterly unexpected that people would surely run from the building while clawing at their skin and yelping like feral animals.¬† While that may seem like hyperbole the mother’s tone and the look on her face indicated she did, in fact, hold her daughter personally responsible for being, well, a kid, and having the audacity to do kid things, like loose a tooth.

As if that’s not enough of the crazy, there was also a mother, the one with the two week old pageant participant, who said as a mother of two boys she is still hoping for a girl to enter into pageants but for now she will settle for acting like her boys are girls.¬† I thought this odd, and surely an anomaly, but after perusing the Toddler and Tiara site I watched a video of another mother (Hayden and Maverick’s mom if you want to check it out, which you really, really should as she is insane and it’s obvious TLC and her son know it.¬† The cut away to the horses as the kid practices engaging the judges is priceless. ) who echoed the idea of turning her little boys into the little girls she has always wanted.¬†¬† I know I’ve expressed some concern about having a boy next, but even I wouldn’t go so far as to express my desire for a girl by trotting my son across a beauty pageant stage and then stating, on camera nonetheless, that I figured I could turn him into the girl I didn’t have.¬† I’d at least have the wherewithal to save that S for the privacy of my own home!

As I watched the show I wondered where all the husbands were in the midst of the madness.¬† It seems like most, if present at all, are sitting silently stewing in the audience about the injustice of the thousands upon thousands of their hard earned dollars being spent on their wives’ vicarious lives.¬† One dad did step in and pulled his daughter out of the pageant after watching her totally melt down into a hellion who was throwing things, running away, and being utterly defiant.¬† His attention was an extreme exception, or so I thought, until I watched the video of Ava’s dad, David, who has “…always been interested in pageants”. (Again, I strongly urge you to take a minute and watch.¬† You won’t be disappointed!)

I couldn’t help but wonder as I watched Ava’s dad in action if he didn’t enter into a heterosexual relationship because of his extreme interest in pageants.¬† The guy can twirl a mean baton, bedazzle chiffon and lace, and have a near mental breakdown when his two year old doesn’t even win the talent portion…I leave you to your own conclusions…

If you have the time you should check out an entire episode.¬† You will never be more uncomfortable, or more horrified,¬† as during those 60 minutes of your life: 60 minutes you will never get back, by the way, but nonetheless 60 minutes that will reaffirm that you are doing right by your child.¬† Or if you simply want to revel in the sheer wackiness of the parents themselves watch the 19 minutes or so of the Toddler and Tiaras’ parents: it’s breathtaking.

I can totally understand the mindset that your child is talented, intelligent, beautiful, funny, charming, etc.¬† Holy Moses; everyone I know has the cutest, smartest, most talented kid of ALL TIME! I just don’t get the urge to doll them all up and trot them on stage like they are some two bit hooker.¬† I’m having a hard enough time handling the fact that my baby is about to turn two and grows more and more independent by the second, I don’t need to see her dancing and prancing and grabbing all over like she’s 22 trying to win an all expenses paid vacation to Cancun.

No, I’m perfectly content that Isabella’s big hair moments come from a good night’s sleep:

And her talents (and there are really so many) include:

and

and

and

Friday the school year officially closed with a lame staff breakfast and meeting.¬†¬† I call the staff breakfast lame not because I don’t love a great breakfast buffet full of runny eggs, under ripe fruit, and floppy bacon, but rather because the school’s “social committee” charges $20.00 for the breakfast because they insist on holding it at a local country club that obviously way overcharges for the runny eggs, under ripe fruit, floppy bacon, and horrible service.¬† In years past we have not been given our last paycheck of the year until we fork over the 20 bones, but recently, due to the inclement economy, that rule has changed: you can either pay $13 for breakfast or opt to not pay and not eat.¬† It kills me that our household income is going to go down several thousand dollars next year due to our district’s and, in turn, the state’s inability to properly budget, but we still have this “lavish” breakfast, end of the year affair.¬† All we need to don is some flapper attire and we are well on our way to true denial.

Clearly, that little rant aside, I am¬† beyond thrilled at the prospect of the school year being done.¬† This has been an especially trying year with three year long English classes, two new classes, no prep, and the neediest group of kids and parents yet.¬† When we got home Friday I felt like I had been running a marathon for the past 36 weeks and proceeded to crash out on the couch for a few hours.¬† I’d had enough!

So here is what the past year looked like in numbers:

Essays graded: 565

Kids who failed: 3 (out of seven classes- not too bad)

Crazy parents: 11 (the truly crazy ones)

Days absent: 4

Night with four or less hours of sleep: 10

Day begins at 4:15 a.m. : 66

B.S. budget talk via meetings and email: 20

Lunch duty: 10

Bus duty: 10

School musical: 1

Soccer game : 4

Football game: 3

Softball game: 7

Softball state championship game:¬† 1 (Brian’s team won for the second year in a row!¬† Go B!)

Track meet: 1

Cross country meet: 1

Soccer banquet: 1

Softball banquet: 1

Drove the school van: 1

Kids I made cry: 3

Kids who wrote me notes of heartfelt thanks: 3

Parents who wrote me notes of heartfelt thanks: 2

Starbucks gift card: 6

Barnes and Noble gift card: 1

District paid out of state trip: 1

Worthwhile professional development: 1 (out of district)

My money spent on supplies: $500

Copy machines jammed: 200 (low estimate)

Days I don’t have to worry about any of that:¬† 60, which apparently leaves me feeling out of my mind.¬† (You’re welcome, Bri!)

So,¬†I chaperoned a FRESHMEN dance Friday night.¬† When I first arrived it was to a cafeteria full of student council kids (who had to be there) and TEN teachers (who had to be there) waiting to greet the young saplings (who¬†did not have to be there)¬†as they ventured out for their first night spent at a high school “dance”.¬† And by night I mean 6-8 p.m. (curfew) and by high school “dance”¬†I mean only freshmen can get in and the decor is the one light kit the DJ (an upperclassmen) brought with him.

The DJ clearly felt that he had to prove the $100 bucks we gave him was worth it, so he began spinning the tunes thirty minutes before any of the freshmen arrived.¬† Now, I like a good beat and love to bust a move, but it is a little awkward to stand around in a teacher clump and talking to former students whilst songs about ho’s, sex and living the life of a G are nearly rendering you deaf.¬† And yes, I realized both that night and now as I type this that those grumbles certify me as a GRANNY, but a person can only take so much 50 Cent before she nearly goes B.F. crazy and sends all the kids home before the “dance” even begins!

At about 10 after 6 one lone freshman boy walked up to the ticket table, glanced around at the student council kids huddled in the middle of the cafeteria¬† dance floor and at the ten teachers standing with their arms crossed, gulped and squeaked out, “Am I the first one here?¬† Do you think anyone else will come?”¬† Sure they will we assured him and for the next twenty minutes he tried to make friendly with the student council girls before the rest of his competition showed!

By about 6:30 there were about 50 freshmen there…this out of a class of about 350.¬† You do the math, but that is not a very good turn out.¬† The point of this “dance” is to welcome the freshmen to high school and give them a high school experience their first week here.¬† Nothing says high school like a “dance” with only freshmen milling awkwardly around an empty cafeteria while the weirdo student council kids try to get their teachers to dance rather than the people for whom they are throwing the dance!¬†

A secondary purpose is to raise some funds for the freshmen class so they can decorate a float for the homecoming parade.  And by float I mean a flat bed trailer (one year it was students walking and pulling a red wagon) with kids standing around in spirit shirts or school colors (if we are lucky) and yelling unintelligible things to the throngs of people elementary school students who attend the parade.  Here the word parade is used to mean the route that takes the floats from the high school past the elementary school, which is two blocks behind the high school.  Are you getting the vibe that our school has no school spirit and that homecoming is worse than lame?

So back to the dance…by the time I left there had been one slow song.¬† While you might think this is a good thing¬†because nothing says an evening of fun like breaking apart young lovers as they dry hump on the dance¬† cafeteria floor, you’d be wrong.¬† It’s the fast songs you have to watch out for; once the beat drops they lose all sense of propriety and start dry humping everything: ¬†boys, girls, tables, brick walls…whatever they can get their horny little hands on and bodies against!¬† The worst part about the slow songs are watching the dance floor clear and seeing the groups of boys and girls glancing at one another, whispering behind their hands to their friends until someone gets the nerve up, usually prompted by a friend shoving them towards another person, to ask for a dance.¬† At this point there are exactly three seconds left in the song; not nearly enough time to introduce oneself and proceed to dry humping!

I am horrible in these types of situations.¬† I know I am supposed to recognize it for what it is and them for what they are: 14 and 15 year old lumps of awkwardness trapped in bodies that are beyond their control.¬† I cannot help myself, though, as I pick apart their every move from what they choose to wear and how they interact with one another in these settings.¬† Both of which make me want to scratch my eyes out and claw at my skin like a feral animal, I am that uncomfortable.¬† I know they have to be in these situations in order to become, well people, but why, oh why do I have to bare witness to their shame?¬† Isn’t it enough that I have the haunting memory of¬†my own teenage angst and misfortune to carry around with me for the rest of my life?¬† Must I lay claim to theirs as well?

A while back my BFF¬†and I coined the term “Granny” as a term of endearment to call the other whenever one of us was going a tad postal about something usually left to the senior set to complain about.¬†

In the past Granny has gritched about topics like the neighbor’s kids getting into her compost pile or watching her garden (for hours) and phone calls to the police about a mysterious man who may or may not have been living out of his car and daily digging¬†in the Salvation Army’s dumpster all of which was driving down the value of her grad school rental.

I am not immune to pulling the Granny card either.¬† Typically, I can complain about just anything…even if I really have no problem about the person, issue, establishment, etc.¬† Sometimes, in fact, it is even more fun to see just how worked up you can get about something you wouldn’t even notice otherwise.¬† (One of my favorite morning radio personalities, Adam Carolla, has a segment called “What Can’t Adam Complain About” that is truly priceless.¬† Carolla definitely understands the fine art of the properly worded complaint!)

Now, I know there is nothing worse than being around a Negative Nancy.¬† Trust me, I know.¬† I work in education with a lot of cantankerous old women who are just holding out for full retirement.¬† I have had just about enough of “These kids, these days!¬† They aren’t readers.¬† I refuse to read to them or have them read; it’s¬†a waste of time.¬† Just show the film.”¬† (Yes, way to inspire kids to ever pick up a book.¬† Just give them what they want; that will show them.)¬† Or how about, “These kids with their Ipods and their loud concerts.¬† They are all going to be deaf before they’re adults.”¬† (Perhaps, but then again they may be smarter than the rest of us.¬† If they do end up with juvenile onset deafness then they won’t have to listen to you anymore, you old bag!)¬†

I do think, however, that you can complain about something without coming across like a hag and without making everyone around you depressed about the futility of human existance.¬† (Heck, that’s what the nightly news is for.)¬† And, sometimes venting your complaints is actually productive.¬†

Case(s) in point:

There are a few establishments Brian and I frequent on a fairly regular daily, okay, sometimes twice daily, basis.¬† “Hi, we’re the Woolseys, and we are addicted to Starbucks.”¬† We generally go to a specific location where the baristas all know our name (“Don’t you want to go where everybody knows your name?”) and our drink preferences.¬† (It seems a little horrible when I see that typed out.)¬† Anyway, occasionally we are running late (shocker) and end up having to stop at a different location, one with a drive through.¬† (Seriously, the next step is going to be an IV I can administer at home.)¬†

I always get the same drink.  My expectation is that the person taking my drink is actually listening and will then produce the beverage I requested and am paying a small mortgage for each day.  Maybe I have gotten so used to the exemplary service at our favored location that anything else just pales in comparison.  (A place that just today only charged Brian for a tall instead of a Venti because they anticipated his drink, he switched it up on them, and because they know us so well that they knew the end of the school year is near.)

On a recent drive through stop I ordered my usual.¬† We were a bit shocked at the total of our bill, but we had gotten some pastries and goodness knows everything is more expensive these days (see, the Granny is coming out again) so we didn’t think too much about it.¬† Plus, all of our brain cells were not firing as we had not had our liquid crack yet.¬† When we got to the window the barista handed me my drink, which was what I ordered, just the wrong size.¬† Brian mentioned that to her and also said that it explained the price.¬† She simply said, “Well, here’s your drink.”¬† No offer to remake the drink, to refund the difference or to give us a free drink coupon.¬† Most importantly: ¬†NO APOLOGY!¬†

What’s a Granny to do in a situation like this?¬† Fire up the computer and send off a strongly worded email, of course!¬† If you haven’t heard, Starbuck’s is losing their monopoly on the coffee market, so I knew they’d be extremely interested in hearing about my little complaint.¬† Sure enough, within a couple hours of sending the email I heard back from customer service who assured me they would let the store manager know and, and this is the part I really care about, they sent me some free drink coupons!¬† SCORE!¬†

A few days later we stopped at Paradise Bakery for a couple breakfast sandwiches.  Paradise Bakery, like Starbucks, is generally on top of their game as far as customer service goes.  On this particular day, with no other customers in sight, however, they were not.    Granny was not going to take this one lying down either, so I once more fired off a strongly worded email to company headquarters, if for no other reason than to feel a little better AND to occupy myself while my classes worked on their course assessment. 

In order to truly appreciate the outcome of this particular Granny move you must first read the email I sent (apologies for the length of this post, all you Grannies!):

To Whom It May Concern:

This morning my husband and I stopped for breakfast at the Paradise Bakery at … .¬†¬† We placed a ‚ÄúTo Go‚Äù order; at the time we made our purchase we were the only people in the restaurant.¬† Our host took our order, gave the special instructions to her co-worker, and then proceeded to wait on a customer who had come in behind us.¬† My husband and I assumed the other employee was going to start on our breakfast sandwiches; however, she proceeded to another section of the restaurant to begin carrying trays of bacon to another location in the restaurant.¬†

At first we assumed our food was being prepared in the back of the restaurant, but then I noticed that the bagel for my sandwich was sitting on the food prep counter.  It became clear that the individual, who was supposed to be making our food, was tending to other things instead.  My husband then went up to the counter in an attempt to ask about our food.  The lady who should have been making our food continued to carry trays of bacon back and forth, but she never once acknowledged my husband.  Finally, after about five minutes of this she began to prepare our sandwiches.  Fortunately, this did not take too long as the eggs were pre-cooked and sitting in a warming drawer (so much for your claim that things are freshly made).

The time span from placing our order to getting our food would have been understandable had the restaurant been swamped, but as aforementioned we were the only people waiting on food.  Clearly, things were so dead that the employee had no qualms about continuing a task before attending to us, the customer.  (Perhaps she was anticipating a Friday rush on bacon?) 

 It is baffling that we were left to wait so long while the employee mismanaged her time and tasks and then proceeded to ignore us.  There was never any acknowledgement of our wait or apology for completing something before attending to our order.  I am further baffled to learn this employee has been selected as Employee of the Month; your standards must be pretty low.

 A disgruntled customer

So, I sent that puppy off and yes, you guessed it, heard back from the main secretary for all of Paradise Bakery.  She apologized profusely and promised to forward the information to both the general manager and district manager of the specific location.  Again, within a couple of hours I heard from the general manager who once more apologized and gave us two free breakfasts as a further gesture of her sincerity. 

Oh, if only that were where the story ends…Brian happened to mention the mishap to a student who works at the exact PB where we were ignored.¬† (That’s how I was able to get the ‘Employee of the Month” info!)¬† After hearing back from them, he told the student the results.¬† She said she already knew because they had to have an important meeting to specifically discuss the incident; furthermore, they each had to read my email!¬† The student said she piped up and said she knew the author of the email: the wife of her math teacher!

I about busted a gut when Brian told me this; I thought back over the email and remembered the Friday rush on bacon line and nearly had a brain aneurysm (seriously, that’s a gem)!¬† It slays me to think of them called to a “special” meeting to read the email and discuss the lack of customer service.¬† Did she tell them to focus less on bacon and more on the customer?

Brian is beyond mortified and does not want to redeem the free breakfasts, but I want to (free food) just to see if there is a line through the “Employee of the Month’s” picture!

Moral of this story: Going Granny results in FREE drinks, food and plenty of laughs!

Tell me, what have you Gone Granny about lately and what were the results?

 

Listen, I have never been one who struts confidently into the swimsuit section of (insert store name) and snatches up a pile of suits I know will look good on me. Rather, my experience is one of resignation as I search through rack after rack hoping to find a suit that does not scream I want all of the attention and so I’ve squeezed myself into something no reasonable person could actually do anything remotely close to water, waves, concrete, the sun or moving ones arms and legs to actually move through the water in. Nor do I want to be the person who looks like she just time traveled from 1920.

Every year I get the same horrid feeling come May for I know summer vacation is just around the corner and I am going to need some kind of suit since apparently a t-shirt and shorts are really only acceptable at church camp, which doesn’t even really make sense, because if the whole point of donning actual clothes is to prevent the opposite sex from seeing the female form then having a t-shirt plastered against the skin does nothing but incite the imagination perhaps even more so than a conservative one-piece bathing suit would.

If I were willing to plop down some bank I could probably find a decent suit that would last a couple years, thereby saving myself the annual torture and mental abuse associated with seeing myself in a bathing suit in the aptly lit fitting room mirror. (Do they have to enhance every?????? grotesque feature? Isn’t the point to make me want to buy the swimsuit? Then make me look 6′ tall; make every muscle look taut and sculpted. Don’t make me look like, well, like me.) Instead, I usually opt for a cheap bathing suit because who really wants to spend money to look bad on purpose? By the end of the summer the suit is usually sun faded and held together by mere threads.

The search is made no less complicated this year by the fact that I had a baby almost nine months ago. Heidi Klum I am not! I actually weigh less than I did pre-Izzy. I say that not to boast, but simply to say that the number on the scale means nothing. IT MEANS NOTHING! I weigh less because I am in awful shape compared to the shape I was in before Isabella. While my arms are definitely tighter due to lugging a little one around, everything else is wiggling and jiggling in ways it has not in years. And while I have never had a six pack, my gut is definitely the bane of my existence right now. I escaped the pregnancy without stretch marks, thank heavens, but I think I am left with a little bit of a panch that was not there before. No amount of sit-ups seem to scare off this little bump, which has made trying on suits an exercise in self-mutilation.

Further complicating the perfect swimsuit search is the fact that I am short (5′4″) and short torsoed, which makes me in a one piece look whalesque. I just don’t have the proportions to carry a one-piece and have it do me any justice. But, I am also very self-conscious right now and a two piece makes me feel like I am advertising what nine months of carrying a child and then another nine months of mediocre exercise will do to a body. And while that look may help boost the confidence of other pool goers, I don’t plan on letting my pain benefit another, thank you very much!

I know there are “shaping” suits such as this gem on Land’s End’s website:

No problem identifying a Slender Suit® woman at the beach. She walks boldly, happy that what nature gave her is being shown to its best advantage. And what may not be her best attributes, she knows, have still been presented in the very best way.

Right, because this makes the “best” of all that is not, coming or going:

Or how about this lingerie inspired piece:

We’re all searching for a swimsuit that inspires confidence. And with its slimming Slendertex¬Æ fabric and princess-seamed silhouette, this suit is at the head of the class.

Lovely; I’ve always thought wearing a negligee to the beach would be a great idea.

Or how about:

Who couldn’t use a little extra confidence on the beach???????

And really, who couldn’t? The good news is this sexy little bottom will cover your Depends, too! Confident and Discreet: You are ready to hit the beach!

So tell me, where do you go for your swim suit needs?